Rhoda looked at her husband, a straight-on gaze, since they were both the same size—six feet and about two fifty. “What people told me at the bar was private stuff. Shouldn’t I be quiet about all that?”
“Not if you were fed a pack of lies, sweetie,” Larry said.
I was liking Larry more by the minute.
“You’re saying I should talk to her?” Rhoda said.
“That’s what I’m saying,” he answered.
He kissed her briefly on the lips; then Rhoda said, “Okay, let’s do it,” and led me through a door behind the office.
The small room with its old yellow vinyl sofa and ancient oak desk was tidy, the tile floor newly buffed. But black fingerprints marred every surface the couple had touched, and the smell of smoke hung in the air. A piece of construction paper had been tacked on the wall over the desk and read, My prayer: May your camel infest your enemies with a thousand fleas and may their arms be too short to scratch their crotch. Amen.
I smiled thinking this had to be Rhoda’s sense of humor at work.
I passed on the bourbon but Rhoda didn’t. She took the desk chair and swiveled to face me on the sofa. After she’d fortified herself with several sips of her daddy’s bourbon, she said, “If Christy is dead, what’s that to you?”
I gave her the short version, how I was working for Emma to find Christine’s killer and how infant bones had been found under the house.
“You’re saying Christy killed her baby?” Rhoda said.
“Not exactly. It wasn’t her baby they found, and we’re not sure what happened.”
“Don’t this just beat the band? You listen to people pour their hearts out, think you know them and then wham! A slip of a woman comes around ten years later and whomps you upside the head with a whole new reality. Yeah, that’s what Larry would call this. A whole new reality.”
“A reality check,” I said, smiling to myself. “What else can you tell me about Christine? Did she have many friends?”
“She hung out with a guy named Jerry Joe Billings. Serious drinker, that one. I swear, there were times he left the icehouse and had to hold on to the grass to lean against the ground.”
“I met him. He doesn’t drink anymore,” I said.
“He’s a solid citizen now?” She laughed derisively. “Never knew why Christy stuck with him. Mean SOB. Maybe she liked him ’cause he laughed at her jokes and their mutual friend was Jack Daniel’s. Christy really made people laugh once she had a few whiskeys in her.”
“Who else did she hang around with?” I asked.
Rhoda swirled her drink and stared at the amber liquid. “Well, there was Bob—but I heard he died last year. She mostly sat with Jerry Joe and Loretta—when Loretta wasn’t working.”
“Loretta have a last name?”
“She was just Loretta—and I never let her do business in my place. Tried to tell her more than once I’d help her get rid of that asshole who pimped her. I can be a pretty convincing woman, and pimps are all cowards anyway.”
“Loretta was a prostitute?” I said.
“She hated what she was doing—or at least, that’s what she said. The drinks numbed her, and I didn’t feel all that guilty providing the anesthesia, even if I knew her ID was fake and she was under twenty-one.”
“I’d like to find Loretta. Christine may have fed you lies about the baby she was carrying, but I’m hoping she told someone the truth.”
But Rhoda was distracted. She lifted the sleeve of her Harley T-shirt and patted one of several nicotine patches she was wearing. “These are crap.” Then she shouted, “Larry, you owe me a million dollars.”
Larry stuck his head in the door. “Yesterday it was a Ducati 749.”
The couple smiled at each other and he left.
She pulled her sleeve back down. “I’m always wishing someone would bring a Ducati in here for repair and then not pay the bill so we can keep it.”
But I was wondering about her nicotine intake. Wasn’t one patch supposed to be enough?
“Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking,” Rhoda said, “but I figured I needed one patch for every pack a day I used to smoke. I only quit day before yesterday, so the days are tough.”
“Loretta?” I hoped to get her back on track.
“Loretta. Right. Young, gorgeous, blond hair—the opposite of mine.” She picked up a hank of her dried-out, bleached-out hair. “Is peroxide addictive?”
I smiled. Tough interview. The lady was distracted, probably because she was coming off a more serious addiction than peroxide. Her foot was bobbing, her finger was tapping the glass of bourbon she still held and her eyes were darting everywhere.
“Sorry. You didn’t come here about me,” Rhoda said. “Let’s see. Loretta and Christy were pretty tight. Christy mighta told her something about this whole baby thing. You know, her lying about the kid really pisses me off.”
“Maybe she’d apologize if she were alive,” I said.
“Christ, she’d dead and I’m bad-mouthing her. That’s pretty wrong. Sorry. Go on with your questions.”
There I went again, nearly alienating a person who could help me. Jeez, when would I learn? “Did Loretta pick up johns near your bar?”
“Tell you the truth, the less I knew about that subject, the better I felt. Larry finally helped me understand that owning a place like the icehouse wasn’t good for me spiritually or emotionally—and Loretta was one of the reasons. She was just a kid, for Christ’s sake.”
Spiritually or emotionally? Obviously Larry’s words. “Larry sure looks out for you, doesn’t he?”
“He’s the best.”
“Back to Loretta. Is there anything you can remember that might provide me with the information I need to solve this murder?”
“Okay. I’m thinking hard here.” Rhoda squeezed her eyes closed. “I remember that pimp came and dragged her out of the icehouse one afternoon.” She looked at me. “Actually she and Christy were sitting outside—we usually kept the garage door up and folks would sit a long time, especially the regulars. Anyway, he was all sweet-talking Loretta at first and he called her by a different name ... what the hell was it?”
“Maybe there was something special about that day? Something that might jog your memory?”
“Nah, I ... Wait.” Rhoda thumped her head with the heel of her hand. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
“You remember something?”
“Loretta had a diamond ring tattoo on her finger—you know, on the left hand. That’s what he called her. Diamond. Shit, I was doing so much weed back then it’s a wonder I could put on my panties with the label in the back.”
“Maybe that was her street name,” I said, half to myself.
“Yeah. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
We talked for several more minutes, but Rhoda couldn’t pull anything else from her memory. Finally I rose and said, “You and Larry have been wonderful.” I gave her a card. “If you think of anything else, call me anytime.”
She stood. “This place, doing the motorcycle thing? We love it. It’s totally selfish. The icehouse wasn’t. I felt like I helped people by letting them talk, by being there all the time, standing behind that bar. I kinda miss that. Will you let me know if I helped Christy one last time, whether she deserved it or not?”
“Sure. If anyone else besides the police comes around asking questions about Christine O’Meara, do me a favor and don’t tell them anything.”
“Deal,” Rhoda said with a smile.
I drove home, watching for the white Focus Larry had mentioned. I saw a few—they’re probably the most rented car in the country—but none of them followed me.
As I turned the corner onto my street, I noticed an unfamiliar Honda parked at the curb in front of my house. I pulled into my driveway, and got out, heading for the back door. The woman who’d been waiting in the car immediately came after me.
“Are you Abby Rose of Yellow Rose Investigations?” s
he called.
New client or the press? The press, I decided. She confirmed this by saying, “Mary Parsons, investigative reporter for K—”
“Sorry,” I said, stopping to face her near my back gate. “I can’t help you.”
I didn’t expect this to deter her, and it didn’t. “Is it true Emma Lopez has hired you to learn the truth about the infant found under her demolished house?”
“I said I can’t help you.”
“But she is your client?” Parsons said.
“I suggest you leave, because I have police friends who—”
I was interrupted by Kate’s 4Runner pulling in behind my car.
“Hey, Abby,” Kate called as she got out.
Before I could warn Kate, she walked right up to the reporter and held out her hand. “Kate Rose. You new in the neighborhood?”
“She’s a reporter. I’ve politely asked her to leave. A few more minutes and polite is off my radar.”
“I only have a few questions, Ms. Rose,” Parsons persisted. “Just a minute of your time. Please?”
She was resorting to please? Must be new on the job. “Kate, let’s go inside.” I opened the gate and walked through, Kate on my heels.
“I’ll be around,” Parsons called before we were inside the house.
I wondered then if Larry Murray had mistaken a white Focus for a pale gold Honda earlier today. But I doubted he’d make an error like that.
While Kate fed Webster, I took a Dr Pepper from the fridge and popped the top. The sugar and caffeine hit me almost immediately, and I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. “Want to do Chinese?” I asked Kate when she came back into the kitchen from the utility room.
“Let me make a call first.” She took her cell from her skirt pocket and punched in some numbers.
“Hi,” she said into the phone. “We on for tonight?”
I watched her lose her smile as she listened. Then she said, “I understand completely. You need to straighten things out with your ex. A teenage boy needs as much time as he can get with his father.”
After she hung up, I said, “Did you know before now that he has an ex and a kid?”
She raised her chin. “Yes, I did. I asked about his family and he finally told me about his son.”
I sipped my Dr Pepper. “Finally told you?”
“Clint was reluctant to talk about his son at first. He was worried I’d run for the hills, I guess.”
“Smart guy. You just left Terry because you didn’t want kids, and Clint knew that, right?”
“I told him. Yes.”
“Does this change how you feel about Clint?”
“I-I don’t know. A half-grown child is different from a newborn, and—”
“I’m glad you’re giving this some thought.” I could tell this was the wrong time to discuss her choices. She needed to sort this out in her mind without my interference.
“I’ll give it plenty of thought. Now, how about that Chinese? I’ll drive,” she said.
“Can we pick up and eat here? I’ll be out on the case tonight, and before I leave I should document what I’ve learned today.”
“What’s going on, Abby?”
I told her about Billings.
She opened a kitchen drawer and removed the takeout menu. “I’m glad DeShay will be with you. I hate when you deal with people like this Billings guy in the daytime, much less after dark.”
“I know how to protect myself, Kate.”
“Why? Because Daddy taught you to shoot? That doesn’t mean I’ll stop worrying.”
I smiled. “Yeah, I know.” I wanted to tell her I was worried, too—worried about her getting her heart broken. But I kept my thoughts to myself. I was getting better at that, thanks to Jeff.
18
DeShay picked me up at nine thirty for our meeting with Billings. As I slid into his T-bird, I patted my jeans pocket. “Got the money.”
“How much are you paying him?” DeShay said.
“Four hundred,” I answered. “I hope what he’s got is worth that much.”
“You’re worried about money? Is that company you inherited in trouble all of a sudden?” DeShay turned onto Kirby and headed for the freeway.
“No, but that doesn’t mean I don’t spend my money wisely.”
“I hear a lot of you rich people are penny-pinchers. Now, tell me everything you know about Billings. Then we need to plan our cover story for why I’m with you. Don’t want Billings to get suspicious of me.”
By the time we reached Billings’s apartment complex on the southeast side of town, DeShay knew everything I did. We decided he’d pretend to be a partner in my detective agency. Seemed simple and believable.
DeShay pulled into the pitch-black parking lot. All the lights had either burned out or apparently been used for target practice. The overflowing Dumpster, the burglar bars on some of the apartment windows and the fact that one section of the complex had obviously burned down at some point and never been rebuilt brought the word slum to mind. Yup, I was glad DeShay was by my side.
As we walked toward building D, I noticed Billings’s battered car parked near the cracked sidewalk. I slid my hand into my pocket and clutched the cash. Holding on to my ticket to the truth with one hand, I slipped my other arm through DeShay’s.
Billings’s apartment was on the second floor—apartment D-2320. When we started to climb the outside iron stairs, a Hispanic man in an apartment on the first floor stood in his window watching us. The man appeared angry, and I wondered if that was how he always looked. I sure wouldn’t be too happy living here.
Billings’s place was the first door we came to and directly above the angry guy’s apartment. DeShay knocked while I stayed in line with the peephole. No answer. DeShay knocked again and I called, “Mr. Billings? It’s Abby Rose.”
Still nothing.
“Maybe he’s not back from his meeting,” DeShay said.
“I saw his car ... but maybe he got a ride with a fellow ex-drinker.”
“Or maybe he used that fifty bucks you gave him on a bottle of Scotch and—”
“We need some quiet,” came a voice from below.
DeShay leaned over the railing. “Sorry about that, man. We’re friends of the guy in 2320. You know if he’s home?”
“I seen you two, and you don’t look like no friends of anyone lives in this place,” the guy called back.
DeShay went down the stairs and I followed.
Same guy from the window. He wore a T-shirt advertising Corona beer but hadn’t bothered with shoes. Since I’d already stepped around several broken bottles I didn’t think that was too smart.
“Okay, we’re not friends. We’re business acquaintances,” I said. “You know if he’s up there?”
“What’s it to you, lady?” The guy took a step toward me, frowning.
DeShay put an arm in front of me and pulled his badge from his pocket with his other hand. In a quiet but menacing tone he said, “This is what it is to us, man.”
Mr. Corona lifted his hands in surrender. “Holy Mary, good. I thought you were ... I don’t know what I thought. I just know all the noise on the stairs, it keeps waking up my baby.”
“Noise on the stairs?” I said.
“You a lady cop?” the man asked.
DeShay said, “You don’t need to know. What’s your name, man?”
“Rodolfo Aguirre.”
“I’m Sergeant Peters, HPD. Tell me what you heard tonight.”
“I heard two people go up a little while ago. Maybe more than two, even. They pounded those stairs and then I hear them walking around up there. Stupid paper ceiling. The baby starts crying and then I’m in trouble, ’cause I leave for my shift as soon as my wife gets home in the morning—she’s a nurse and works at night—and I gotta get some sleep, you know?”
“What’s a little while ago?” DeShay asked.
“Nine thirty—right in the middle of FOX News. Then I hear someone come down, but by that time the baby, she’s
crying real hard and I’m trying to get her back to sleep.”
“One person came down?” I asked.
“Yeah, one. Believe me, I learn the sound of just one—and they was going fast, making plenty of noise.”
“Thank you for the information, Mr. Aguirre,” DeShay said.
“We need more police around here,” Aguirre said. “Could you tell your cop friends?”
DeShay nodded. “I will.”
After he’d gone back in his apartment, DeShay and I climbed the stairs again, trying to be as quiet as possible.
DeShay whispered, “Two or more go up, sounds of activity in the apartment, then one person comes down. Our guy’s home.”
“He could be asleep,” I said.
“Maybe. But trying to get anything out of a passed-out drunk will probably be a waste of time.” DeShay knocked again.
Meanwhile, I put my mouth near the door seam. “Jerry Joe, it’s Abby. I have your money.”
Nothing.
“Okay, that’s it,” DeShay said. “We’ll have to do this another—”
I reached for the knob, unwilling to leave without learning anything. The door opened.
“Abby, are you trying to get my ass fired?” DeShay whispered harshly.
But he was looking at me, not inside the apartment. He didn’t yet see the body on the floor near the kitchen entry.
“Oh, my God.” I started inside.
DeShay saw now and held me back, pulling a gun from his ankle holster. “My cell is in my right pants pocket. Use speed dial number six and you’ll get dispatch. When they answer, hand me the phone.”
I did this, staying behind DeShay while he crept toward the body—definitely Billings, lying facedown. DeShay pulled a latex glove from his pocket, and I told the woman who answered the call to hang on for Sergeant Peters.
DeShay traded the glove for the phone. “Put this on and check for a pulse, Abby.”
While he asked for backup, I snapped on the glove and lifted Billings’s hand, felt his wrist. I found a faint beat beneath my fingertips. “He’s alive.”
DeShay went around to the kitchen, phone to his ear, being careful not to step in the bloody trail that seemed to lead there. I heard him ask for paramedics; then he disappeared down the hall.
Shoot from the Lip Page 16
