"I brought food," I mumbled. I was lying on my side, head on his chest, one leg bent over his thighs.
"Didn't notice," he said. "Tell me about this break-in."
After I summarized the evening, Jeff said, "What was in those albums again?"
"A history of Will's life from the brief look I had, but maybe there was more. I don't know." I got up and began gathering my clothes. I was hungry, and those burgers were salvageable, smooshed or not.
Jeff put his hands behind his neck. "Those clippings connected Verna Mae and Will, something the press knows nothing about yet. Something that the killer might not have wanted us to know."
"I like that. Us." I hitched my bra and pulled up my panties. "Does that confirm the cases are connected? Could Will showing up in Verna Mae's life again have triggered her murder?"
He stared at me for a second. "God, you're gorgeous."
I grinned. "You're not so bad yourself. Now answer my question."
"You know my thoughts on coincidences and murder. There aren't any. That said, we've got nothing concrete to indicate that her death is connected to her strange attachment to Will." Jeff got up, retrieved his boxers and slipped them on. "So what's for dinner?"
"Squashed hamburgers and cold fries."
"Mmmm. Can't wait."
Jeff's kitchen is smaller than his bed, so we took our reheated food and the only other item in Jeff's fridge, a jar of dill pickles, into his agonizingly plain living room. The one item that hung on his wall held meaning, though—a wedding photo of his parents, both long dead. They were standing outdoors, Mount Rainier in the background. Jeff was not a native Texan, but I didn't hold it against him.
Then there was the upright piano that took up one wall. The always silent piano. The piano I'd asked about more than once. He never would talk about it. Something painful was connected to that thing, and maybe one day I'd hear about it—or better yet, hear him play. He did have long, wonderful pianist's fingers.
We sat on his dark green love seat, our legs intertwined. The love seat and a recliner were the only furniture in the room aside from a scratched-up coffee table and a few lamps.
Before crunching a pickle, I said, "Did you find out anything about Lawrence Washington?"
Jeff tore open a ketchup pack and squirted it on his paper plate. "Oh, yeah. That man's life is an open book. Inmates have no secrets—at least no secrets connected to how they ended up in prison."
"According to what I read at the library, the guy was headed to A&M on full scholarship—a smart kid, with a loving family. Any idea what made him commit such a terrible crime?"
"Washington never talked except to say he was innocent, according to the officer who snagged the case—guy's retired now. Washington's family needed money but weren't poor enough to qualify for county assistance. They had no insurance, either. Those are the kind of people who fall through that giant crack that exists between a rock and a hard place."
"Sounds like you feel sorry for them."
"The family. Not the killer. There's no excuse for what he did." Jeff's voice had gone hard.
I rubbed his knee. "Hey. I agree."
He looked at me. "Sorry, but if you haven't noticed, I've got no sympathy for killers."
"Think I could talk to Washington? See if he remembers picking up the blanket from the British store and what he did with it?"
"You're thinking the blanket makes him the birth father? I'm not so sure."
"It's possible, Jeff. He's black, he was an athlete and he picked up a blanket that Verna Mae kept hidden away for nineteen years."
"The blanket is not proof, Abby. Washington could have been doing a favor for a friend by picking it up."
"You're right. That's why I need to talk to him. Can you please arrange that?" I asked.
"I can get you in, but you'd need a background check first."
"If you recall, I already had a background check when I signed on with Angel."
"Forgot about that."
"You worried about me walking into a prison?" I asked.
"No... well, maybe a little. What makes you think Washington will talk to you, anyway?"
"My charm?"
Jeff's gaze traveled to my chest and then down my bare legs to my toes. I hadn't bothered to put on the rest of my clothes. "That might work," he said. "But I don't think they'd let you in dressed like you are right now. Might start a riot."
I grinned. "Can you go with me?"
"Nope. My plate is full. DeShay might be willing. He's ticked I'm not giving him much to do on this one."
"Great. When can we go?"
"I'll look into this tomorrow. Maybe you two can connect some of the coincidences, build something circumstantial between Verna Mae's death and Will's abandonment. Right now, all I know is that a woman was beaten, robbed and—oh, I forgot to tell you— shot."
I sat up straighter. "Shot?"
"Dr. Post faxed the preliminary autopsy report today. The Olsen woman was beaten then shot. Thing is, she was probably close to death from the assault. She hardly bled from the chest wound."
"Raped?"
"No evidence of rape. We do have a bullet, though. Real evidence you can hold in your hand. I plan to run the bullet through the system, see if I can trace the gun."
"This is crazy. What could Verna Mae have done to make someone so angry?"
"Maybe he wasn't angry—and you agree this had to be a male perp?"
"Or a woman strong enough to knock the white out of the moon," I said.
"Maybe the bad guy was trying to make her tell him something and beat her unconscious, then shot her to make sure she never gave up what she knew and never identified him."
"What about the gang angle you were following? Could this have been a test for a wannabe member?"
"I've been working the streets, but our informants say the Olsen murder wasn't a gang casualty. We do know she shed blood in her car, probably from a blow to the face, but they found no prints other than hers."
"You've got nothing except the bullet?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing. Cases like this get damn frustrating when you pass the magic forty-eighthour window. Leads dry up. I'm counting on you to see if our cases intersect."
"Nothing like a little pressure," I said.
"I trust you. Go interview Lawrence Washington, see what you come up with."
I rubbed my foot up and down his leg. "One more thing and then we can quit with the shoptalk."
I got up and retrieved my purse, pulled the keys from the side pocket and tossed them to Jeff. "What do you think of these? Is the tag from a storage facility?"
"Most likely. But where'd you find them and why are they important?"
"I'm not sure they are. I found them under Verna Mae's bed and wonder if they fell out of the album box."
"You took evidence from a crime scene?" From his tone, I expected Jeff to pull a pack of Big Red out of his shorts and cram every stick into his mouth.
"Not intentionally," I said quickly, sitting back down. "I had no idea it would become a crime scene. I found the keys before I found Kate out cold, and with all the excitement, I totally forgot about them until I arrived here."
"You're the one who told me Rollins is clinging to that blanket like it's the Holy Grail, so I don't think he'll be too happy you have these."
"I'll give them back." After I copy them, I thought. "You mean after you copy them?" Jeff said.
"Did I say that?"
"Work with Rollins on this. It's not like you can call up every storage facility within a hundred miles and ask if Verna Mae Olsen rented space. They won't tell you a damn thing."
"You're right, but they'd tell a chief of police."
"You got it. If Burl wants in on this investigation, it's the perfect job for him. He may not have the time, but he sure has the desire."
"How long before you hook me up with DeShay and I can get into the prison?"
"I don't know. Depends on how many people get murdered tomo
rrow."
"Let's hope that for a multitude of reasons the number is less than one," I answered.
He sat up and brought me to him, his lips close to mine. "I'll help you get into the prison, but prepare yourself. It won't be fun."
We kissed and I tasted pickles and onions, but the way he held me, the shift from passion to protectiveness, told me he might just be a little worried.
And now I was, too.
13
Before Jeff's partner picked me up Wednesday morning for the trip to Huntsville State Prison, I made a quick run to Marjorie McGrady's place—calling first, of course. She agreed to see me, and I showed her the newspaper photo of Lawrence Washington. She remembered the layout of the article, where the story had been placed on the page more than his picture, and stared at the photo for a long time before deciding he was indeed the man who'd picked up the blanket. I stared right along with her, and though I decided Washington and Will bore a vague resemblance, it wasn't enough to add to the list of reasons he was the birth father.
After I returned home, DeShay Peters picked me up in his unmarked police car and we started north on I-45 toward the prison. The first hour of the drive was dedicated to a discussion of DeShay's latest girlfriend. We had come to the conclusion that she was too high-maintenance for him. DeShay, forced to wear a coat and tie for the job, would rather be wearing baggie jeans and Houston Texan T-shirts, whereas Tisha spent hours shopping at the Galleria for shoes when she wasn't getting her nails painted with little American flags.
"Good," he said, leaning the driver's seat back a little. "Tisha's history. Now, Abby, tell me more about your side of this case. You know Jeff. The man's good, but he'd rather chew gum than talk. I only got the Cliffs Notes version of what we're doing today."
I told him what I'd learned so far, and by the time I was done, the rifle towers and razor wire surrounding the old redbrick units that make up Huntsville State Prison appeared on the horizon.
"I try not to look on either side of the highway when I drive by here on my way to Dallas," I said.
"Why?" DeShay asked, sounding surprised.
"Because Huntsville State Prison is a nasty old dungeon filled with hatred and violence."
"As far as I'm concerned this is the best damn place in the world, even if half the population are brothers. Not to say I don't work every day at getting more white guys locked up. White guys do just as much evil shit as the next man, but they got so damn much money, they get mouthpieces who can actually talk for them. Black dudes? They got nothing but mamas who cry a lot. Damn injustice, Abby. You hear what I'm saying?"
"I hear, all right. Jeff tell you my ex is here? He's a white dude."
"Say what?" DeShay sounded genuinely shocked.
"Yup. Killed two people."
"If it'll make you less jumpy, he's not here, Abby. He'd be in Livingston."
"No," I said. "He's here. On death row."
"Death row's been moved. 'Course when they give him the needle, they'll bring him here. You gonna come and watch?"
"Are you kidding? I never want to see him again, alive or dead. He blackmailed my adoptive father, nearly killed me and then for some stupid reason, when he was about to drown in a flash flood, I saved his sorry ass."
"That's the difference between you and him. It's called a conscience."
"Yeah, I have plenty of that," I said, nodding. "My daddy used to say conscience is like a toothless old hound. It might not bite you, but you can't keep it from barking. Mine barks all the time."
"Jeff talked about the case that brought you two together after we were partnered up, but he never said your ex was the bad guy. How'd you hook up with someone like that?"
"He was smart, could charm the skin off a snake and I thought I loved him. Didn't take me long to figure out his charm came courtesy of Jose Cuervo. He was an alcoholic, and I divorced him. But did I keep my distance? No. Big mistake. He killed my yardman, partnered up with the lawyer who'd arranged my illegal adoption and then murdered him, too. All for money. It's very sordid and makes me sound like a fool."
"You are no fool, not if Jeff Kline, the smartest guy I ever met, is head over his ass about you."
I laughed. "Feeling's mutual."
"You like the PI stuff?" DeShay asked, pulling into the parking lot of the Goree Unit, where Washington had lived for the last eighteen years.
"More than I thought," I said, noting the turnoff was almost in the shadow of the humongous cement statue of Sam Houston that for some bizarre reason guards the interstate. The thing was ugly, white and about six stories high. What in hell were the folks in Austin thinking when they contracted for this? That statue was scary enough to give kids nightmares.
DeShay parked after we were checked through at the gate—a police badge is handy at locked entrances—and as we got out of the car, I said, "I hope you plan to help me out with this interview. If I go wrong, pinch me or something."
"Jeff would send me out of this life if I hurt you."
I slugged his arm. "You know what I mean."
"Hey, I'll be right next to you the whole time. Just give me a look and I'll step in, but this is your deal."
Once we were escorted inside, DeShay turned over his weapon, and since I was civilian, I gave up my driver's license. We passed through a metal detector, and a young man wearing a gray uniform with navy epaulets led us down a narrow, bleak corridor.
We were taken to the empty visitors' area. The long room was split by a counter with chairs facing mesh and Plexiglas that divided the prisoners from their visitors. Despite the air-conditioning, the old room smelled of mildew with an undercurrent of body odor and urine— those smells leaching from beyond the divider. And then there was the hint of eau de sour mop.
The guard gestured us to chairs and said the prisoner was on his way. Then he stood in one corner, hands behind his back, his young, smooth face impassive.
"This place makes me feel so small." I didn't add scared, but my heart was pounding so hard I felt every beat in my temples. Gates and bars and ancient, chilly rooms had a definite effect on me, I was learning. Not to mention the unsmiling faces of the gray shadows who worked here. How could they do this day in and day out? Where do you stash your fear before you step beyond those heavy doors?
Through the distortion of the scratched, smudged Plexiglas I saw a guard let Washington into the room. He wore no cuffs or shackles as I'd expected, and they left him alone. Tall and not as dark-skinned as DeShay, his prison-issue pants and shirt were as white as the Sam Houston statue.
He sat across from us, and I stifled an "Oh, my God." The grainy, copied picture from an old newspaper had not told the truth. This man's resemblance to Will shocked me. Sure his skin was darker, his eyes brown not amber, but he could have spit that boy out, that's how sure the resemblance was.
"Why am I here?" Washington's soft voice hardly carried through the mesh and glass.
I couldn't answer right away. All doubts had disappeared now that I was being confronted with a resemblance almost as honest as a mirror. Will's father was a murderer. That wasn't quite what he or his family had hoped to discover.
Washington stared straight into my eyes, awaiting my response, and when I didn't answer, he repeated the question.
"I'm sorry," I said, focusing on this familiar face. "It's just that you look like someone I know."
"Get to the point. I have work to do in the laundry." Even tone. Not insolent or sarcastic.
His gaze and demeanor spoke of intelligence and self-control. Not what I expected from a man sentenced to life in prison. Guess I thought he'd be as egotistical as my ex. I took him in more fully and thought I also saw sadness in his eyes. A profound sadness so tangible it made my heart heavy. This was an awful place, and every bit of pain he'd been subjected to rested in his eyes. I didn't want to feel sorry for him, but I did. I just did.
DeShay cleared his throat to encourage me to speak, and I managed to find my voice. "My name is Abby Rose and this is Serg
eant Peters. I'm working in conjunction with HPD on the murder of a woman named Verna Mae Olsen. I'm hoping you can help me."
"Then you'll put in a good word with the parole board?" Washington asked, eyebrows raised.
I looked at DeShay for this answer.
"Depends on what you got to say, bro," he said.
"I am not your brother." Washington's eyes glinted with anger.
"I think we'll move on," I said quickly. "Maybe you'll find a reason to help after I've explained why I'm here. I'm working for a young man named Will Knight. Basketball player at UT. Ever heard of him?"
"Who hasn't?"
"He's my client and he's—" I stopped, remembering the guard on the far side of the room. Would he leak the connection between Will and Verna Mae to the press? Was this how information got out? But... Jeff wouldn't have helped me get here if he hadn't been willing to risk that possibility.
"You know a superstar," Washington said. "I'm impressed. What does that have to do with anything?" Sarcasm had surfaced now, but I could tell he was interested.
"Will Knight was adopted as an infant," I said. "He hired me to find his biological family. That search led me to Verna Mae Olsen. Did you know her?"
He looked down at his hands folded on the divider's ledge. "Never heard of her."
"She was murdered after my client and I paid her a visit. See, she found Will on her doorstep in 1987. We discovered a baby blanket at her house after she died. A very special blanket. A blanket I've learned that you picked up from a British import store about nineteen years ago."
Washington's head snapped up. He glared at me, the muscles of his forearms bulging with tension. I began to wonder about the strength of Plexiglas about then.
The angry silence that followed seemed to slash through the mesh. I'd never felt so intimidated and yet so exhilarated at the same time. That blanket meant something to Lawrence Washington.
"I never bought any blanket." He enunciated slowly, every word cold and bitter.
Semantics, I thought. You may not have bought it, but you sure as hell picked it up. Arguing with him wouldn't get me anywhere, though, so I said, "I believe Verna Mae's connection to Will might have something to do with her murder. I need more proof. Please tell me about the blanket."
Dead Giveaway yrm-3 Page 10
