Once I met up with Jeff in his cubicle on the homicide floor, I sat down and held out the envelope. "I found this at Frank Simpson's place."
Jeff took it but kept staring at me. "What happened to your hair? You been hanging around spiders? And your shirt looks like—"
"Shut up," I said, wiping at a gray smudge. "I got down and dirty in an attic."
"Down and dirty," he said, grinning. "You and I could use a little of that."
"Great. You're horny and I'm trying to—"
"Sorry," he said. "What have you got?"
"I think this is the bullet that killed Amanda Mason."
Jeff's expression went from playful to unhappy in a hurry. "Simpson took more than notes and files? He could have gotten himself in big trouble, Abby."
"It was a closed case. Don't you get rid of evidence after awhile?"
"They do clean out the evidence lockers after appeals are exhausted. Sorry for being critical, but from all you've told me, I like this Frank Simpson. Stupid of me to worry about a dead cop getting in trouble."
"Reputation is important to you guys," I said. "I understand your reaction."
He smiled. "You understand a whole lot about me. Guess this bullet would have been destroyed if he hadn't taken it. You know the Mason case better than I do. How can this help with the Olsen woman's death?"
"Here's the deal. The gun that killed Amanda Mason was never recovered, was not part of the evidence they found in Washington's bedroom that night. They figured he ditched it. What if that gun is still out there? What if it was used in some other crime later on and you have ballistic evidence waiting to be found in your police database?"
"I would have said you were nuts an hour ago, that you were reaching, but guess what we discovered when we ran the bullet we pulled from Thaddeus Washington's wall?"
"What?"
"It matches the one the ME dug out of the Olsen woman's chest."
My mouth went dry. "Uh-oh. You mean Verna Mae's killer shot at Thaddeus and me yesterday?"
"That's the logical conclusion, a possibility I like about as much as I enjoy Kate's cooking," he said. "Maybe next time it won't be a warning shot."
I took a deep breath. "Yeah. Scary. What about looking for a ballistics match to the Mason murder?"
"It's a long shot—no pun intended," Jeff said. "But maybe someone's been hanging onto a .38 for a very long time."
"Would the Mason ballistic evidence still be in the system?"
"Probably never was. DRUGFIRE didn't exist in 1987."
"DRUGFIRE?"
"The ballistics database. We do have two bullets already and now this one. If the Mason bullet matches the others, we'll have hard evidence that everything that's happened in the last week is connected to Will's abandonment. Probably not usable in court since you found this in a dead cop's attic, but still a clue. Let me get this to the right people and we'll know."
I returned home and showered the cobwebs out of my hair along with the grime and sweat off my skin. Once I was dressed in sensible clothes—denim shorts and a crop top—I transferred the picture of the youth group from the camera phone to my desktop computer.
After enlarging it, I used my software to sharpen the images so I could read the caption beneath the picture. Even though I no longer had Frank's notes, I recognized a few of the names from his files. Good. I had them in writing again. Then I found something that made me sit back in my chair and say "Damn."
Diva, who had curled up on my lap, did not appreciate my tone or my shift in position and took off with a hiss.
Why had Frank failed to note this? He never mentioned this person in his files—unless I'd missed it. A bigger question loomed. Why didn't the Rankins tell me their daughter, Sara, had been in the youth group? According to the caption, Sara Rankin was right there in this photo for God and everyone to see, standing next to guess who? Lawrence. She had long blond hair, a perky smile and dark brown eyes much bigger than her father's. She and Lawrence were the tallest kids in the group.
Maybe Frank's investigation focused on the group members present the night of the murder and that's why his notes didn't include Sara Rankin. The pastor's wife mentioned that her daughter had been on a mission trip, so the girl could have left home long before Mason was killed. Still, the fact that their daughter knew Lawrence seemed like an awfully significant piece of information to omit from our conversation— especially since I'd asked who was in the group more than once. Had the same information been omitted before? Could Frank Simpson have known nothing about Sara Rankin and that's why she wasn't mentioned in his files?
Okay, I thought. I should give those people the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps the pastor and his wife were so traumatized by their daughter's death that year, they failed to remember she knew Lawrence, or maybe decided it wasn't relevant. No matter what the reason, this required a very close look. I took down the names of the other members in the picture and began Googling them, starting with Sara Rankin.
The first thing I expected to find was an obituary, and I did. Sort of. A notice appeared in the religion section of the Chronicle in December 1987, an invitation to celebrate the life of Sara Rankin at the Church of the Reverent Life. I found one earlier reference to Sara: January of 1987, in a list of Confederate Legion debutante candidates—a crew of young women selected every year as the most gorgeous and precious relatives of men who had served in the civil war—on the Confederate side, of course. This social ritual still went on today and always made me shake my head in amazement when I saw newspaper pictures of all those pretty young girls with ties to slavery. I figured they didn't even realize what they were doing—or maybe I was the one who knew diddly-squat. Better not judge without the whole story, I guess.
Having not learned much about Sara, I picked the next name on my list. Nothing. Not until I ran a search for Oscar Drummond did I get dozens of hits. He was a financial planner and his name and face were all over cyberspace—almost unrecognizable as the face from the photo, since he'd gained more than a few pounds. His big smile gave him away, though. To meet with him on a Saturday might be tough. All I could do was try. I got an answering machine when I phoned, but mentioned in my message that I was the late Charlie Rose's daughter. A mention of a late, rich father would get a quicker response from a financial planner and sure enough Mr. Drummond called back in thirty minutes, eager to meet.
Forced to change clothes again, I chose something more appropriate for dinner downtown. Not a skirt, but khaki pants and a pink striped shirt that did not show my belly button even though I was pretty proud of my abs. I'd been running and working out with Jeff for almost a year.
The downtown streets were still crowded with late afternoon shoppers, but I managed to find a parking place in a theater district garage. I enjoyed a pleasant breeze as I walked two blocks to Birraporetti's, a fun Italian restaurant with "a heck of an Irish bar," as they liked to advertise.
Drummond was waiting for me at the hostess station, as eager as a groom in the last hour of the reception. I hate mentioning my money. It makes people act like they wouldn't be surprised if I spit a few gold nuggets at their feet before I spoke.
Drummond's infectious smile was the same as in the photo. He wore a charcoal suit, probably Armani, but I didn't think he could button that jacket if push came to shove. Not over the banjo belly. I never mentioned when I called that this wasn't about forging a relationship with him to manage my millions, so he was about to be let down big time.
"How good is your memory?" I asked, after we were seated in a booth far from the noisy bar and had given our drink order.
"As good as it should be, Ms. Rose. I manage a hundred clients, and if it weren't confidential information, I could tell you what the earnings are to date on their portfolios without so much as a glance at my computer. I customize to meet their individual goals, as any good money manager should."
I took a card from my purse and handed it to him. "Wonderful. Then I'm sure your memory can help me."
"Yes. Not as lucrative, but far more satisfying."
He rebounded quickly. "Great. I assume you're looking for help building and maintaining your assets while you pursue your new project?"
"It's not about money, Mr. Drummond. Sorry."
Though he was beginning to understand I hadn't met him here to hire him, he was still optimistic. I suppose that's what financial planners specialize in— optimism.
"I'd be excited to help you with anything, Ms. Rose."
I'd printed out the youth group picture and I placed it in front of him. "Do you remember any of these people?"
He picked the page up, stared at it for a second. "Where did you get this?"
"At the Church of the Reverent Life."
"Whoa. That was aeons ago. What I remember most is that life did not turn out too well for a few of my friends. A good life takes planning and hard work, Ms. Rose. When we're done with your inquiries, I hope you'll let me give you a quick little summary of the services I—"
"I'm sure you remember Lawrence as one of those unfortunate people you were referring to?" I cut in.
"Yes. He was a good guy. Ballplayer. Never understood why he messed up his life like that. For a stupid fifty dollars. Never made sense."
"What if he didn't mess up his life? What if someone else messed it up for him, set him up?"
"Are you serious?"
"Serious as Greenspan. I know Lawrence's story, probably better than anyone does right now, but I want to learn more about Sara Rankin. This picture was taken in '86. Did she continue attending meetings in '87? More specifically, was she present the night Lawrence was arrested?"
Before he could answer, my chardonnay and his scotch on the rocks arrived. We both sipped our drinks, and then Drummond said, "I believe she'd left the country sometime within the month before the murder on a mission trip to Mexico."
"She didn't come back?"
Drummond pursed his lips, shook his head sadly. "They never found her body as far as I know. She fell off some mountain carrying water to a campsite. Sweetest girl you'd ever meet. I had a crush on her for a year."
"Did anyone else have a crush on her?"
"I think all the guys did, which I'm sure worried her parents."
"How old was she?" I asked.
"Sixteen. Having a minister for a father is probably difficult for a girl—especially ultraconservatives like Pastor and Mrs. Rankin. Sara was strong-willed, though. Used to argue religious points better than anyone. If she'd wanted to date, I think she would have."
"But she didn't?"
"I don't think so. She was too busy with social causes. Smart and pretty and caring. Can you blame me for liking her?" He drained his glass, then swished the ice around. "After spending more time with Lawrence during our meetings, she pulled her name from the Confederate Legion Debutante list, said she couldn't justify taking part after getting to know him. That annoyed the pastor, I can tell you."
"How did you know?"
"Overheard a little argument. He couldn't keep up his end, though. She was the better debater, and he adored her too much to see her upset about anything. He told her he would respect her choice. Must have been difficult for the Rankins. They wanted to show her off, have her picture in the paper all dressed in white with their family history printed underneath like all those other debutantes."
"The debutante scene is still strong in Texas." I took another sip of wine realizing that's all I really knew. Despite our money and the mansion we'd lived in, Daddy kept his Rolex in a coffee can when it wasn't on his wrist. Society stuff has always been Aunt Caroline's territory, and I made sure she knew I'd rather show off new jeans at the rodeo than trip over some ball gown.
"They worshipped that girl," Drummond went on. "When she disappeared, they spent weeks looking for her, hired locals in Mexico to help, had search dogs flown in. Later that year, close to Christmas, we had this big memorial service... so, so sad. Sara was all they had. Besides God, of course. Their faith carried them through. I couldn't return to the church after that, watch those nice people hiding their grief."
"Could she have had a relationship with Lawrence?" I asked.
"You mean boyfriend and girlfriend? No way. I would have caught on, since I'm very perceptive." He straightened in his chair, pasted on his happy salesman face again. "If you'd like proof of just how well I use my better traits, I have some revealing charts that compare traditional index funds with a highperforming real estate trust."
I said, "If I decide to change the people managing my money, I promise I'll think of you first."
"I'm certain your people have told you that diversification is the key to long-term growth. If they haven't, then—"
"Sorry, Mr. Drummond."
Maybe I should have strung him along awhile, because he didn't have much more to offer when I asked him about the other people in the photos. None of them had kept in touch, and Oscar Drummond hadn't set foot in the Church of the Reverent Life since Sara Rankin's memorial service.
But, I thought, as I made my escape after we made uncomfortable small talk over veal marsala, at least I know a little more about Sara. Problem was, if she disappeared in March or April and died soon after, she couldn't have been Will's mother. He'd arrived on Verna Mae's doorstep in October.
I had a feeling there was a whole lot more to that story, though. The only avenue I had left to explore was the other girl in the picture—Jessica Roman. Maybe she had some answers, could even have been Lawrence's girlfriend. But to explore this avenue, first I had to find her.
20
I was dog tired when I made it home, too tired to revisit my Internet searches looking for Jessica Roman right now. I'd just finished microwaving a pizza when Jeff showed up. Nothing better than more chardonnay and a little sex for my dessert. I'm never too tired for that.
An hour later, we were lying in bed, my head close to Jeff's ear, when he said, "The bullet is a match. The same gun that murdered Amanda Mason killed the Olsen woman."
I sat straight up and shoved Jeff's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me the minute you walked in the door?"
"Because I had other plans. What would you do with that information tonight anyway?"
"I don't know. Drink more wine, maybe. I mean, this is great."
"Great because it connects the crimes, but it still doesn't do much for Lawrence Washington or your client," Jeff said.
"It's evidence. Unless you're trying to convince me that Lawrence gave the gun to someone after the murder, or sold it, or pawned it, and then years later the same gun is used to shoot Verna Mae? Come on, Jeff."
"I'm trying to make you think this through. For one thing, you can't be certain Will is Lawrence's son."
"If you'd been in that prison and seen him, you wouldn't have a doubt—they look that much alike. I plan on asking Thaddeus Washington for a DNA sample tomorrow, since Lawrence won't cooperate. Then we'll have even more hard evidence."
"Good idea. I'll handle that. Send someone out to collect a sample tomorrow. You won't get your private lab tech to work on a weekend."
"Yeah, okay. Thanks," I said.
Jeff tucked several strands of hair behind my ear. "You're distracted. What's going on?"
"I keep thinking about Lawrence Washington, Jeff. He claims he's innocent yet he won't cooperate about this baby thing. That tells me he's either protecting someone or he's got nothing to tell." I reached down, grabbed Jeff's shirt from the floor and put it on. "Protecting the mother of his child? Protecting his father? Protecting the son he never knew?"
"Maybe all three," Jeff said. "Or maybe he didn't want to get his hopes up about getting out, feared the parole board would bypass him again. Now that you've got a little leverage with him, he might talk."
"Leverage?"
I said.
"His father. I saw you two together. You got old Thaddeus charmed. Rent a wheelchair van and take him up to Huntsville. I'll call ahead, arrange the visit. With his father urging him to cooperate, you might get something out of Lawrence."
"Do you guys have a wheelchair van?"
"A wheelchair paddy wagon is a better description. Not exactly a comfortable ride for the old guy."
"Wait. I have an idea on where to find a van, not to mention some willing spirits at the Church of the Reverent Life that might just lend me the transportation."
The next morning, I called the church hoping to talk to B.J. and learned you do not call a church on a Sunday morning and expect to get any help. I didn't even bother to leave a message. Turned out Jeff couldn't get me into the prison anyway. Someone had stabbed one of their best buddies with a paper clip, and discipline was the order of the day. My need for an interview wasn't deemed important enough to override the warden's order for all inmates to remain in their cells.
Needing another means of transportation to get Thaddeus up to the prison, I found a United Way volunteer who'd rolled over the office phone to his cell. He told me they'd help whenever I needed them. I didn't even have to donate money, though I made a call and left a message for my very excellent financial adviser—who did not go by the name of Oscar Drummond—to get a donation to them in the mail tomorrow.
I turned my attention to Jessica Roman. I had been unable to find her through usual computer searches, but finally did locate her using one of my expensive pay-as-you-hunt Internet companies. Strange how a picture does not always tell a thousand words. She looked prim, serious and even a little nerdy in the old church photo, but it turns out I could have gotten tons of information about her from Jeff for free. Jessica Roman was a "massage therapist" with a rap sheet as long as a well rope. Apparently her God-fearing days had ended long ago.
I called Jeff, and he hooked me up with a vice officer who knew Jessica well. But Officer Marty Lamar didn't want me visiting Jessica at her "business" by myself and offered to take me. Seems he and Jeff were pretty good friends and he'd been told to look out for me.
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