Shoot from the Lip

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Shoot from the Lip Page 20

by Leann Sweeney


  I called for Kate, then let him in.

  “Good morning, Abby. Is Kate—Oh, there you are.” His smile grew wider, and they had eyes only for each other.

  I left them eyeball-to-eyeball and heard Kate say, “You feeling better about your family problems this morning?” as I walked away.

  Roark said, “If my son doesn’t want to spend time with me, I can’t force him.”

  Bet Kate was loving this. She could rescue this guy from his pain.

  A minute later, as DeShay and I were enjoying some damn fine coffee, I heard Kate call out that she and Clint were going for a drive.

  DeShay said, “She’s already found a new man? And you think I’m bad?”

  “I’ll admit I’m a little worried.”

  “Rebound,” DeShay said. “I’ve done it myself, especially when a girl had that extra something. I saw Terry moping around Travis Center once this week on a psych consultation. Wonder how the good shrink is getting over her?”

  “I should call him,” I said. “But I’m afraid I’ll be tempted to ask if he knows about Clint Roark.”

  “Call him. He’s still your friend. Anyway, while we’ve got a minute, what’s with Jeff? I assume you’ve seen him?”

  “Yesterday. He told me he had to tell you he was in town, but right now he doesn’t want anyone else to know. He has business to take care of first.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “The details have to come from him, but I can tell you it has to do with his family.”

  “But I’ll help him with anything. He knows that.” DeShay sounded hurt.

  “You do know him, which means you understand he has to do things his own way, in his own time.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “DeShay, I don’t doubt for a minute that when he’s ready, he’ll sit with you in that bar you two go to, and spit out more words than you ever thought he could. For now, I think we have to respect his wishes.”

  “You’re sure he’s okay?” he said.

  I nodded and changed the subject, asked if they had any new leads on the Billings murder.

  “Before White took off yesterday, he found out where Billings’s AA meeting was. A church. Nothing unusual happened there, according to the janitor who cleans up when the meeting is over.”

  “Did anyone besides Mr. Aguirre hear or see anything at the apartment complex?”

  “I bet they did, but since half the complex is filled with illegals, no one’s talking. The preliminary autopsy report came in. Billings was cut from behind, left to right. There were hesitation marks, and you saw that ugly wound. The weapon may have come from the kitchen, a dull knife.”

  “Could the attacker have been a woman?”

  “Unless we’re talking domestic violence or gangs, women don’t try to overpower a man with a knife, Abby. They prefer guns or blunt objects.”

  “I trust your experience, but Billings was a skinny, small man, and—”

  “According to the report, the attacker was taller than the victim. They’ll probably be able to figure out exactly how tall, but that will take time.”

  Before I could ask more questions the doorbell rang.

  When I let Emma in, she hugged me with both arms—a good sign that she was almost mended.

  “Where are Shannon and Luke?” I asked.

  “Youth group meeting.”

  “Good. They probably don’t need to hear about this anyway. Come into the kitchen for coffee.”

  While she greeted DeShay, I poured her a mug of French roast. She took it black and smiled after the first sip. “Now, this is some good coffee. You need to give the hotel a lesson.”

  “I have a photograph for you to look at, Ms. Lopez,” DeShay said. “We believe this woman was a friend of your mother’s, and perhaps you can confirm that.”

  “Like I’ve told Abby, aside from her parties, my mother never brought her friends home unless they were male.”

  We sat at the kitchen table, and DeShay reached for the folder. “I understand. Maybe seeing this face will jog a memory.” He removed the photo and slid it in front of Emma.

  She stared for several seconds, and her wide eyes told me she did recognize Fiona Mancuso. “Oh, my God,” she finally said. “That’s her.”

  “She came to your house?” I asked.

  “No, no, she’s the bus stop lady.”

  “The bus stop lady?” I echoed.

  “Yes. I haven’t seen her in the last couple of weeks, but to save gas, sometimes I leave my car at work if I don’t have to drive a carpool for the kids. I take the bus, and this woman”—Emma tapped the mug shot—“she was at the same stop pretty often. We talked a lot. Really nice person.”

  “She tell you her name?” DeShay asked.

  “No, but I must have told her mine, because I remember once she called me Emma. That’s strange, isn’t it? That I would give her my name without asking for hers?”

  “Unless she knew who you were,” I said.

  “This woman was my mother’s friend?” She glanced back and forth between us.

  “We think so,” DeShay answered. “Anything in particular you remember about her?”

  “She’s small, has a really bad dye job—jet-btack—and I know she works for a maid service. She wears a turquoise uniform with a togo—I can’t recall what it says, something about maids, though. And she has this odd tattoo on her hand—on her left ring finger. A diamond.”

  DeShay slapped the folder and grinned. “That’s our girl.”

  “You’re thinking she talked to me because she knew who I was?” Emma said.

  “Probably,” I said. “How long since she first approached you at the bus stop?”

  “Probably five years ago—even when I was in school, I worked part-time at Green Tree Realtors and took that same bus.”

  “And she always wore a uniform?” I said.

  “No, not always. She dressed like she needed help as much as we did. She always steered the conversation away from herself, though. Funny, I shared my whole life story and I don’t even know her name.”

  “Her name is Fiona Mancuso,” I said. “Remember how the letter to Reality Check indicated the writer had been watching you?”

  “Yes—oh, my God. She wrote to them?”

  “She knew your mother. I don’t think it was a coincidence she found you at a bus stop,” I said.

  “And because she knew my mother, she knew my baby sister had disappeared.”

  DeShay said, “We need to find this woman. The logo on the uniform. Think hard, try to picture it.”

  Emma closed her eyes for several seconds. “I-I can’t remember.”

  We turned for help to Houston’s two-volume yellow pages, searching under maids, housekeepers and housecleaning. We found no ads that conveniently offered photos of what their employees wore to work, and the sheer number of companies made it impossible for Emma to pick out any name she remembered.

  While we were still perusing the yellow pages, Kate and Clint came in through the back door.

  Kate introduced DeShay to Roark and then explained that they came back to get Webster and take him for a run at the dog park. Now he wanted to bond with the dog? This was getting serious.

  “It’s a beautiful fall day. Why are you cooped up in here?” Kate asked. “At least get out on the porch.”

  I said, “We’re hoping Emma can remember an important detail about something she saw. Not having much luck.”

  Kate bent and fastened the leash onto Webster’s collar. “Remember, Abby, I do hypnotherapy in my practice. Let me know if I can help.”

  Then she and Roark were off again while DeShay and I exchanged smiles.

  22

  Monday held the promise of leads on Fiona Mancuso from both her ex-pimp and the hypnosis Emma had agreed to. I awoke way too early, had three cups of coffee before eight a.m. and my second breakfast by ten. I called Jeff but he couldn’t talk long, as he’d phoned a few home health agencies for information and was awai
ting return calls.

  Emma was more than willing to be hypnotized, but Kate and Emma couldn’t clear their schedules until this afternoon. DeShay and White were meeting with the parolee-pimp around lunchtime. I’d asked if I could go along and had been given a firm “No way.”

  I tried answering mail, paying bills and finally decided the best thing might be to work off my extra energy. I plugged in my iPod and off Webster and I went. But even our fast walk came to an early end when it started raining. Webster loved splashing around on the way home as one of Houston’s lovely unexpected downpours hit hard and filled up the streets almost at once. At least I knew what I would do next—take a long, hot shower.

  By the time I got behind the wheel of my Camry and headed for the congested streets of the medical center, I felt like I had a stomachful of bedsprings. The slick streets slowed everyone down, which made me even more anxious and impatient.

  When I entered Kate’s office, she and April were in the reception area talking.

  “Kate, I need therapy for acute Houston Traffic and Parking Syndrome. Is there any hope?”

  She smiled. “Not with your personality. Emma called and she’s having a hard time finding parking, too. I’m ready to start as soon as she gets here.”

  “You’re sure it’s okay that I’m present during the hypnosis?”

  “She wants you here. She has a very strong and positive connection with you, and I can’t think of anything that would make her feel more comfortable.”

  I smiled. “Really?

  Before Kate could respond Emma walked through the door with a cheerful, “Hi, everyone.”

  Kate led us through the reception area, door and down the hall past her family therapy area, the only therapy room I’d been in before today. We entered a room set up like a cozy living room. A matching green pastel sofa and love seat were separated by a rocking chair—the glider kind. There were lamps on two end tables, and both lights were turned on, spreading a soft, warm glow over the room. An afghan Kate had crocheted was lying across the glider.

  “Let’s all sit—Emma, take the rocking chair if you would—while I explain what will happen,” Kate said.

  Emma placed the afghan across her knees after she sat down. I chose the love seat, and Kate sat across from me, adjacent to Emma.

  “First,” Kate said, “let’s clear up any misconceptions about hypnosis. I won’t put you to sleep, though you may feel more relaxed with your eyes closed.”

  “There’s no trance?” Emma asked.

  “Actually, there is one, but not like a stage show trance. Think about when you daydream. Does the daydream sometimes block out the rest of the world?”

  Emma smiled and nodded. “Oh, yes, and I’ve had plenty to block out.”

  “That’s all a trance is, a state of intense concentration. I’ll help you get there with guided imagery. Abby, would you turn off the lamp near you?”

  I did, then leaned back against the love seat cushions into the shadows.

  “Emma,” Kate said, “I’d like you to rock the chair slowly and at the same time think of yourself as resting on a huge, fluffy pillow.”

  Emma closed her eyes and moved the chair back and forth.

  Kate whispered, “Clear your mind. Think of something that soothes you—a warm bath, a day in the sun, a good book ... anything. It’s your decision. Everything is in your control.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Kate repeated, “Clear your mind,” several times, and even in the dim light I saw Emma’s body melting into that chair as her rocking became more rhythmic.

  “I want you to ride on your pillow into the clouds. Can you do that?” Kate asked.

  “Yes.” Emma’s eyes remained closed, her voice calm.

  “Take yourself above the streets, above the bus stop you told Abby about.”

  “Okay,” came Emma’s reply.

  “Tell me when you’re there,” Kate said.

  “I want to go slow. Slow is better.”

  “Take as long as you want.” Kate had been leaning forward whispering to Emma, but now she sat up without taking her gaze off her subject.

  I swear it took an hour, but was probably no more than a few minutes before Emma said, “I see the roof of the covered bus stop. See the streets and the tops of the cars.”

  “Good. When you’re ready, float down until you see the people sitting there.”

  “It’s better up here.” Emma’s voice sounded a little slurred, like she was talking in her sleep.

  “Safer?” Kate said.

  “Yes. Much safer.”

  “Abby and I are watching out for you. You can look at the people’s faces. Nothing will happen.”

  “Abby’s here. Kate’s here. On the pillow.”

  “That’s right. When you’re ready, Emma.”

  More silence as Emma rocked and rocked for another eternity. “I see,” she finally said. “It’s me, waiting for the bus, and she’s there, too.”

  “A woman?” Kate asked.

  “Abby. She’s on the bench sitting with me. We’re talking.”

  I saw my sister’s eyes narrow, saw her shoulders tense. “Okay. What are you wearing, Emma?”

  “The gray suit I found at Goodwill. Only cost me ten dollars.”

  “You’re going to work?”

  “Yes. Then I have class. Scott will have to cook dinner, and he hates that. But it’s okay. Abby says everyone has to pitch in sometimes.”

  Kate leaned forward. “And what’s Abby wearing?”

  Emma laughed. “That funny-colored uniform.”

  I saw Kate’s shoulders relax and she almost smiled. “What else does she have on?”

  “The black shoes with the thick soles. She says she’s on her feet all day. I’m lucky I don’t have to be someone’s maid.”

  “She’s a maid?”

  “You can tell she works really hard. Her hands are always chapped, and she looks tired, even though she’s young.”

  “What else do you know about her?” Kate asked.

  “She smokes, but when I sit next to her she always puts her cigarette out right away. I never ask her to. She just does. She cares about other people.”

  “What color is the uniform again?”

  “Turquoise. White collar. The letters on her pocket are white, too.”

  “Are you close enough to see what the letters say?” Kate’s tone was even, her voice soft and soothing.

  I wanted to get up, shake Emma and tell her to spit it out. This whole deal was like sucking peanut butter through a straw. But I had to give my sister props. I could never do this job.

  Emma went into another long, agonizing silence before she said, “I need to get a little closer.”

  “However long it takes is fine,” Kate said.

  I wanted to scream, “No it’s not fine!” but I remained silent, sitting on my hands to keep them still.

  At last Emma said, “Purity Maids. Those are the words embroidered on the pocket.”

  I must have sighed audibly, because Kate held up her hand and gave me a look that would freeze a jaguar. I mouthed, Sorry.

  Coming out of the trance was almost as slow a process as it took to get her to that pocket embroidery. Kate brought Emma back above the bus stop and allowed her all the time she wanted to return to reality. Even when she opened her eyes, she still seemed to be somewhere else.

  “Turn the light back on, would you, Abby?” Kate said.

  I pressed the switch at the base.

  Kate said, “How are you feeling?”

  “I could live in this chair.” Emma was smiling, her face content in the lamplight.

  “I plan on having one like it for my new house,” Kate said.

  Emma quit rocking, sat upright. “How could I have forgotten? The owner took your offer. You got the house, Kate.”

  Kate grinned. “That’s great. When can I move in?” “Pending inspections and title searches, I’d say a couple weeks. Cash transactions really speed things up.” />
  “I think we’ve both had a good day—and Abby, too, right?” Kate looked at me.

  “Yes. Do you remember what just happened, Emma?”

  “Remember you in a maid uniform? I don’t think that’s an image I’ll ever forget.” She laughed. “But why didn’t I see the woman’s face, Kate?”

  “The human mind will always seek to protect the psyche from harm—sometimes even in unhealthy ways—but that’s a whole other lecture.” Kate smiled. “By putting Abby’s face on this person, you felt safe enough to get close and to stay long enough in the trance to find what we needed.”

  “I did it right?”

  “There is no right or wrong in my office, Emma. There’s only your reality.”

  Emma nodded, understanding. “Without the two of you, I-I don’t know where I’d be right now. Probably locked in a rubber room.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “Our daddy would have said you’ve got grit.”

  “I have a feeling I would have liked your father,” Emma said. And then a sadness filled her eyes despite her smile.

  I guessed any father at all for her would have been a bonus.

  Once Emma left the office and I thanked Kate for her help, she immediately went into session with another client. I called DeShay after I emerged from the parking garage and told him we got the maid service name. He said he was glad to hear that, since they got nothing from the pimp except what a neat freak Fiona Mancuso had been and that he considered her stupid. All his girls had been stupid.

  “I’m glad I wasn’t there,” I said. “You know how I shoot from the lip.”

  “I’m certain you two wouldn’t have gotten along. Tell me the name.”

  “Purity Maids.” I maneuvered around what had become standard fixtures on Houston city streets—orange construction cones.

  “You can bet Fiona picked out a new name when she went straight. Can you work the maid angle? Try to find her?”

  “Because you don’t want to scare her off?” I asked.

  “Right. If you can get to her without telling anyone who you are, that would be great. We’ve already got one of Christine O’Meara’s friends in the morgue.”

 

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