''Pretty thing, isn't she, Burl? You married?'' she asked as she and Burl led me into their house.
''Divorced,'' I answered. I was proud of that particular piece of paper.
''You're free. Great. Our oldest, Burl Junior, is—''
''Lucinda. Quit.'' Burl looked over his shoulder at me. ''He's twenty-one. She thinks he needs to get married as soon as he graduates next May.''
''He's a little young for a thirtysomething like me, wouldn't you say?'' I smiled, glancing around. If there was an opposite of the place I'd visited this morning, this was it. Warmth and comfort filtered out from walls crammed with photos of a smiling family, not to mention the smell of the home-cooked meal that saturated the air and had my mouth watering.
''Hope you like fried chicken,'' Lucinda said when we entered the country-style kitchen. ''We'll have plenty for ourselves. The boys are gone doing their thing. One has swim practice; the other's into martial arts, so he's out breaking apart planks of wood. Boys do like to destroy stuff. Burl Junior's up at A&M taking a summer Spanish class.''
An oval table covered by a green woven cloth was set with bright plates, all different colors, cloth napkins and tall glasses of tea. Steaming bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans surrounded a platter of golden chicken pieces.
''You knew I was coming?'' I asked.
''Burl called me to set a place for you on his way home. We talk a lot. Or I do, if he's telling it. Anyway, this is a better dinner than you'll get in town. Not a decent restaurant to be found unless you're looking for eggs and grits. Casey's Cafe´ does serve up an acceptable breakfast after church.''
''Sit, Abby,'' Burl said, ''or Lucinda will talk you to death before you get to taste the best fried chicken in the world.''
So we ate, and I found no time for talk during that meal. I was too busy savoring every mouthful. Lucinda managed to get in plenty of conversation, though. By the time she was finished, I knew everything that had happened in Bottlebrush that day, down to the woman who'd broken a liter of Dr Pepper in a supermarket aisle and thought she could just walk away without telling a clerk. The way Lucinda told it, the woman had more nerve than a sumo wrestler turned cat burglar.
Burl leaned back in his chair, a contented smile on his face. ''I'm curious. What do you need to apologize for, Abby?''
''A set of keys I spotted under Verna Mae's bed. I grabbed them, but when I found Kate hurt, I forgot all about them.'' I rose and went to my purse, which Lucinda had set on the kitchen counter. I removed the originals and handed them to Burl. ''Here you go.''
He stared at the keys in his palm. ''You gonna give me the copies you made, too?''
''And why would I make copies?'' I said evenly.
''Hand them over.'' He sounded just like Daddy used to when I got caught in a lie.
''Is there a reason I can't keep a set? I mean, the estate belongs to Will and he's given me free rein.''
''Think for one second and answer that question yourself,'' he replied.
''Okay. So you don't want me messing with evidence,'' I answered.
''Aren't you glad we never had girls, Lucinda?'' Burl said.
''I don't know, sugar,'' said Lucinda. ''This one might make me proud if I were her mother. You gotta admit, she's working her case.''
''Yes, ma'am,'' he said. ''But she still needs to give me the copies.''
I did. One set, anyway. ''Looks like the key with the label might be for a storage unit, right?'' I asked after I handed them over.
''Yup, and just 'cause I have these, doesn't mean you can't know where these keys lead me.''
''Thanks. See, that's what we need help with. Finding what they belong to.''
''We?''
''Sergeant Kline and me. I am working with HPD on this.''
''How could I forget? You want to fill me in, then? 'Cause I got a feeling you're holding back.''
''I am not holding back. That's why I invited you to dinner, to tell you everything I've learned—though coming here was a far better idea.'' I smiled at Lucinda. ''If I ate like this every day, I'd have to make two trips just to haul butt.''
She laughed. ''I think you two should go in the other room and talk while I clean up.''
''Let me help you with the dishes,'' I said.
''Go,'' she said sternly. ''Both of you. Now.''
We went to the front room and settled into worn armchairs. I told Burl about Lawrence Washington and my visit to Hunstville today.
''Have you had time to tell your cop friend you're convinced Washington is Will's daddy?'' he asked when I'd finished.
''No,'' I said with a grin. ''I was too busy copying keys.''
''Even if he is the daddy, it still doesn't explain much. We got a bleeding-heart chaplain who thinks the guy's innocent, a blanket connecting Washington to Verna Mae, and a resemblance that says Will and the prisoner are related. Thing is, Washington's been locked up tighter than oil in a barrel for a long time. How does he figure into Verna Mae's murder?''
''Good question. If there had been an argument over the baby or some other problem between him and Verna Mae because she was supposed to care for the child, maybe he got someone on the outside to murder her. Maybe—''
My phone rang and I dug it out of my purse. It was Jeff.
''Hey, there,'' he said. ''I dropped by your place and you weren't home.''
''I'm with Burl. Filling him in on the case.''
''Good. Then you better share this piece of news, too. Just got the DNA report. Verna Mae Olsen is not Will's birth mother. She's no relation. Period.''
14
''No DNA match?'' I said.
''Nope. Why don't you sound surprised?'' Jeff said.
''DeShay and I met with Lawrence Washington, and call it intuition, but I left the prison pretty certain he would never have slept with Verna Mae.'' I went on to tell Jeff about the resemblance.
''Abby, a resemblance isn't evidence any more than your incorrect conclusion—logical though it might have been—that Verna Mae was Will's birth mother.''
''Go ahead. Rub it in. I deserve it.'' This was damn depressing. Did I really know what I was doing on this case or was I in over my head?
''Don't get all down on yourself,'' Jeff said. ''You mess up, you start over.''
''Thanks for the pep talk,'' I answered, still feeling dumb for not preparing better for the prison interview. ''See you tonight?''
''Probably not. Tied up on a new case. No one forgot to do murder in Houston on this fine June evening, I'm sorry to say.''
''Okay. We'll talk later.'' I hung up.
Burl nodded. ''No match, just as you suspected.''
''Verna Mae is definitely not Will's mother,'' I said.
His whole body seemed to relax. ''I never thought so, but it makes me feel better to have proof. Her being so big and all and me being an inexperienced buck, I never asked the one question I should have. I'm relieved she didn't give birth but still mad at myself.''
''What's her connection to Will, then? I mean, she loved that kid, Burl.''
''You think she did. That's not a fact.''
''Yeah. People keep reminding me about those pesky facts.'' I closed my eyes, let out my breath and thought for a second. ''Maybe someone left Will on the porch and she and Jasper kept the child for a week or two. When Will's skin darkened and his features began to look more African-American, Jasper told her to get rid of the baby.''
Burl nodded. ''Knowing Jasper, that explanation makes sense to me. She musta got attached to Will. Real attached.''
''That would explain her scrapbooks,'' I said.
''Yeah, but there's more to this,'' he said, shaking his head. ''Whoever broke in and stole those books knows something we don't, something worth breaking the law for.''
I thought for a second. ''Okay, what if Will's abandonment wasn't random? If someone intentionally left the baby with Verna Mae, she would have known whom to contact once Jasper screwed things up, maybe asked them to pay her to keep quiet about the baby.''
I nodded, liking this idea. I knew better than to fall in love with it, though. ''If we knew of anything else taken from the house last night besides those albums, that would sure help.''
''No way to know,'' Burl said. ''I didn't find anything but those tire tracks. I'm working on a match, but the cast wasn't good. Don't hold your breath.''
''The books . . . Verna Mae's connection to Will, you think that's all the thief wanted?''
''Could be,'' Burl said. ''They missed the keys, though.''
''Oh, yeah.'' I smiled. ''Guess we have something after all. Changing the subject, have you heard any thing about the cold case at the CPS office yet? If that's how Verna Mae found out where Will had been placed, it could lead us somewhere.''
''Bet she paid someone to steal Will's file and trash the place as a coverup,'' he said.
''If you can get a hold of the case file, maybe they collected fingerprints or had a lead. Could be names in the file we could check out.''
Burl sighed. ''Abby, they won't even have a case file.''
''But you said—''
''Ever hear of the statute of limitations? I called over there hoping they'd help me track down whoever worked that case, see if the guy is still around. If you expect fingerprints, you're dreaming.''
I stood, feeling a little stupid. I should have realized there'd be no file—unless they were very, very behind at the county sheriff's office and hadn't thrown out anything in two decades. ''I'm tired and discouraged,'' I said. ''Maybe on the drive home I can sort things out.''
Burl got up, put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed me close. ''Turn on the radio and give it a rest.''
''Yeah. I might do that.'' Funny, but I welcomed his fatherly embrace and marveled at how murder and secrets had joined two strangers in friendship so quickly.
I took Burl's advice and sang along with Dave Matthews and Norah Jones in the car. Definitely relaxing. Once I was home and climbed into bed, I was fast asleep in twenty minutes, Diva purring next to me as happy as a lizard on a rock.
Thursday morning I spent a long time in the shower, organizing my thoughts on the case. I dressed in shorts and a T-shirt—it was supposed to get into the mideighties today—and went to my office to call Jeff for the names and numbers of the officers who'd arrested Lawrence Washington. He told me one officer was dead, the other a retired detective named Randall Dugan. Jeff had never met either of them. He said he'd phone Dugan and tell him to expect a call from me.
Every newspaper article I'd read about Washington's case said they had a mound of evidence, but details might provide me with something useful. Who better to give me the inside scoop than the officer who'd worked the case? Thirty minutes after speaking to Jeff, I called the retired policeman, and he answered with ''Dugan here,'' in a raspy, abrupt greeting.
I gave him my name, reaffirmed my police connection to the ongoing murder investigation and said, ''Do you remember the Lawrence Washington case?''
Silence followed and went on so long I finally said, ''Mr. Dugan? Are you still there?''
''Yeah, I'm here. Kline said you needed my help with a fresh case.''
''Did Sergeant Kline mention the fresh case may be connected to your old case?''
''Oh. That's right.''
Memory problems? I wondered. ''Lawrence Washington,'' I prompted.
''I remember him. Shouldn't be sitting in Goree, where they practically wipe those inmates' asses for them, I'll tell you. What do you want to know?''
''I recently interviewed Lawrence Washington. Apparently you have no doubts about his guilt?''
''Are you nuts? He did that girl for a lousy fifty bucks. Shot her brains out. We found her ID and the money in Washington's bedroom two hours later.''
''I read that much in the old newspapers. What about the weapon?''
''No weapon.''
''Did you find out Washington was the shooter through a tip?'' I asked.
''Officer's best friend.'' I could picture Dugan smiling.
''You had Crime Stoppers back then?'' I said.
''They've been around for thirty years, lady. How old are you, anyway?''
Apparently not old enough to know better than to ask dumb questions. I was glad he couldn't see me blush. Before I could cover my embarrassment with some smart-aleck remark, Dugan said, ''The tip on Washington wasn't for Crime Stopper money. Came in straight to the precinct, and we followed the lead. Once we collared the kid, he never denied he did it.''
''What did he say?'' I asked.
''A whole lot of nothing. Wouldn't even talk to his own lawyer from what I heard.''
''Did you ever find out who gave you that tip?''
''No. But not for lack of trying. That was Frank's deal. Finding out who called.''
''You mean your partner, Frank Simpson?''
''Yeah.'' A quiet ''yeah'' followed by, ''God rest his soul.''
''I assume Frank was as convinced as you were about Washington's guilt?''
''Man, I miss that guy. Visit his grave with Joelle on our retirement anniversary. We retired on the same day, you know. But he only lived three months and then, wham!''
I heard a slapping sound so loud I pulled the phone away from my ear for a second. Dugan's words had begun to run together, and I guessed his emotion had been boosted by a few Miller Lites.
''Joelle is your wife?''
''No. Frank's wife. Frank was too good to live, you know what I'm saying? Some guys are just too good to live.''
''Frank thought Washington was guilty? He agreed with you?'' I repeated.
''He never agreed with me,'' Dugan said with a laugh. ''That's what I liked about the guy. He could keep me in line. I couldn't agree with him on Washington, though. We had the evidence, an uncooperative kid who had dumped his wheels that night. I figured he thought the car had been spotted near the scene and got rid of it in some junkyard. Anyway, we had everything, toots.''
Toots? My turn to wonder how old someone was. ''Did Frank ever come around to your way of thinking?''
''Nope. I testified in court, which let him off the hook. He still had his doubts about Washington. He and I had a few cases like that, but not many. Frank always held onto his doubts to the bitter end. I swear that's what killed him. The fucking doubts.'' I heard the clink of a bottle or glass, and then Dugan swallowed.
''What exactly were those doubts about Washington?'' I asked.
''He said the case was too pat. Too easy. He worried about the easy ones. Joelle said Frank was still talking about that one 'til the day he died.''
''Joelle? Does she live around here?'' I asked.
'' 'Course she lives around here. Why?''
Why? I thought. Because I need to talk to her. But aloud I said, ''Just wondered. I think it's great you two keep up with each other.''
''We always keep up with each other's families. That's who we are. You still haven't told me how the fresh murder connects with this. I want to know.''
I explained about Verna Mae's death, the scrapbooks, the blanket and the will leaving everything to my client.
''Okay, Washington knocked up some girl before he did our vic. So what?'' ''So what'' had become one word.
''There's a lot of money involved, money my client knew nothing about. But others may have. I don't have to tell a retired police officer what the prospect of a few hundred grand does to some people.''
''This still isn't fitting together for me,'' he said.
''Washington picked up the blanket at an upscale store and it ended up at Verna Mae's house.''
''How in hell does that prove he didn't kill my vic?'' he asked, sounding angry. ''You're wasting my—hey. Wait a minute. How much did you say that blanket cost?''
''A lot, but—''
''Maybe Washington didn't want money for his sick mother. Maybe he killed Mason to buy his girlfriend some fancy-ass blanket for their kid.'' I could tell Dugan was liking this idea.
''The woman who sold
the blanket doesn't think he bought it. He was picking it up for someone else.''
''She doesn't think he bought it? She's not sure?''
Obviously cops never really retire. ''You're right. I don't have any proof Washington didn't murder Amanda Mason.'' I waited for Dugan's I told you so. The words remained unspoken, but I could hear even more attitude in his tone as I segued into a good-bye. I wasn't about to convince him that he might have arrested the wrong guy. Not in a million years. Frank's wife was the one I needed to talk to.
Dead Giveaway Page 13
