Dead Giveaway (14 page)

  
Semantics,
I thought.
You may not have bought it, but you sure as hell picked it up.
Arguing with him wouldn't get me anywhere, though, so I said, ''I believe Verna Mae's connection to Will might have something to do with her murder. I need more proof. Please tell me about the blanket.''

  ''I don't know anything about any blanket or any baby or any woman who got killed. That's
all
I have to say.'' He held my gaze.

  I swallowed. Jeez, this was unnerving. But though Washington's presence was intense, I could tell by his eyes, the shifting back and forth, he was thinking hard. Had I surprised him? Had he been unaware until now that Will Knight was most certainly his son? Had he never noticed the resemblance when he watched Will play basketball on TV? That wouldn't really have surprised me, however. I'd looked at a photo of my birth mother before I knew who she was and never saw the obvious resemblance between us.

  I leaned forward, holding his gaze. ''What's going on, Lawrence? Why are you so upset?''

  He laughed. ''Upset? Not me. But you? I think you're as crazy as a shit-house rat.''

  DeShay half rose and pointed his finger at Washington. ''Watch your mouth,
inmate
.''

  I put a hand on his forearm. ''No problem, DeShay.'' Looking back at Washington, I had no choice but to press harder. ''Tell me who bought that blanket. Was it you? Or did someone send you to pick it up?''

  It was then that the thought of this man conceiving a child with Verna Mae flashed through my mind— sort of like a teeth-rattling smack to the face. I couldn't picture her as a seductress of teenage boys. No. That theory was all wrong. Had to be. Maybe Washington picked up the blanket for her that day and now that she'd been murdered, he wasn't about to talk. Why should he risk being even remotely connected to another crime?

  Washington straightened, his lips tight, his eyes closed. ''I have nothing more to say.''

  
Everyone has their currency,
I thought. Problem was, I had no clue what was important to Lawrence Washington. Big mistake. I didn't know enough to be sitting here. Yup, I'd screwed up again.

  I had nothing and Washington knew it. He stood and yelled for the guard to take him back to the laundry.

  Out of the side of his mouth, DeShay whispered, ''Abby. He's splitting.''

  ''That's okay. We'll be back—when I'm better prepared.''

  DeShay sighed. ''You're the boss.''

  As we were led out, I spoke to the young guard. ''Washington have many visitors?''

  ''Not since I've worked here. He sees the chaplain every day, though.''

  ''Every day? Is the chaplain here?'' I asked.

''Sure,'' the guard said.

''Could we see him, please?''

  The chaplain, we soon learned, had an office behind several sets of locked doors deep inside the facility. We had to wait in a hallway outside while he finished a session with an inmate. I moaned to DeShay about my poor preparation for the Washington interview and he cheered me up by saying I'd done pretty damn good for a rookie.

  Finally, the inmate left and the chaplain came out to greet us, his wispy red hair and freckled arms telling us a little something about him before he even spoke. The Irish skin never lies. Not that a man of God would lie, but you never know.

  ''Jim Kelly,'' he said, reaching for my hand first and then shaking hands with DeShay. He was casually dressed in Dockers and a plain white polo shirt.

  After we introduced ourselves, he grabbed a hall chair and dragged it into his office. We followed him into a closet-size room.

  A pewter cross hung on one wall and a giant box of tissues sat on an otherwise bare desk. The wastebasket alongside the desk was filled with crumpled Kleenex. Though the sadness that shrouded Lawrence Washington had touched me, that full wastebasket gave me an odd sense of satisfaction. It shouted loud and clear that prison is hell, as it should be. At least some of these men cry, and that had to be a good thing.

  Kelly sat behind his small metal desk and gestured for us to be seated as well. ''I'm told you want to talk to me about Mr. Washington, but you understand I'm required to keep inmate confidences.''

  ''We know.'' DeShay sat in the hall chair while I took the padded one I assumed the inmates used. ''Just want your take on the guy. We need his help on a case and he's not obliging.''

  Kelly steepled his hands. ''I see. That surprises me.''

  ''Why?'' I asked.

  ''Because I have always found him to be a gentle, cooperative man.''

  ''Really?'' DeShay said with a laugh. ''You mean gentle for a murderer?''

  Kelly flushed, his earlobes turning crimson. ''You've met him once, Officer. I've known him for years.''

  ''He sees you every day?'' I asked.

  Kelly looked at me. ''Yes. Are you wanting me to put in a word? Help him see the importance of his cooperation?''

  ''That would be great,'' I said.

  ''Then you'd better have a compelling reason I should do that, Ms. Rose. I have a strong bond with Lawrence and I will not break that trust by convincing him to do anything not in his best interest.''

  ''Strong bond, huh?'' said DeShay, his voice iced with sarcasm. ''You know why he's here and you can forget he killed a girl? God says that's okay?''

  Whoa. What was with DeShay? Why had the chaplain struck a nerve with him? Kelly seemed like a good guy.

  ''God forgives what others can't,'' Kelly said calmly. He'd no doubt heard plenty of what DeShay was dishing out.

  ''God's forgiven Lawrence?'' I asked.

  ''If there was anything to forgive, yes,'' Kelly replied.

  DeShay groaned in mock agony. ''Oh, so he's innocent in God's eyes? You guys with collars think—''

  ''You think he's innocent?'' I said quickly, interrupting DeShay's off-putting attitude before he did more damage.

  Kelly intertwined his fingers. ''I believe he is.''

  ''Why?'' I rested a hand on DeShay's forearm and squeezed, hoping he'd keep his mouth shut.

  ''In my opinion, Lawrence Washington does not think or act like a criminal—and I've seen plenty of hardcore criminals. What's even more convincing is that the other inmates have told me they think he's innocent, too. Believe me,
they
know.''

  ''He could have lashed out in anger the night he committed the crime,'' I said.

  ''Do you know the details of that murder?'' asked the chaplain.

  ''I researched it, so yes.''
But not enough,
I added to myself.

  ''Did what you
researched
sound like someone
lashed out
at that poor young woman?'' Kelly said.

  ''I read it was an execution-style murder,'' I said.

  ''Good. I've made my point.'' Kelly leaned back in his chair.

  ''Has he told you he's innocent?'' I asked.

  ''That's confidential, but do I really have to answer that question?'' Kelly replied.

  ''I guess not,'' I said.

  ''Do you plan to tell me why you need Lawrence's help?'' Kelly asked.

  ''Sure, if it will get us some answers.'' I related all I'd learned so far while a sullen DeShay kept quiet. Something had definitely turned him off to Jim Kelly. I finished my summary, saying, ''I have to tell you this. Will Knight and Lawrence Washington look very much alike. If Washington can provide us with a DNA sample, we might be able to prove those two are father and son.''

  DeShay piped in. ''We already have a DNA sample, Abby. He committed a crime in Texas.''

  Kelly's relaxed attitude disappeared as he sat straighter. ''You cannot check for paternity with a CODIS sample, Sergeant. Federal law is very strict about how you use the database.''

  DeShay sighed. ''Guess you know the law almost as well as you know your best buddy inmates. You and God gonna help us on this one?''

  Kelly smiled. ''I might do that, Sergeant, because you see, I think God is the one who sent you both here.''

  On the ride back to Houston, I called DeShay immediately on his attitude change after we'd sat down with the chaplain.

  ''Sorry,'' he said, ''but some things get to me. See, the reason I wear a badge is because my sister was murdered when she was sixteen. Drive-by shooting. Some damn bleeding-heart minister convinced my mother to forgive the crackhead who killed her. Mamma actually testified during the penalty phase on the bad guy's behalf. Then she dropped dead the next day. Had a massive stroke. Now that's God talking, you ask me. The Big Man called her on her mistake.''

  ''So you're mad at her, too?''

  ''No. I only wish things would have turned out differently.''

  ''You go to church anymore, DeShay?'' I said quietly. If his mother's faith had been that strong, he'd probably been raised in a religious home.

  ''Don't feel comfortable there, you know?''

  ''Yeah. Forgiveness may be a choice, but it's not an easy choice. And before you get all pissed off again, I'm in that boat myself. I'm having a hard time forgiving my adoptive Daddy. I thought he hung the moon, but after he died, I found out he was a liar. A liar with good intentions, but still a liar. Then I married an even bigger liar who blackmailed and killed and generally messed up my life and plenty of other folks', too. I haven't forgiven either of them.''

  DeShay changed lanes to avoid a convoy of trucks traveling the interstate toward Houston. ''You're a lady who leads with her heart. Sounds like that got you into trouble. Not all bad, putting your emotions out there. Me? I deal with them by working the streets, loving my job.''

  ''Me, too. Even when it gets . . . emotional and scary.''

  ''You got the smarts to do this investigating thing, Abby. Be careful with that Washington dude, though. Bad guys are pretty much all psychopaths, and psychopaths are convincing SOBs.''

  ''What if he
is
innocent?'' I asked.

  ''Washington's guilty of something or he'd be talking. They all want that get-out-of-jail-free card and we hinted we might offer a good parole report. Somehow, that wasn't enough. That tells me something.''

  I glanced out the passenger window. DeShay was right. If Washington was innocent, why had he walked out on the interview? Was he protecting someone? The mother of his child—who probably was
not
Verna Mae? I could be wrong about that, though. DNA doesn't lie. If it wasn't Verna Mae, who was the birth mother? I didn't know, but maybe looking deeper into Washington's past would help me answer that question.

  After DeShay dropped me off at home, I went straight to the garage and climbed in my car. I couldn't fix the mistake I'd made by rushing to the prison prematurely, but I could take the keys back to Burl, explain why I had them and enlist his help as Jeff had suggested.

  About five p.m., I walked into the Bottlebrush police station, and Burl came out to the front desk to greet me.

  ''What's up, Abby?''

  ''I'd like to take you out to dinner and, well, apologize. Then maybe you'll help me with something.''

  ''If you're apologizing for not telling me you and your sister were coming to town last night, there's no need, Abby.''

  ''It's not that. I have to talk to you. Anywhere we can grab dinner?''

  ''You think the Missus would like it one bit if I went out to dinner alone with a woman who looks like you? Believe me, she'd hear about it before I paid the check.''

  ''I'm paying the check,'' I said.

  ''No. We'll go to my place. That will make everyone happy.''

  We left a few minutes later, with me following Burl home. He lived on the outskirts of Bottlebrush in a sprawling brick one-story home. When we arrived, he introduced his wife, Lucinda, who had come out on the front porch to greet us. She responded by giving me a punishing hug while reminding me we'd already met on the phone.

  ''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.