Shoot from the Lip (2 page)

What the hell did a show like that want with me?

When I returned and handed them their glasses, Stu was sitting cross-legged on the Oriental rug with my cat, Diva, in his lap.

Chelsea had apparently rediscovered her “California Dreamin’ ” attitude, because her tone was pleasant when she said, “Our research assistant learned about you through the local media, Abby. She said you arranged this wonderful reunion for a college basketball player. He was adopted and hired you to locate his birth family, right?”

“Yes.” I sat in one of the armchairs, thinking,
That’s how these people found me.
Several years ago, after learning that my daddy had illegally adopted Kate and me when we were infants, I’d taken a new path in life. Rather than spend all my time at the family computer business, which ran itself anyway, I chose to work as a PI and help adopted people locate their birth families. One of my clients, a college athlete with celebrity status, had recently appeared on a local morning program and, though I had asked him not to mention my name, the perky, way-too-eager host managed to get it out of him anyway.

I’d been swamped with calls since, folks hoping I could help them with their adoption issues, too. This had forced me to create two flyers—“Tips for Locating the Child You’ve Given Up for Adoption” and the other titled “So You Want to Find Your Birth Parents? The Beginning Steps.” I was stuffing envelopes an hour a day now. Most people with a little computer savvy can locate who they’re looking for without a private eye’s assistance, and this seemed the best way to let them in on those secrets.

“Abby, we’d like you to sign on as a consultant to our program,” Chelsea said. “Since we work somewhat like a documentary, I was hoping we could tape an initial interview later today—we will edit extensively, so don’t worry about running on and on, or—”

“Taping?” I cut in. “When you’ve told me next to nothing? I’m not so sure about that. What does my being a private investigator have to do with consulting on a TV show?”

“In the story we’re currently producing, plenty. Wait until you meet our makeover candidate and her family. In fact, let me show you.” She opened her binder and slipped two photos from a plastic sleeve.

I took them from her. One was a Wal-Mart special eight-by-ten, the colors faded to blurry siennas and dull pinks. A teenage girl stood in the center of three younger children. The other was a four-by-six glossy snapshot of the teenager, but in this newer photo she was a dark-haired, hazel-eyed woman in her twenties with flawless nutmeg-colored skin and an expression that puzzled me. Fear? Anger? Sadness? Maybe all three.

Chelsea pointed to the snapshot. “You’re looking at a real heroine. She’s been raising her brothers and sister since she was sixteen. Isn’t she Penélope Cruz all over again? The camera eats her up.”

Stu said, “The family’s nice ... really a nice, deserving bunch of kids.”

I looked at him. Here was someone I could relate to—sun-weathered skin, laugh lines everywhere and brown eyes that could tell you the truth without accompanying words. Plus the man had set his empty water glass on a coaster—unlike his companion—and he was making friends with my cat.

“Tell me more,” I said, still wary.

“Reality Check
receives referrals for the life makeovers we do on air—thousands and thousands of referrals, by the way—mostly via our Web site,” Chelsea explained. “This particular one, however, came in through the mail. Unusual, but what a riveting, American dream story. That’s why we’re in Texas. We have our hands on a fantastic, heartwarming tale of courage and perseverance. You won’t believe all that’s happened to Emma Lopez in her short life.”

“Why do you need my help?”
And why do you sound like you’re rehearsing a script? But I suppose everything but getting up in the morning is easier with practice.

“Problems, that’s why we need help. We had everything set to go. Then we mentioned something to Emma about the referral letter and whamo! She’s backing off all of a sudden. We can’t have that. Not now.”

“You’ve lost me,” I said, shaking my head.

“This is Emma Lopez, our makeover girl.” Chelsea tapped the snapshot with a cherry-colored nail. “Put herself through college and is doing the same for her younger brother, Scott. Anyway, their house, the only thing they own, is set for demolition by the city. The city would give them money to rebuild, but not nearly enough for the kind of home they deserve. Plus, the other kids are getting to be college age—”

I held up a hand. Jeez. This one could talk the ears off a ceramic elephant. “You’re still not telling me what this has to do with
adoption.
I investigate adoption cases.”

Chelsea raised her pointy chin. “Don’t you think I know? Anyway, the referral letter mentioned a missing baby.”

“Missing baby? Emma gave up a baby for adoption?”

“No, not Emma. Her mother. And that’s why we need your help.”

“Okay, Emma’s mother gave up a child for adoption,” I said.

“We’re not exactly sure.” Chelsea gestured as if she were giving a speech, hands palms out to me. “And there’s the problemo, Abby. Emma got like, so whacked out when we mentioned her missing sister.”

Stu looked at me. “I told Chelsea that Emma must not have realized we had the info on the missing kid before she signed on for the show. She was taken off guard, and now she wants out of her contract.”

Chelsea flashed an angry glance at Stu. “She’s not getting out of anything.” She paused, took a deep breath, then smiled at me. “Production delays. Very frustrating. But Emma will have America in tears. She is
amazing. Reality Check
wants to pay her back for all the suffering she’s endured in her short life. We plan to make magic for Emma and her family, Abby. Magic for the world to see. That’s what we do. That’s who we are.” Broader smile, tooth veneers really gleaming now.

“Okay. You’ve got me as confused as Jennifer Lopez’s ring finger. Could we start over, maybe in chronological order?”

Chelsea laughed—an unattractive snorting laugh that gave me a perverse sense of satisfaction.

“You are so
cute,
Abby,” she said. “Everyone on the set will fall in love with you and that great Texas accent. I really hope you’ll let us get you on tape.”

Stu cleared his throat. “From what I hear about the referral letter, Emma’s missing sister would be about fifteen now.”

Thank goodness someone had taken their Ritalin today and knew how to stay on track. “And where’s Emma’s mother?” I looked back and forth between them.

“She disappeared in 1997,” Chelsea said. “As I said, Emma has been raising this family, been doing the most fantastic—”

“Ah.
Two
missing people. Did the mother take the girl with her?”

“No,” Chelsea said. “According to the letter, the child disappeared the day after she was born—in 1992. Our research people concluded the mother must have given her up for adoption. But they hit a roadblock. Did you know Texas won’t let you look at anything that has to do with adoption or foster care? I mean, like,
nothing.
That’s where you come in. You know the ropes here.” She giggled. “Hey, Stu. Ropes? Texas? Get it?”

He offered a tight smile.

Meanwhile, I sat back and took a deep breath, considering all this. I had to admit I was interested, but I might not have any better luck than the TV researchers. Texas keeps the safe securely locked when it comes to adoption. And the thought of working with Chelsea Burch was about as appealing as sticking my hand in a bucket of leeches. Hell, I probably
would
be sticking my hand in a bucket of leeches if I met her entire production crew.

I said, “I don’t think I can help you, Chelsea.”

“But I
need
you. You specialize in this kind of investigation.”

“Indeed, I do.”

Chelsea stared at me, her contact-blue eyes shiny with anger. “But you’re refusing to help me?”

“That’s right.”

She snatched up her notebook and shoved the pictures inside. Meanwhile, Stu stroked Diva one last time and picked up his camera.

“Come on, Stu,” Chelsea said, marching past me. “I knew Mr. Mayo’s idea was stupid.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Out the way we came in,” she said over her shoulder.

“Too bad. Because I need more information.”

She turned, her narrow jaw slack. She stared at me in confusion for a second. “But ... I thought—”

“I won’t help
you,
but I sure do want to meet Emma. What happens after that is in her hands.”

Turned out, Chelsea Burch was far less annoying with her binder open in front of her. She told me Emma’s story in more detail, and before she and Stu left, I made copies of Emma Lopez’s home and work addresses, her history and all the photos in the file, not just the ones I’d already seen. Erwin Mayo, Chelsea’s boss, gave a reluctant phone okay for these copies after I refused to sign a contract or be videotaped. I not only needed to talk to Emma before deciding to take the case. I needed their notes to get as much history as possible.

When they were gone, I made a pitcher of sweet iced tea, then took a big glass with me and sat down at my desk, ready to call Emma and set up an interview. But before I could pick up the phone, I heard Kate calling my name from the kitchen. She’d come in through the back door as usual.

“In the office, Kate,” I shouted.

I could hear her coming, and that was what got me out of my chair to see what was going on. Sounded like she was wheeling in one of those flatbed carts from Home Depot.

Not a flatbed. Two suitcases. Big suitcases. But that wasn’t what concerned me. My sister’s swollen eyes and pale face grabbed at my heart. Her gorgeous shoulder-length brown hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, something she does only when she’s cleaning ovens and toilets. Her border collie, Webster, was with her, and even he looked sad.

“What’s wrong, Kate?” But I had all the clues I needed. Your sister does not arrive looking like she’s been up all night listening to sad country tunes, suitcases and dog in tow, unless she needs a place to stay. And that meant trouble with Terry, the guy she’s lived with for the last two years.

She bit her lip ... looked at the floor. “Terry and I are done.”

I hurried over and wrapped my arms around her, nearly stepping on Webster’s front paw in the process. He had his body pressed to her leg and wasn’t about to budge—not even after Diva appeared from some hiding place and sniffed him all over. My cat’s buddy was here. At least someone was happy.

Kate released her suitcase handles and clung to me like a two-year-old to her mother after the babysitter arrives.

Things had been rocky between Terry and Kate for the last month—probably even longer. He wanted to get married and have kids. Soon. Like, tomorrow. Kate did not. She simply wasn’t ready. And though Terry can be sweet and empathetic and all kinds of wonderful things, he can also dig in his heels when it comes to playing emotional tug-of-war.

I held her while she cried, and when she seemed done I sat her down in my living room and gave her a big glass of tea, tea too sweet for a health nut like her, but today she didn’t complain. There is something to be said for the comfort of pure cane sugar.

Webster settled at her feet, and Diva cuddled by the dog like she used to do when we all lived together in our daddy’s River Oaks mansion. Kate spilled her guts about the breakup while I sat next to her on the sofa, my hand on her knee. I’m usually the gut-spiller when it comes to stuff like a major boyfriend event. After all, she’s the true listener in the family—a professional one. She’s a shrink.

Kate had been telling me for a while that Terry was becoming more and more insistent about their getting married and starting a family. Apparently he wouldn’t quit, kept up the marriage talk every day.

“Guess what he brought home from the drugstore yesterday afternoon,” Kate said.
“A Modern Bride
magazine. I asked him if he thought that if I looked at wedding gown photos for an hour I’d change my mind. He didn’t have a good answer, Abby. He got this strange expression, and I knew then that he truly believed I’d be swayed by pictures of dresses and cakes and flowers. Are you kidding me? It’s like he forgot who I am in this freaky role-reversal game he’s been playing.”

“Terry has always been a very focused person. He has a plan for his life,” I said. “And for yours, too, I guess.”

“He’s totally lost sight of us as a couple. We used to have fun. We used to talk about the movie we just saw, go to the museums, talk about our careers, discuss what books we’re reading, but this? This is all he can talk about. What I need is a partnership with compromise and discussion, not a contract to have X number of kids in X number of years and then retire to a house in Arizona big enough to accommodate twenty grand-children.”

I rested my hand on her cheek. Her face was warm with anger. “Charlie Rose’s girls were raised to do their own thinking, thank you very much.”

“He even had the nerve to give me an ultimatum. A
time line.
We have couples’ therapy for three months, and then if I don’t change my mind, we split. Well, guess what. He doesn’t get to make that decision. So ... can I stay with you until I find a place of my own? I won’t get in your way with Jeff, I promise.”

Jeff is my boyfriend, an HPD homicide cop I met when he worked on the murder of our yardman in River Oaks.

“Of course—you’ll stay here as long as you want. And don’t worry about Jeff. He took this mysterious trip to Seattle—where he was born.”

“Mysterious how?”

“He won’t tell me why he went, how long he’ll be gone or anything else except that he’ll be back.”

“He is a man of few words. Does he have any family left there?”

“Not that I know of. Maybe something came up with his parents’ estate. They’re buried north of Seattle. Could be he wants to move their bodies to Houston. I mean, he does have a certain attachment to bodies.”