Shoot from the Lip

by Leann Sweeney

  “I have an early flight tomorrow—yes, you’ll be happy to know I am leaving town,” Paul said. “Could you stay in touch with me should anything break on this story?” He pulled a small leather holder from his jacket pocket, scribbled a number on the card he removed and handed it to me. “That’s my personal cell number on the back. Very few people have it.”

  Wow. What a privilege, I thought as I took the card. “Rhoda Murray may be a dead end,” I said.

  Kravitz said, “I’m aware of that. Time for me to get out of here now.”

  But before he could take a step toward the front door, voices came from the kitchen. Kate. I assumed the male voice belonged to Clinton Roark—unless the girl had gone as crazy as a goat at mating time and hooked up with someone else.

  Kate came into the living room, Roark behind her. “Abby, whose car is—Oh, hi.” She smiled at Kravitz. “I’m Kate Rose, and this is my friend Clint Roark.”

  As the men shook hands, Roark spoke before Paul could. “Aren’t you Paul Kravitz from that program ... what’s it called?”

  “Crime Time.” Kravitz’s TV smile appeared.

  Roark pointed at Kravitz. “Yes, that’s it. Nice to meet you. Love your show.”

  “Thank you.” He turned to Kate. “It’s Dr. Rose, correct?”

  Kate nodded, and I could tell her radar had gone up.

  “Paul was just leaving.” I tried to clue Kate with my tone, reassure her about Kravitz, since I’d complained about all the Venture people to her more than once.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m taking a plane at six in the morning. I bid you all a pleasant evening.”

  I led him out, then picked up the empty wineglasses on my way back to the kitchen, where I found Kate and Clint. She was showing him her refrigerated omega-3-6- 9 oil and the container holding the flax flakes she sprinkles on her cereal. How romantic.

  “What was he doing here?” Kate asked. Webster sat at her feet holding his leash, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “Making deals. That’s the Hollywood way. Anyway, I’m glad to report he gave me a piece of information I needed. Now, you guys go on exploring the amazing world of fatty acids while I take the dog out.”

  Webster and I took a walk up the block and back. The night would be cold—we’d gone from eighty degrees to fifty in the last four days—and Webster seemed wound up by the sudden change. Me? I would have enjoyed the humidity-free night better if I weren’t bothered by Clinton Roark.

  Kate had that glow women get when they’ve found a new guy, and for some reason I didn’t like it. I was used to seeing her with Terry, and even Roark’s dimpled, warm smile couldn’t compensate for the loss I felt—a loss I seemed to be experiencing more than Kate. I would miss Terry’s presence—he’d been a good friend—but she seemed to have erased him like a mistake she’d written on a paper. That seemed wrong.

  I made sure to come in through the front door to avoid the two of them, and released Webster, who bounded toward the kitchen and the smell of what I thought was broccoli cooking. I went upstairs, did the whole triple-step face-cleansing thing and climbed into bed with the cat. Diva was surprised by this—it was early—but she settled in next to me. Then I called Jeff.

  “Hey,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Missing you.”

  “I could be home in a week.” He sounded more tired than when he worked a case for forty-eight hours straight.

  “That’s the best news I’ve had all day.” I summarized what had happened since we last spoke.

  When I’d finished, Jeff said, “You think you can trust Kravitz, hon?”

  “For now, I have to. Besides, what’s the alternative? Fight Kravitz and then trip over his investigators every step I take?”

  “I’m betting they’ll still follow you to that motorcycle shop tomorrow. Do you remember what I told you about ditching a tail?”

  “Take the side streets, double back at times, stop and let the tail pass. Did I miss anything?”

  “Never stop at yellow lights. Your tail might be four cars behind, and that’s your chance to lose them. Of course, some guys know how to tail without being noticed. Hope you don’t get one of those kind.”

  “You can do that, right? Tail without a suspect knowing?”

  “Usually.”

  “What’s your secret?” I asked.

  “Anticipation of their next move, sometimes a gut feeling. Having a clue where the target is going is the best help of all.”

  “Kravitz will tell them where I’m going, won’t he?”

  “Probably. Maybe you can fool them. Follow some other lead or stay home.”

  “Is that what you’d do? Stay home? I don’t think so, Jeff.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “Now, can we talk about something else? This time I want to know what you’re not wearing.”

  15

  The next morning I called Murray Motorcycles and asked for Rhoda. The man who answered told me she wasn’t in, but he expected her soon. I asked for directions and hung up. The shop wasn’t far from where I’d been yesterday, and I hurried out the back door, anxious to interview Rhoda.

  Unfortunately, fifteen minutes later I found myself in a giant traffic jam on Highway 59. Damn. When I have a plan, a traffic mess like this is sure to happen. I tried a Josh Groban CD to calm down, and when that didn’t work I picked up my cell. I hoped to reach DeShay rather than his voice mail, and prayed he’d forgiven me for pestering him yesterday.

  “Peters,” he answered.

  “It’s me. Did you hear anything on the DNA yet?”

  “I’ll call you in five minutes,” he said. “White will be out of here by then.”

  “Gotcha.” I closed the phone and in those seemingly endless five minutes the Camry and I moved about a hundred feet.

  Finally the phone rang.

  DeShay said, “Sorry, but Don’s having a bad day, and you know how he feels about your working this case. Thought I’d better not antagonize him by giving you information while he was around.”

  “Sergeant Benson told me White was territorial, but his reaction to me seems way beyond that. Am I that annoying? Wait, don’t answer that. What’s this information?”

  “You won’t believe this, Abby.”

  “Try me,” I said.

  “The dead woman’s DNA does not match the baby but does match Emma. She’s Christine O’Meara for sure.”

  “Wait a minute. The baby under the house wasn’t Christine’s? And wasn’t Emma’s sister? Hell, do you even know if it was a boy or a girl?”

  “Girl. They did mitochondrial testing to figure all this out,” he said.

  “That’s right. Julie said you can only use female samples for that. What do we do now?” I said.

  “Now we have a different unidentified victim. White’s been busy pulling files to see if anyone reported a kidnapping or a baby snatching from a hospital in 1992. Thing is, we checked the Chronicle archives first and found nothing. Something like that would have been big news.”

  “White’s focus is still on identifying the baby first?” I said.

  “It’s a good place to start, but—Wait. Hang on.”

  I heard White in the background say, “Who you talking to?”

  DeShay must have covered the phone, because I couldn’t hear his response. When he came back on the line, he said, “He came back for something. Anyway, he’s on his way to the hospital. Ed’s not doing so hot, and I think that’s part of White’s attitude problem. They’ve been partners a long time.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Sergeant Benson seems like such a nice man, from the few times I talked to him.”

  “He had another small stroke.”

  “I sent flowers, put you and Jeff on the card, too.”

  “Thanks for thinking of Ed. Women are good at remembering shit like flowers and cards.”

  “And cops are good at giving their blood and their lives for the rest of us. As for the case, while White’s doing his thing, are you foll
owing up on Christine O’Meara’s murder?”

  “Don’t I wish. White jawed all morning that since Emma hired you for that job, you could take O’Meara while we focus on the bones. I sorta get that. Lots of media people have been asking questions about how a baby could die without anyone knowing. I wonder myself.”

  “I’ll keep doing what I’m doing then.”

  “Yup. Find out anything you can on O’Meara and pass it on to me. And by the way, that asshole Mayo has pulled strings, gotten the okay for Paul Kravitz to talk to us about the investigation into the infant’s death. Like I got time for that.”

  “Kravitz left town this morning. You won’t be seeing him today.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve had since I woke up. I’ve got something for you to follow up on concerning O’Meara.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I found out Crime Stoppers had a call in ninety-seven about the then-unidentified body of a woman. According to the report I found, this guy who phoned said he recognized her from the reconstruction photo in the paper.”

  “The police had a lead?”

  “Not exactly. This guy wanted the reward, but when the investigator on the case interviewed him, the man flipped, said he’d made a mistake. Said he didn’t know the woman.”

  “That’s weird. Was he some kind of attention seeker? Just wanted to talk to a cop?” I asked.

  “You mean like the attention seekers who’ve been phoning in useless clues all morning? I don’t think so. Doesn’t fit the personality of our regular callers. They prefer higher-profile cases like the infant bones. Some nameless woman found dead in a field wouldn’t have grabbed their interest.”

  “But Christine’s murder will draw plenty of publicity once people know her connection to the bones—whatever that connection is.”

  “Right,” DeShay said. “That’s why, besides you, only Emma and her family will be told about the O’Meara ID. We don’t have any hard evidence to connect the baby’s death and her disappearance and murder yet. I’m hoping something CSU collected will show that Christine killed that baby, or at least put her in the ground.”

  “Christine’s death came five years after that baby died. Maybe her murder’s not related,” I said.

  “True. But I’m not expecting answers anytime soon. White’s not real into this case. Along with hating my guts because I’m not Ed Benson and being pissed off at you because he thinks only cops should work homicides, he’s distracted by Ed’s illness. Jeff got an earful about all this when I talked to him this morning.”

  “You talked to Jeff?” Even though we’d spoken less than twelve hours ago, I felt a little flutter in my stomach when I heard his name.

  “Yeah, I told him he needs to get his damn ass back here.”

  “He doesn’t have a damn ass. He has one of the nicest—”

  “Some things you can keep to yourself, Abby girl. Anyway, I told him White’s got me screening the crack-pot calls, people telling me it was their baby under that house or they know someone who knows someone who might know something about the case. Stupid stuff that will probably lead nowhere. Jeff told me I should cut White some slack, so I’m trying.”

  “I guess I should try, too,” I said. “Did Jeff say anything else?”

  “No hint about coming back, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  I smiled. “You read my mind.” Just then, a kid in the back of the car ahead of me must have thought the smile was for him, because he began playing games with me—hiding and then popping back up. I said, “I’ll follow up on the Crime Stoppers lead, see if this guy really did know Christine O’Meara and for some reason backed off on the ID.”

  “Go for it. It’s probably a dead end, but it’s all we’ve got. Guy’s name is Jerry Joe Billings. No rap sheet—which would have helped, but—Wait a minute. The O’Meara woman was a drunk, right? If this guy knew her, maybe he was a drunk, too. He might have been arrested for public intoxication.”

  “But I thought you said he didn’t have a rap sheet,” I said, confused.

  “Anything less than a Class A or Class B offense isn’t listed in our criminal database, but there’s somewhere else I can look for minor violations. If I do find out he was arrested, then we’ll have his social.”

  “I can do plenty with that,” I said.

  “I have a copy of his driver’s license, but he’s not living at his last known address. You want me to fax you the copy so you’ll have a picture of him?”

  “Send it as an e-mail attachment straight to my computer phone.” I gave him the number. I always keep the new BlackBerry with me, but found I liked my smaller cell phone with the camera for regular use.

  I’d moved only about a city block during our entire conversation. Up ahead I could see a car being moved to the side of the road. The flashing lights of about ten wreckers glittered in my rearview. Up ahead the little boy was still playing his jack-in-the-box game.

  And that game suddenly brought it all together when I realized that there were two boys, close in age but one with darker blond hair and different clothes from the other. When one went down, the other popped up.

  That was why there had been no report of a kidnapping in ‘92. Since Emma’s sister had been born at home, there was no official record of her birth. No record would make a switch far simpler. That had to be it. One baby—Christine’s—had been exchanged for another. Evidence or not, I had little doubt that if Christine hadn’t put that tiny body under her house, she knew who had.

  I clenched my fist and banged the steering wheel. She’d given up or sold her own newborn for another child, a baby who may have already been dead or about to die. A child was left under a house—hidden, nameless and forgotten. It made me sick. And where was Emma’s sister? Continents away? Or still in Houston? With what little I had, finding her might be impossible.

  16

  If Kravitz’s people hoped to follow me to Murray Motorcycles once the highway clog cleared, I disappointed them. I pulled off the freeway first chance I got and went to a coffee shop with wireless access. When I checked my computer phone, I discovered I’d been sent more than Billings’s driver’s license. DeShay e-mailed the man’s arrest records—the ones he hadn’t found when he checked his computer earlier. Billings had nine arrests for public intoxication.

  I would need access to one or more of my person-locator databases now that I had Billings’s social security number from the arrest sheet. I wanted to find out where he was—and I sure hoped he was a local—but I wanted to tell Emma about the latest round of DNA results before anyone else did.

  I sat at a tiny table with my extra-large latte, double shot of espresso, and called her hotel. No one picked up in her room. I then tried her cell. When she answered, I was surprised to learn she was at work.

  “You drove?” I said.

  “Yup. The rental car company delivered a Cadillac, Abby. I couldn’t believe it. I have to thank Kate for doing that. I’ve never even sat in a Cadillac before. It will be so nice for taking clients to properties.”

  “What about your shoulder?”

  “Doesn’t hurt much. But the reporters? Now, those people are harder to deal with than a cracked collarbone. They followed me. I told them if they came inside my office I was calling the cops. But then the cops called me instead. Sergeant White.”

  “Why did he phone you?” I asked.

  “They got the new DNA report. Neither my mother—and she is my biological parent—nor I is related to that baby. I’m supposed to keep those results to myself. But I told him I was telling you. He didn’t like that much. He’s worried the whole world will find out.”

  “DeShay already gave me the news. That’s why I was calling. I’m sorry you had to hear that over the phone from White. He’s not the most sensitive man I’ve ever met.”

  “It’s okay. Really. This means my sister could be alive. We’re back to the beginning, back to why you agreed to help me in the first place—with one added problem.”

&
nbsp; “What’s that?”

  “The other baby. She belonged to someone, Abby. She didn’t deserve to be buried under a house, left in a hole like trash.”

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding. “That’s the part that’s given me a lump in my throat. I want to find out who she was and why this happened.”

  “Me, too,” she said quietly.

  “This means that learning everything about your mother is more important than ever. A dead baby about the same age as your sister is no coincidence. I—”

  “Don’t say it. My mother had something to do with this. She would have given up anything for money to keep her drug of choice in plentiful supply—even her own child. She’d certainly given up the rest of us for alcohol, though in a different way.”

  We talked for another minute, mostly about Emma’s schedule and how she was supposed to do her job with people following her all the time. After I hung up, I turned to my BlackBerry and the matter of Jerry Joe Billings. Wherever he was, I would find him.

  First I checked his driver’s license photo and decided Billings must have fallen from the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. All DPS photos are gruesome, but Billings had wild hair, half-open eyes, a day’s growth of beard and a mouth that made me think he might have left his teeth in a jelly jar by the bed. He couldn’t possibly look like this every day, and I worried the photo might be worthless. Would I recognize him if I saw him in person? Then I noted he was an organ donor. I hoped he had decent corneas, because his liver was probably pickled.

  I checked the arrest record. The last offense had been in 1998, which could mean he was either dead or he’d gotten sober. If sober, he probably had a job. I hit a few keys with my computer pen and opened a person-locator database, a very expensive but trustworthy tool. I entered Billings’s social security number, and within a minute I knew where to find him.

  The man who answered the phone at the warehouse discount store in the NASA area where Billings worked was happy to tell me he’d return my call after he finished mounting a set of tires. I didn’t bother to leave a number, just packed up and left the coffeehouse to find him. Trouble was, when I arrived I was told that since I didn’t belong to the club store, I’d need a membership to enter. When you live alone—except for frequent and wonderful Jeff sleepovers and extended visits from sisters who’ve dumped their boyfriend—you don’t need a hundred of anything. Besides, where would I store that many rolls of toilet paper?