I counted five cops besides Jeff, both uniformed and plainclothes. Three of them had taken advantage of the crime scene location and held steaming cups of coffee. Not the smallest size, either. Two others were interviewing a tattooed, fair-skinned Hispanic kid who couldn't have been more than twenty. His canvas apron bore the Last Drop's logo.
Jeff was seated at one of the half dozen small round tables lining the wall opposite the espresso bar. I took the bentwood kelly green chair across from him. He repositioned himself so his knee fit between both of mine and I mouthed a thank-you for the comfort he must have known this would provide.
''No coffee, I take it?'' he asked.
''No,'' I said emphatically.
''Can you give me the victim's address so I can get someone on this notification?''
I did, and he wrote this in his notebook.
''She was a widow,'' I said. ''Lived alone. I'm not sure who they'll notify.''
''We'll contact the local cops for help. I've never heard of this town. What county are we talking about?''
''Liberty,'' I said.
Jeff waved over a patrolman, tore off the address I'd given him and said, ''Get on this notification. Liberty County address.''
''Sure, Sarge,'' he answered, and left for a more quiet corner of the cafe´ to make the call.
Jeff refocused on me. His short blond hair glittered with rain, and the stubble on his chin looked more copper than golden in this light. He took two sticks of Big Red gum from his rain-dampened shirt, unwrapped them and folded them into his mouth. After he'd chewed a few seconds, he said, ''As I mentioned, this looks like assault and robbery. Do you know anything about the victim that would make me see this differently?''
''Not really, considering I only met her once. But I can tell you she was alive two hours ago.''
Jeff looked at his watch. ''Seven?''
I nodded, and he jotted this down. ''I take it you couldn't ID her because her purse was missing.'' I said this more to myself than to him, feeling calm enough to think logically now. ''Where'd you find her phone?''
''In the alley. She must have dropped it.''
''You couldn't find out who she was from that?''
''Prepaid. Never been used. Didn't even know it was hers for sure until you called. And yes, her purse is missing. So far we have no witnesses to an assault, but we have her name, so maybe we can match her with one of the cars in the lot—although the asshole might have stolen that, too.''
''She drives a Cadillac,'' I said. ''Late model, cream colored. I saw it in the driveway when I went to her house.''
Jeff rolled his eyes. ''She probably had one of those damn Gucci purses slung on her arm and a three-carat diamond on her finger.''
''More like one carat,'' I said quietly. ''And a gold Rolex.''
''I didn't see those. Christ. Why didn't she plaster a sign on her back that said ROB ME
?''
''She struck me as someone who wouldn't have known any better,'' I said. ''Lady wasn't hooked up right, Jeff. Very odd person, and I'm being respectful of the dead when I say odd.''
''I'm interested in your take on her, but hang on.'' He again used his phone to walkie-talkie with Rick. ''Look for a cream-colored Cadillac in the lot. Might belong to the victim.'' He closed the phone and looked at me again. ''You say the Olsen woman was obsessed with an abandoned baby case?''
''Yes. Gosh, where do I begin? The interview with her was . . . strange.''
''Strange. Okay. Keep talking.''
''My client's a young man named Will Knight.''
''Will Knight?'' Jeff said, sounding surprised. ''How old is he?''
''Young. Nineteen.''
''Does he play basketball at the University of Texas?''
''You've heard of him?''
''Heard of him? Why didn't you tell me when you took his case? He's the best product to come out of a Houston high school since Okafor.''
''Who's Okafor?''
''Never mind. You say, Knight hired you because he's adopted?''
''Yes. His adoptive parents encouraged him to look for his birth family. Will was abandoned on Verna Mae's doorstep as an infant, something Will has known since he was old enough to understand. Appar ently abandoned babies draw a little press coverage, so Verna Mae's name was in the news. Anyway, Will says he's ready to put some closure on his past.''
Jeff grinned. ''Closure on his past? Those were a nineteen-year-old kid's words?''
I smiled. ''Okay. It's a direct quote from Kate's psych evaluation.'' My twin sister, Kate, is a psychologist and does workups on all my clients. Adoption reunions can be emotional, and I don't proceed unless I feel reasonably sure the client is mentally prepared.
''Sounded like Kate's lingo,'' Jeff said. ''What's the kid's story?''
''Will is biracial,'' I answered. ''Raised by white middle-class parents. He's thought of himself as white his whole life. Then he goes to UT, and things changed. The team and his new friends consider him black. He wants to understand that better. He's okay with it, but it really got him thinking. Smart, insightful kid, if you haven't guessed.''
''Hope he doesn't get all stupid when he lands his hundred-million-dollar NBA contract. Sometimes green is the only color that matters with these young superstars.''
''You're being judgmental. Will is not your typical, cocky jock. He seems pretty damn normal to me— and to Kate.''
''He is an amazing athlete, which means reporters are gonna be on this case like fleas if they find out he's even remotely involved.''
''They won't hear it from me,'' I said.
''Someone in the Department's always taking a leak in the general direction of the press, but let's hope we can keep Will's name out of this. You both went to Olsen's house. When was that again?'' He poised his pen for my answer.
''Two days ago. Then she calls me tonight. Says she needs to talk to me. I figured her more as the HighTea-at-the-Warwick-Hotel type than a coffeehouse patron.''
''Why couldn't she talk to you over the phone?'' he asked.
''Believe me, I asked that question. She said she was in a rush, but would stop here on her way back to Bottlebrush. Said she had more to tell me about Will.''
''That was all?'' Jeff asked.
I closed my eyes, thought hard about every word Verna Mae and I had exchanged earlier. ''That's all I remember, Jeff. Sounds to me like she was here in Houston, but that she didn't come to town just to chat with me.''
''Maybe. Or she could have been passing through. Anything unusual about the tone of her voice? Was she nervous? Upset?''
''She seemed the same as when we met in person— someone whose roof wasn't nailed on tight.''
He looked up from the notebook, his blue eyes narrow. ''Explain.''
''First off, the woman was as happy as a hog in a peach orchard when I brought Will to meet her. She may have been surprised to hear from us, but she was prepared. Verna Mae knew everything about Will, had followed his every move since the day he was left on her porch.''
''How did that happen? Adoption files in this state are welded shut,'' Jeff said.
''With the cases I've worked so far, don't you think I know that? First thing I did after talking with Verna Mae was track down the caseworker who picked up baby Will from the local police. She owns a private nanny service now. I'm meeting with her Monday, and sure hope she can shed some light on how Verna Mae learned so much about my client.''
''Could the Olsen woman have contacted Will Knight tonight? If she was as obsessed as you say, maybe she came to town to meet with him.''
''Will would have called me, especially after how strange she seemed the other day,'' I said. ''She made us both feel about as comfortable as Baptists in Las Vegas. No, I'm thinking Verna Mae had business in the city. Anyone with as much money as she seemed to have has business.''
''You should know,'' Jeff answered with a grin.
''Smart-ass.'' I used my knee to bump his.
Kate and I inherited buckets of money along with a
still-profitable computer company when our daddy died, money that I use to help unwed mothers like my own biological mother had been. The money also helps support my PI business—a business I started to help adoptees locate their birth families. Bottom lines aren't important to me; reunions are.
''Business would be a logical explanation for Verna Mae showing up,'' I said. ''The CompuCan CEO is always calling Kate or me to approve or sign stuff.''
''Okay, she may have been in Houston for reasons unrelated to your case,'' he said. ''But from what you've told me, seeing Will Knight the other day might have brought her here, too. Does he live in town?''
''He does. Bellaire. You want me to call him? See if he saw her today?''
Jeff didn't get a chance to answer.
A man wearing a dark suit came in with a uniformed cop trailing on his heels.
''Who's in charge here?'' the man said.
Jeff pushed back his chair and slowly rose. ''That would be me, sir. How can I help you?''
''What the hell happened?'' The man was red-faced, and his bulbous nose bore evidence of more than coffee drinking.
Jeff walked the short distance separating us from the newcomer and stopped within inches of the guy's face. ''Who's asking?''
''Jack Brown. I own this place,'' the man said.
''Sergeant Kline. HPD Homicide. A woman was murdered out back, Mr. Brown, then buried in a pile of coffee grounds. Those grounds your own special gift to the environment, maybe?''
Brown's bluster disappeared. ''Wet grounds are heavy. Expensive to have hauled off.''
''Yeah. That's what I figured. You cooperate, and maybe the city won't be too pissed off about how you handled your garbage problem.'' Jeff turned to the cop standing next to the clearly agitated owner. ''Show Mr. Brown to a table, and I'll be with him in a minute. Maybe he'd like some coffee.''
Jeff came back over and bent close to my ear. ''I need to interview this one now that I have his complete attention.''
I whispered, ''Okay, I can wait.''
''Please go home. I'll call you.''
''But—''
''And do me a favor? Let me talk to Will Knight first.''
He said this nice enough, but he wasn't asking for a favor: Jeff was warning me not to contact my client.
''If you say so,'' I answered.
Now, sometimes you gotta dance to the tune the band plays, especially when one of the fiddlers is your cop boyfriend. But as I drove home, I had to think long and hard whether this was one of those times.
2
I arrived home around ten, grabbed a Coke from the fridge and headed for the living room, unable to stop thinking about Verna Mae's call to me today and the horrible way she died. The sheer brutality had me as mad as a bull in red dye factory. I needed to find out what had happened. I mean, why beat a woman to death for jewelry and the contents of a handbag that could have been snatched without much effort? But maybe she had some fight in her and pissed off her assailant. If the bad guy was on drugs, it wouldn't take much to set him off.
Then there was Will. He would soon learn about this, and I sure wanted to be the one to tell him. I did have his number on speed-dial. One press of a button and I could see if he was home, walk that tightrope Jeff had placed between me and my client by asking Will if he'd had any surprises today—like a visit or call from Verna Mae.
Don't be an idiot, I told myself. I needed to respect Jeff's request, and I sure didn't want to get on the wrong side of HPD. I was still a new PI and under the supervision of Jeff's good friend Angel Molina of the Molina Detective Agency. Though I am a registered investigator, I only stay that way if I don't get into trouble. Getting into trouble with Jeff would affect not only my ability to work as a PI but also our relationship . . . which could affect Jeff's friendship with Angel . . . and maybe then affect the prospect of getting my little subsidiary of the Molina Agency, Yellow Rose Investigations, licensed by Texas in a few years. That damn domino effect will get you every time.
No call to Will. Period. But I had to do something.
With my calico cat, Diva, watching from the arm of one of the overstuffed chairs, I practically wore a hole in the Oriental rug in front of the sofa while sorting through all this, thinking about what I'd seen tonight and trying to remember every detail of my conversation with Verna Mae the other day. Could there be a clue from our meeting, a clue to explain why she contacted me today, a clue connected to her death?
Sipping intermittently on my soda, I recalled the woman's enthusiastic greeting when we'd arrived at her house, an encounter that immediately made Will and me uncomfortable. It would have made any sane person uncomfortable. I mean, what was Will supposed to do when a stranger hugged him like the human equivalent of Saran Wrap? Verna Mae's nose only came to his navel, and she pressed her plump face into his abdomen, wrapped her fleshy arms around him and held on for dear life. He reacted by raising his own arms as if he were being fitted for a tuxedo, all the while staring at me bug-eyed.
After she finally let go, she gave me one of those pat-you-on-the-back type hugs, thanked me for bringing her boy back home and walked us through her I Lust for Waverly house to the dining room. There we found a meal fit for a July Fourth picnic. Fried chicken, potato salad, a slab of ribs, baked beans and a gallon of sweet iced tea were laid out on a massive table—enough food to serve the state legislature.
We filled our plates—she'd even brought out the good china—and went out to the front porch. I chose the wicker chair right next to a planter filled with baby's breath, and Will sat to my right. Verna Mae flanked him on the other side. Thank goodness the round glass-covered table was high enough that he could fit his unbelievably long legs underneath.
I no sooner took my first bite of beans when I dropped my napkin. I bent to retrieve it and saw it had blown under the planter, the one I hadn't paid much attention to when we walked inside despite its presence near the front door. The one I now realized used to be a bassinet.
A white wicker bassinet on wheels.
I felt like ten caterpillars were crawling up my neck. ''Um, unusual use of a baby bed,'' I said. ''Did it belong to one of your children?'' About then I was praying that was the explanation, but my gut told me otherwise.
''I have no other children, Ms. Rose.'' She rested a hand on Will's arm. ''I placed the bassinet where I found my boy that night.''
A brief, tense silence followed before Will said, ''Cool,'' and continued eating.
I believe that's how teenage boys cope with everything—by eating.
Verna Mae raised the thin eyebrows over her gray eyes—the only thin thing on her body. ''You may have the planter if you like, Will.''
He gave me this pleading sideways glance that shouted, Please help me.
''A baby bed in a men's dorm might make for some interesting jokes,'' I said, trying to sound lighthearted rather than critical.
''Of course,'' she replied. ''I was just . . . kidding.'' Her tone was terse enough that I knew the lighthearted approach had failed.
So much for my acting skills. ''Why don't you tell us about the night Will arrived.''
Her face relaxed and her eyes glazed over in dreamy remembrance. ''I heard him crying. Jasper— he was my husband—said a cat was in heat. But I knew better. Thank goodness Will came to us in October, because the weather was perfect. No danger of him freezing or dying from the heat.'' She turned to Will. ''When I picked you up, you quit crying right away. You knew we belonged together.''
More hairy little feet on the nape of my neck. More painful glances from Will.
''But that's not how things worked out,'' I said.
''Thanks to Jasper.'' She practically spat his name. ''Will was sent to me. God knew how much I wanted a baby, but Jasper called the police—even after I told him it was downright blasphemous to go against God's will. We should have kept our baby.''
''But . . . your husband did what he was supposed to,'' I said, trying to sound apologetic for pointing this out.
S
he looked at me like I'd tracked horse manure onto her plush white carpet. ''The right thing to do, my dear young woman, is to accept what God gives you. And He gave me a perfect baby boy.''
Will subdued a ''Yeah, she's definitely crazy'' smile by scooping up one last giant forkful of potato salad and shoving it into his mouth.
''If you'd kept him,'' I said, ''wouldn't people have wondered where this baby came from?''
Dead Giveaway Page 2