Dead Giveaway (22 page)

  ''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.

  Marty picked me up in the late afternoon. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and I'd opted for the same. A minor cool front had blown through and knocked the temperature down to the high seventies today. He was short and muscular, maybe late forties, but had spent way too much time in the Texas heat. His skin was leathery and sun-damaged, but what was more striking was his cynicism. Every word he uttered told me he should consider changing jobs. Vice did not agree with him.

  We headed to a very nasty section of the city where massage parlors lined the streets, and he took me straight to where Jessica did business—Vivi's. The sign on the door read ALWAYS OPEN.

  ''Guess you know Jessica pretty well?'' I asked.

  ''I know 'em all,'' Marty said. ''But my view is kind of one-dimensional. She might be nice and helpful and all those things normal people are. I've never bothered to find out and don't give a shit, to be honest.''

  His attitude reminded me how much I had to learn about crime, despite long talks with Jeff—but then Jeff was as different from Marty as sugar was from salt. Not that Jeff was sweet and soft. He just had something Marty might have lost along the way. Compassion.

  When we walked into the very small, very rundown portable metal building, a woman at a front table jumped up.

  ''Cool your jets, Bitsy,'' Marty said. ''I'm not here on a bust. Where's Jessie?''

  Bitsy was a bleach blonde with lips painted as red as Twizzlers. She was about as ''bitsy'' as a longhorn steer. ''She's, um, busy. Guy with a really bad back needed help.''

  ''Yeah, right,'' said Marty. ''You go fix his back and get her out here. Now.''

  ''Sure. Whatever you say.''

  While she hurried down a small narrow hall, I said, ''I'll bet for every one of these you shut down, another springs up.''

  ''Every fuckin' day. This used to be the Ocean Club. Looks like a club, doesn't it?'' He offered a wry smile.

  I just shook my head.

  Less than a minute later Jessie appeared, wiping her hands on her spandex pants. I sincerely hoped that white stuff she was shedding was massage lotion.

  She stopped short of us. ''I'm losing money by the

second. What do you want, Marty?'' Despite her lifestyle, Jessica Roman had aged well. She still had the kinky red hair and high cheekbones in the photo— not to mention a very nice body. The boobs, however, were bra-busters, probably not original issue.

  ''Let's go out to the car. Have a little chat,'' Marty said.

  She looked at me with skepticism. ''Who's she? An assistant D.A.? 'Cause I'm clean. Off the crack, doing real massage—''

  ''Save it for some rookie, Jessie. Let's go.''

  We went out to Marty's unmarked Ford, and Jessica and I slid into the backseat. He started the engine and turned on the air-conditioning over Jessica's protest that it was cold in the car already. He pulled a turkey sandwich from a brown bag and started eating while I explained I was a PI and needed her help.

  ''And why should I help you?'' Jessica asked.

  ''Because I said so,'' Marty answered with a full mouth, his icy stare catching her in the rearview mirror.

  ''Okay, okay,'' she said. ''Shoot.''

  ''A long time ago,'' I said, ''you belonged to the Church of the Reverent Life.''

  ''When I was fifteen. So what?'' She lifted her chin, her hostility evident.

  ''Hey, this has nothing to do with religion or the lack of it, if that's your problem. Don't get all bent.'' I had to thank Will for the vernacular one of these days. Helps with the job.

  ''In return for me talking to you, I don't get busted? Is that the deal?'' she asked.

  ''That's right,'' Marty answered over his shoulder.

  Jessica rolled her eyes and sighed. ''What do you want to know?''

  ''There was a kid in your group, Lawrence Washington. He ended up in jail.''

  ''Yeah. Lawrence. Killed some girl. Not what I expected from him. He probably had an IQ bigger than Pastor Rankin's. He was one smart dude.''

  ''You thought Lawrence did the murder?'' I asked. ''To tell you the truth, no. But everyone's got a dark side.''

  ''Yeah, including you,'' Marty said.

  ''Shut up,'' Jessie shot back.

  ''Back to the youth group,'' I said. ''What do you remember about the pastor's daughter?''

  ''Sara?''

  ''Yes.''

  ''Oh. This is about her and Lawrence?'' Jessica settled into the corner of the backseat, her smile a surprise.

  When in doubt, act like you know more than you do, I always say. ''How long had they been a couple?''

  ''They clicked the minute they set eyes on each other. But how'd you find out? I thought I was the only one who knew,'' she said.

  ''Believe me, it hasn't been easy to get at the truth. Tell me about them.''

  ''Her parents would have freaked if they found out, I can tell you that. After she was gone and Lawrence got sent up, I decided it wasn't something anyone needed to know, especially the parents. A dead issue. Fuckin' Romeo and Juliet deal.''

  ''Jessie's been reading Shakespeare?'' Marty said. ''Stop the presses.''

  ''Hey,'' she said. ''There's a whole lot you don't know about me, so screw it shut, Marty.''

  I cleared my throat. ''Getting back to Sara. Exactly when did she disappear?''

  Jessie squinted in thought for a few seconds. ''Right before the whole Lawrence thing. All of a sudden two people were gone in a couple weeks' time. Her mother said she went on some mission trip to Mexico, but Sara never said anything about going anywhere to me. Other kids went on those trips all the time, though, and Sara got a lot more out of that Bible crap than I ever did. It would have been her kind of gig. Not up my alley, I can tell you.''