Shoot from the Lip (12 page)

“You want to come in and wait?” I asked.

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” I led him into the living room, appreciating his cologne, which was subtle and probably cost as much as his watch. “Meanwhile, I’ll call Kate.”

He sat in one of the overstuffed chairs. “I tried her about ten minutes ago and got her voice mail.”

Webster came prancing out from his spot under the kitchen table. He must have felt safe now that Aunt Caroline had left, and maybe the sound of a man’s voice got his hopes up that Terry had arrived to take him home. Webster adores Terry.

Roark put out his hand for Webster to sniff, and when the dog’s tail started wagging, he scratched Webster behind both ears.

I found the phone that had slipped between the sofa cushions and speed-dialed Kate. She answered right away.

“Hey,” I said. “Your friend is here.”

“I’m pulling in the driveway. But he was supposed to wait for me outside.”

“Hmmm. I wonder why,” I said.

“Don’t start, Abby. I came to a realization today. Giving advice to others can sometimes make you see how you’ve boxed yourself in. Anyway, no time to chat. I’m starving.”

I clicked the phone off and looked at Roark. “She’s here.”

The back door opened, and seconds later a flushed Kate was all smiles for Clinton Roark, who had stood to greet her.

“You said you’d drive, right?” she said, ignoring me.

“Yes.” But Roark didn’t ignore me. “Abby, would you like to join us for dinner?”

“Oh, no. I’ve already eaten. But thanks.”

Kate couldn’t get him out of the house fast enough, leaving me a little stunned and confused. What was the girl thinking?

When Jeff called me later, I told him all about Aunt Caroline’s wrath and Kate’s attempt to jump out of the box and into the fire. He said he wished he could have been here to see Aunt Caroline’s face, since she always put on a good show.

“I wish you were here, too, but not for that reason,” I said. “How much longer will you be gone?”

“I can’t give you an answer. I’m not finished with what I came to do. And Abby, thanks for not asking me the million questions I know you’ve been wanting to. Your giving me this space and time without asking for details means a lot.”

“Hey, no problem. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.” I was glad I hadn’t started our conversation with a question about the woman I’d heard cry out before he hung up last time. Who knows? Maybe he’d been in a wet Seattle parking lot and someone nearby slipped and fell.

He said, “How about your case? Any progress?”

I told him about my phone call to Gloria Wilks, my discovery that Emma had two half brothers and my plan to find Emma’s mother.

“Sounds like you’ll be busy,” he said.

“What else would you do if this were your case, Jeff?”

“Hmm. The woman was a drunk and had to buy her drinks somewhere. Are there any bars or clubs in Emma’s neighborhood?”

“I can check.”

“Liquor stores are good sources of information. It helps if you know what her drink of choice was. Many times liquor store clerks know their customers by what they drink.”

“I’ll ask Emma if she remembers. Thanks.”

“Another thing. Since she wasn’t homeless, I doubt she drank alone like a street drunk. She probably had drinking buddies. Club cocktails are expensive, but hanging out in the park sharing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s isn’t. Beer joints are an option, too.”

“I would have never thought of pursuing leads in those places. Your job has made you quite the expert about what goes on in the streets.”

“I chased a lot of drunks from under freeways and out of parks early in my career.”

“Thanks. Now, changing the subject, are you tired, Jeff? You sound tired.”

“Not from lack of sleep, but yes. I can’t wait to get back to normal, climb into your bed after a night chasing badasses who think life is disposable—hold you, smell your hair, kiss your neck. I miss you, hon.”

“I miss you, too.”

“What are you wearing?” he asked.

The conversation went on from there and had nothing to with anything but us. A nice long conversation.

The next morning, before I went to the hotel for Emma’s meeting with Kravitz, I scanned the family photo and used Photoshop to produce a decent headshot of her mother.

I had no idea what time Kate came in last night, but she’d showered and left for work without even sticking her head into my office to say good-bye. That told me she didn’t want to discuss her “get back on the horse before nightfall” approach to her love life. She couldn’t avoid me forever, though. We needed to talk. This was way out of character for her.

I put several of my new Christine O‘Meara photos in my bag, bade farewell to the animals and left for Emma’s hotel. On the way, I called DeShay and got his voice mail. I didn’t leave another message. He’d get back to me when he had something on any unidentified bodies from ’97 or arrest records for Christine.

When I arrived on Emma’s hotel floor, Sergeant Benson was waiting for the elevator as I got off. He let the elevator leave without him when he recognized me.

The man was built like my daddy, short and stout, with a similar cheerful demeanor—like he owned a permanent smile. Nice if you can get it working homicide. He smelled like cigarettes rather than like Daddy’s cigars, and had an unhealthy-looking ruddy complexion. Probably headed for a heart attack, too.

“How you doing, Ms. Rose?” he said.

“Great, Sergeant. You learn anything new to tell Emma?”

“Nope. They just finished processing the crime scene this morning. I came to check on her after her accident.”

“A courtesy call?” He’d probably come for more than a medical report.

“Ah, you’re a sharp one. Ms. Lopez needs to make a trip to the ME’s office. I’d give her a lift but Don and I got a call. Maybe you can drive her over there.”

“Did they find something identifiable about the baby’s remains? Clothing, maybe?”

“Don’t I wish. We gotta have an ID on the infant for court. Ms. Lopez needs her mouth swabbed for DNA to verify kinship. Has to sign up at the county morgue for the privilege or I’d take the sample myself.”

“For court?” I wondered if progress had been made that he wasn’t talking about.

“If we ever get there. Judges are happier when they know who the victim is for absolute certain. By the way, I hear you’re working the mother angle for Ms. Lopez.”

“She hired me even before the baby was found. Venture Productions may think money is all Emma cares about, but that’s not true. She realized too late that they want to air information Emma would rather keep private, and I’m trying my best to run interference for her—find out about her missing mother before the production company does. Is that a problem?”

“Not for me. Girl can hire whoever she wants. But let me give you a heads-up. My partner? Very territorial. Don’s got a heart of gold, but he pisses a ring around our cases. He might give you a hard time.”

“That’s good to know. I’ll try not to step on any toes,” I said.

“From what Ms. Lopez just told me, it’s clear you want to help this family,” he said. “But maybe you could share anything you learn with us.”

“Sure. I worked with the police on a case not long ago.” I held out my hand and we shook.

“Now go talk to your client,” Benson said. “She was worried you wouldn’t arrive before the reporter did. But he’s running late—as you’d expect from someone so friggin’ important.” He grinned and jammed the elevator’s down button.

A few seconds later Emma let me into her suite. She’d switched to a simple sling to support her arm. She said, “Glad you got here first. Kravitz called and he’s on his way up. Don’t let me say anything I shouldn’t, okay? Wink or clear your throat or do whatever you think is necessary to shut me up.”

“He probably knows everything already.” And probably knew about Xavier Lopez’s wife and sons, too. I should have discussed this with Emma yesterday and—

My thoughts were interrupted by a staccato knock, and Emma opened the door.

I recognized Paul Kravitz at once, but he wasn’t alone. Beside him was an older, petite woman, and behind them stood Stu Crowell.

Emma said, “I-I thought you were coming alone ... to meet me first.”

Nothing like a crowd of unwelcome faces when you were expecting only one. “She’s not exactly up for a meeting that requires stadium seating,” I said.

Kravitz smiled. “This is only a preinterview. Mr. Crowell is here to check sound and lighting as well as a number of other technical issues.” Kravitz, a tall, lanky man, looked down at Emma. “Good to finally speak with you in person. I can’t convey how sorry I am about the circumstances that brought this story to our attention.”

“I appreciate that,” Emma said, sounding wary. She nodded at me. “This is Abby Rose. She’s a—”

“Private detective. I know.” Kravitz held out his hand. The man was skeletally thin, and I was sure I felt all hundred-something bones in his hand when we shook. He wore a sports jacket, crewneck shirt and worn jeans.

I turned to the woman Kravitz had failed to introduce.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Abby.”

“Sandy Sechrest.” She smiled warmly. Judging by the age lines on her square face, I’d say she was in her late fifties, early sixties. She carried a black suitcase—briefcase size, only thicker—that bore her gold initials.

Emma led the way into the living area.

Kravitz said, “Stu, where should we set up?”

Emma, who seemed bewildered by this invasion, said, “I don’t understand. You said you wouldn’t be taping today. You said—”

Stu cut her off. “The armchair will work. We can close the drapes, turn on the lamp. Create a nice soft look for Emma.”

“Sandy, will that work?” Kravitz asked.

The woman nodded.

“Sandy is our makeup artist,” Kravitz said. “We want to see how you’ll appear on tape, but I have a feeling you won’t need much help. Your skin is perfect and you won’t wash out.”

“You promised we’d talk first and tape later.” Emma’s jaw was tight, her words clipped.

“We won’t use anything we tape today on the air,” Kravitz said. “I have another story in Ohio to wrap up. I need an initial interview, will take the tape with me and go over your story. I’ll only be gone a few days.”

Emma lowered herself onto the sofa—not the chair Stu had chosen. “Why can’t anyone be straight with me? You hide information from the beginning, say one thing and do another; then you come here after promising—”

“I wasn’t the one who hid information from you.” Kravitz took one of the leather chairs across from the sofa. Stu, meanwhile, was opening and closing the drapes, checking out the dining area, no doubt deciding if there was a better option than his first choice for the taping.

Sandy Sechrest took the other armchair next to Kravitz while I sat next to Emma, a glass coffee table between us. A white china coffeepot, three mugs and various pastries rested on a silver tray. The sweet cinnamon smell hit me in an unexpected way, reminding me how much I missed Jeff and his ever-present Big Red gum. How would Jeff handle Paul Kravitz?

“Listen, Paul—I can call you Paul, right?” I said, taking in Kravitz more fully. If I’d met this guy on the street, I might have thought he’d recently had chemotherapy. On the tube he looked distinguished and sharp. In person, without makeup and lights, he had charcoal shadows beneath his eyes and his posture spoke of fatigue. I guessed his ash brown hair had been dyed, because the stubble on his clefted chin was steel gray.

“I think first names are a good start toward building a relationship.” Kravitz looked at Emma. “Is that okay with you?”

She nodded.

I said, “Emma’s interactions with Venture haven’t gone well since she learned that her missing baby sister was mentioned in the anonymous letter
Reality Check
received.”

“I heard about that from Erwin,” Kravitz said. “I would have handled things differently, but from what he told me, not telling her the full contents of the letter was an oversight. He had no reason to withhold information.”

Emma said, “I don’t believe you. The man’s a controlling, egotistical—”

I rested a hand on her arm. “An apology from Mr. Mayo would go a long way.”

Kravitz laughed. “Erwin believes apologies might possibly be redeemable for cash in the future; thus he holds on to them. Never heard him apologize for one damn thing. But if it helps, I’m sorry you weren’t fully informed.”

Ah, the charming Paul Kravitz, the one I knew from TV, had appeared.

Emma repositioned her arm with a grimace and leaned back against the sofa. “I should have been told what was in the letter before I signed the contract.”

Kravitz nodded. “You’re absolutely right—but legally,
Reality Check
was under no obligation.” He reached inside his sports jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Would it help if you saw a copy?”

I sat up straighter and held out my hand. “You’re damn right it would.”

He passed the letter to me and I unfolded it so Emma and I could read it together. Meanwhile, Kravitz motioned to Stu to come closer.

The letter had been written on lined notebook paper in a lefty back-slanting style. It read: