Shoot from the Lip

by Leann Sweeney

  “That would work. Yes, I like that idea.” The line went dead, and I stared at the phone before I snapped it shut.

  “That your aunt Caroline?” Jeff said when he rejoined me at the table.

  “Yes. Seems the man Kate is dating may not be who he says he is. This might mean trouble if Kate gets all defensive about Clint Roark. Gosh, my sister is dating—”

  “Not who he says he is? What does that mean?” He’d slipped into detective mode as easily as if he’d put on an old slipper.

  “Aunt Caroline says his real name is Harrison Foster. You think he might be some kind of con man? Or maybe someone with a criminal record who changed his name?” I was getting nervous now, and was anxious to get home and find out what I could about this guy.

  Jeff said, “Maybe he’s both. Or it could be he stole someone’s identity—not good news any way you look at it. But, of course, you’re talking to a police officer. The pessimist with a dark view of the world.”

  “My picture was in the paper right after the bones were found. The caption identified me as ‘Heiress-turned-detective Abby Rose.’ Someone may have seen that word heiress and plugged my name into a search engine. That search would quickly bring Kate’s name into the mix.”

  “True,” Jeff said. “It’s no secret that thieves and predators read newspapers looking for vulnerable victims, although usually they check the obits, not the headlines.”

  “Why didn’t he come after me?”

  “Maybe you’re a little too visible right now.”

  “True,” I said. “And his endgame is to get money out of Kate?”

  “I think you’ve already figured that out, hon.”

  “Dammit. I should have checked up on him myself.” I grabbed a napkin and spit out the now flavorless glob of gum.

  “My opinion? Aunt Caroline was the best person for that job,” Jeff said. “You should be grateful.”

  “For once, I am. And now I plan to find out everything I can about this guy before I walk into Aunt Caroline’s house tomorrow.”

  When I arrived home, I went upstairs, peeked into Kate’s room and found her already asleep, with Webster curled at her feet. I was hoping that meant she hadn’t been out with Roark or Foster or whoever the hell this man was. I shed my clothes, put on one of Jeff’s T-shirts and headed back down to my computer, shushing the meowing Diva, who followed me.

  I booted up and used the database I rely on when all else fails. I had two names, a city, an approximate age and a line of work for Roark. I immediately learned that the only Clinton Roark in the area was retired and lived in Huntsville. Harrison Foster, on the other hand, had two known addresses in Houston—one an apartment and one a home in the Memorial Park area. I was able to learn some of this because his wife had filed for divorce two months ago, and initial divorce filings are public record. Her name was Beth, and she was seeking sole custody of their child.

  I also learned that Harrison Foster was not a drug rep, but owned his own software development company specializing in medical office and hospital products. If Aunt Caroline had Foster followed, it would have been easy enough for any PI to find all this out. He was probably living in the apartment, since the lease was signed around the same time Beth Foster had filed for divorce.

  I sat back and considered why this man would want to con Kate. My guess was that he would take a financial beating in this divorce and wanted to hook up with someone who could help him continue to live the lifestyle he’d grown accustomed to. And Kate could certainly do that.

  Had he planned to cheat her out of a generous chunk of change and split? I smiled. Yeah, he must think Kate was as dumb as a box of rocks and that she’d invest in whatever fake new drug or nonexistent business he’d enthusiastically told her about. But he’d hit on the wrong girl if he thought that would work. Even if she’d fallen with a thud for this guy, she was too smart to buy a black cat with a stripe down its back from anyone, Mr. Dimples included.

  I felt better now, even though telling Kate wouldn’t be easy. And making sure Aunt Caroline didn’t tell her first might be like trying to drink out of a fire hose. But I’d deal with that tomorrow, after I found exactly what Aunt Caroline had on Harrison Foster.

  25

  The next day I overslept and had time for only a quick shower. Kate had long since gone to work by the time I left to hand over the newest GPS tracker to DeShay, and I was relieved not to have to face her this morning, knowing what I now knew.

  I checked under my car bumpers before I pulled out, but found nothing. I decided it was long past time to organize the garage so I could actually fit my car in there. Leaving the Camry in my driveway had obviously created serious problems. It really boiled my water that someone had been lurking around and stuck those things on my car whenever they wanted. I still suspected Kravitz, no matter what he said to the contrary.

  I drove downtown, and DeShay was ready for me, since I’d called ahead—if ready meant a morose man sitting in his cubicle up to his hairline in paperwork. I was a welcome distraction. He wore a navy suit, a silver-and-blue tie and a starched shirt. I guessed correctly that he had court today.

  “This afternoon,” he told me.

  “Bummer,” I said. The one thing DeShay hated about working homicide was the dress-up part. I gave him the plastic grocery bag containing the second GPS device.

  “You think you can find any prints on this besides mine?” I asked.

  “Doubt it, but we’ll try. Even the batteries had been wiped clean on the other one. I talked to tech this morning, and they said whoever planted the thing buried the e-mail address they used to connect to the Internet and watch where you went.”

  “Having both devices might be more helpful, especially if tech can find a common link,” I said. “E-mail is very tricky, yes, but if you search—”

  “Abby, what did you call me and Jeff once? Luddites?”

  I laughed. “Yes. You remembered the lingo. That’s a step in the right direction.”

  “I know how to write reports, check databases and stuff like that on my computer, but I’m still a Luddite and don’t plan on changing until the bosses make me. Jeff told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said technology is a great tool, but us homicide investigators have to deal with the people first. Murder is a people problem, and you learn the most from the humans, whether they’re dead or alive.”

  “Jeff’s right. Now, get ready to hear some good news in the people department. I found Christine’s friend—the ex-prostitute.” I summarized yesterday, told him Loreen, aka Fiona, was holed up with Jeff. I also gave him the info on the notebook. “After I deal with my aunt, who is probably feeling very neglected since I started working this case day and night, I’ll call Emma, see if she remembers any notebook like the one Loreen described.”

  “White can handle that,” DeShay said.

  “No, I can do it. I’ll go over to the storage unit with Emma and—”

  “Abby, handing over the GPS monitor is one thing, but that notebook could lead us directly to whoever might have killed Christine. We could use it in court, and we don’t want to mess with the chain of evidence.”

  I knew he was right. “It’s just that I promised Loreen no police. If White does find the notebook, then—”

  “Let’s not play what-if. You got us a lead. That’s what’s important.”

  I checked my watch. “I’ve only got ten minutes to get to Aunt Caroline’s house—not enough time. You can bet I’ll pay for this by having to endure an extra dose of hostility. Gotta run.”

  “The real drama queen in your family is your aunt?” He grinned.

  “Are you implying I’m a drama queen, too?”

  “Nope. You are the busiest, most headstrong person I’ve met besides my granny. Now get out of here.”

  I nodded, hurried out of the offices to the elevator and jogged to my car.

  My aunt lives in an older, established neighborhood with big, expensive houses, where she knows everyone on the bloc
k. And they probably know her better than she knows herself. This time of morning, the streets were wonderfully quiet compared to the frenzied freeways. But when I turned onto her street, a good twenty minutes past the time we agreed on, I saw that the chaos of an emergency had disrupted the peace.

  An ambulance, a patrol car and my aunt’s open door and shattered front window made my stomach lurch. A uniformed policeman tried to wave me away, but I called out the window that my aunt lived at the address where obviously something very bad had happened. He told me to pull over to the curb.

  “What’s your aunt’s name?” he asked when I met him on the sidewalk.

  “Caroline Rose. Is she okay?”

  Just then the paramedics pulled a stretcher out the front door and onto the walkway.

  My hand went to my mouth and I pushed past the cop, starting to run toward them. Aunt Caroline’s neck was immobilized, and I could see blood on her forehead.

  But when I heard her shout, “Abigail, you’re late!” I almost laughed with relief. She sounded strong, not to mention as furious as a bear with a sore ass.

  The stretcher had been pulled into the ambulance before I could get to her. Then the cop caught up with me and took me by the arm.

  “Please, ma’am. Your name?” he said.

  “Abby Rose. I need to go with her.”

  “I’m Officer Rowe. First off, they don’t much like riders in the ambulance, plus she only has minor injuries—bruises and a cut. Because of her age—”

  “What about my age?” I heard Aunt Caroline shout before the smiling paramedic closed the back ambulance door.

  “Anyway, you understand. We could use your help here for a few minutes. Then you can catch up with her in the ER. We need to figure out what went on here.”

  “I don’t get it. She can talk. She must have told you.” Aunt Caroline may be the most irritating woman on earth ninety percent of the time, but I felt an urgent need to be with her now. She was the closet thing to a mother I’d ever had.

  “Your aunt wasn’t exactly making a whole lot of sense. Maybe you can tell us if anything is missing. She kept saying, ‘He took it,’ over and over, but she never said what it was.”

  I tried to clear my head as I watched the ambulance drive off. Coming upon this scene had hit me like a two-by-four upside the head, and I had trouble forming any coherent thoughts.

  “Ma’am?” the officer said.

  “Sorry, what?” I answered.

  “Can you come inside the house?”

  “Sure, yes.” But I had no idea if I could give him a clue as to what might be missing. My aunt’s goal in life is to collect as many expensive material objects as she can before she dies. She has three sets of English china, lots of silver, figurines from Germany, oil and water paintings, antique spoons—hell, antique everything. And then there was the jewelry. Diamonds and emeralds, pearls from the Orient. One of her Prada purses was probably worth a couple thousand dollars alone.

  When we walked into the foyer, an older man wearing a yellow polo and khaki shorts who looked vaguely familiar was sitting on one of a matching set of padded antique benches. A female patrol officer had her notebook in hand.

  Rowe said, “This is Mr. Desmond. He lives two doors down. And this is Officer Price.”

  I walked over to them, nodded at the other officer and said, “Hi, Mr. Desmond. Remember me? Abby?”

  He stood and took both my hands in his. “Abby, they say Caroline will be okay, so don’t you worry.”

  Officer Price said, “Mr. Desmond is our hero. Sent the burglar packing.”

  “This was a robbery, then? And you guys came because of an alarm?” I couldn’t imagine my aunt opening her door to a stranger. There must have been a break-in.

  “Actually, Mr. Desmond called nine-one-one,” Officer Price said.

  “I’m confused. What exactly happened?”

  Mr. Desmond said, “Paperweight came flying through a front window while I was taking my walk. I heard Caroline scream, ‘Get away from me.’ I went to the window and saw her fending off this man using a crooked walking stick. She had blood on her head, and I yelled, ‘Hey!’ That’s when he took off—came barreling out the front door and ran down the block.”

  I gestured to the left of the foyer. “This happened in her study?”

  “Yes,” Rowe answered. “But Mr. Desmond doesn’t remember if the man had anything with him when he ran off. If so, it wasn’t large. I’m thinking jewelry, maybe? We found a safe in the study. You don’t happen to have the combination?”

  I wanted to say, In your dreams, but settled for a simple, “No.” I walked toward the study, but Rowe said, “We’ve got a print unit coming. Please don’t enter the room. You can observe from the door—see if anything jumps out at you as missing.”

  What jumped out at me was the utter disarray—the broken window, the overturned desk chair, the scattered papers, the lamp on the floor and the gnarled walking stick—a souvenir from my aunt’s trip to Ireland.

  I swallowed, feeling horrible that I hadn’t been here to prevent this. Aunt Caroline had fought hard to protect herself. “Any other rooms look like this?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am. Nothing else seems disturbed. I asked Ms. Rose if she disabled the alarm, and she said yes, but after that all she kept saying was like I mentioned before—that the guy took something.”

  “She let this person in? Is that what you think?” I said.

  “Seems that way, yes,” Rowe answered.

  Officer Price said, “I’ll walk Mr. Desmond home, then head to the hospital. Maybe your aunt can tell us more once she’s calmed down. I’ll be back.”

  Rowe nodded while I took Mr. Desmond’s spot on the bench. My legs felt rubbery, and I was still having a hard time making sense of this. “I don’t know if anything is missing, but I can tell you that the wall safe in the study is for things like her will, her deed. She keeps her jewelry in her bedroom safe—and that’s well hidden in her closet.”

  “Anything of value in the study?” He nodded in that direction.

  “Nothing. The desk is ornamental. She has a built-in desk in the kitchen where she keeps her checkbook and bills.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that. Her checkbook is still there, and so is her purse with all her credit cards.”

  “Maybe the robbery had just started when Mr. Desmond interrupted,” I said, half to myself.

  “Unless your aunt was totally confused when she talked to me, whatever this guy took got her very upset.”

  I didn’t want to disappoint him by pointing out that if the burglar took so much as a paper clip, Aunt Caroline would be upset. Before I could say anything more, the print unit arrived.

  “Do you need me for anything else?” I asked as the two newest officers shuffled in and waited for Rowe’s instructions.

  “Not now. Get to the hospital.” He told me Aunt Caroline had been taken to Methodist.

  Before I left, I grabbed her purse from the kitchen, thinking she’d need her insurance card. I considered calling Kate, but I decided to wait until I had a better idea about Aunt Caroline’s condition.

  I shouldn’t have worried about her health. When I was led to Aunt Caroline’s curtained cubicle in the ER, I found her as feisty as ever, complaining about the service.

  She had a few strips on the gash near her hairline, a wound that had rusted her snowy hair. The hospital gown couldn’t hide the purple bruises on her arms or the dried blood streaks on her neck. Good thing there were no mirrors in here.

  Officer Price was with her, and I recognized the look on her face. I’d probably worn that same frustrated expression more than once after an hour with Aunt Caroline.

  Price stood. “Glad you’re here. Your aunt isn’t willing to talk, and the longer she remains silent, the harder our job gets. Of course, perhaps she doesn’t remember much.”

  “What do you think I am? Senile? I remember. But I will not speak of this incident in a public arena. And let me tell you both, there is
nowhere more public than this place.”

  I closed my eyes, sighing heavily. “Please tell the officer everything you know.”

  Aunt Caroline folded her arms across her chest. “No.”

  “That’s it,” Price said, clearly irritated. “I’ve offered to interview your aunt in a more private area, and she is an unwilling witness at this time. She wants to file a report, fine. She’s got my card.”

  She walked out, and God, how I wanted to go with her. “That woman was trying to help you.”

  Aunt Caroline closed her eyes, and I could tell her demeanor had completely changed. “I know. The police and the paramedics were wonderful, but I had to make her leave.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t understand. I’m being released. When that girl with the clipboard comes back with my paperwork, take me home and I’ll explain.”

  “Are you crazy? You’re not going home. You can stay with me until—”

  “If you want to find out what happened and why, Abigail, you will take me home.”

  “What in hell is wrong with you?” I practically shouted. “You could have been killed today.”

  “You have a gun. You can protect us. I have something very important to discuss with you.”

  “Does this have to do with the person who hurt you? Because we can have that discussion at my house.” I could be as stubborn as she was.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Take me home or I will call a cab. I won’t be intimidated into leaving the house I’ve lived in for more than thirty years.”

  The girl with the clipboard, who happened to be a nurse about my age, arrived with a cheery, “Ready to get out of here, Ms. Rose?”

  That was when my aunt said yes and to call her a cab, because her niece didn’t want to be bothered with her.

  I choked down my anger and said, “Have it your way. I’ll take you home. But not before I get someone to guard your house.”