Dead Giveaway (21 page)

  ''I'm not, Abby. What would I do with the file if you brought it back? Believe me, I have plenty more things in this house that need to go. I feel like I can't move on until I've finished what Frank so desperately wanted after he retired. Even in death, if he helps to right one wrong, then his obsession with those old cases was worth it. I believe you are an angel sent to help him rest in peace.''

  First golden lights and now I was an angel? What was I missing when I looked in the mirror? ''You are one of the kindest people I've ever met, Joelle. Thank you. Was there anything else Frank kept besides the files? Because even though I only had one real runthrough on the information, I've learned he might have missed something—and that doesn't seem like him.'' I was thinking of the girlfriend angle that Frank apparently had failed to uncover.

  She sat back against the cushions. ''As I'm sure you've figured out, Frank wasn't the most organized soul in the universe. Maybe we should check the attic? Before he went back to San Francisco after the funeral, our son hauled plenty of boxes up there. I'm not sure what was in them and I don't go up to the attic. Pull-down stairs are hard to climb when you get past fifty.''

  So I was the one who climbed the pull-down stairs, my second climb in search of evidence today. It was hot and dirty up there, and I was dressed in a skirt and blouse. Not exactly attic attire. At least I hadn't been stupid enough to wear hose.

  I removed my clogs to better navigate plywood and beams, and started my search. I found lots of old soccer and baseball equipment, a three-speed bike, a disassembled crib and plenty of clothes in plastic bags. I bypassed bolts of material, an old sewing machine, photography magazines, stacked police journals and Christmas ornaments while balancing my way to the cardboard file boxes I'd spotted in a far corner. The boxes weren't marked, but that was to be expected from Frank. The first few I opened held slides and photos damaged by years in the heat of a Houston attic. Nothing police-related. Looked like the beginning attempts at Frank's photography hobby.

  I moved these aside and opened the last box. When I did, I discovered my trip to this corner had been worth it. Inside were evidence envelopes from HPD. The first one made me wince when I looked inside. It was marked ''Rape-Murder, Jane Doe #2'' and held a box cutter. I decided not to check any of the others unless they were marked AMANDA MASON

. Close to
the bottom of the box I did find that Mason envelope,
and inside was a bullet.

Yes. Pay dirt.

I'd been resting on my already sore knees and

nearly slipped in my haste to get up, but I finally navigated my way back to the ladder, grabbed my clogs and was soon in the nice, cool hallway.

  ''Got something,'' I said, holding up the envelope.

  Joelle smiled and pulled me by the hand toward the kitchen. ''You need a drink. You're so flushed.''

  After I gulped down a huge glass of water, I thanked Joelle, left, and called Jeff from the car.

  ''I am drowning in reports. Glad to hear your voice,'' he said.

  ''Can I come see you? It's important.''

  ''You've got something?''

  ''I do. You may think I'm crazy but—''

  ''I
know
you're crazy, but that's what you do the best and I happen to like it.''

  I smiled, thinking about the pastor. I could show Jeff ''crazy'' he might not like so much. ''I'll be there as fast as I can,'' I said.

  ''Without a tail, I hope? Because someone has been stuck to you like a bad smell lately.''

  ''Don't remind me.'' I hung up, but his reminder made me pay more attention to my driving than I usually do, alert for that tail. I didn't notice anyone, though.

  Once I met up with Jeff in his cubicle on the homicide floor, I sat down and held out the envelope. ''I found this at Frank Simpson's place.''

  Jeff took it but kept staring at me. ''What happened to your hair? You been hanging around spiders? And your shirt looks like—''

  ''Shut up,'' I said, wiping at a gray smudge. ''I got down and dirty in an attic.''

  ''Down and dirty,'' he said, grinning. ''You and I could use a little of that.''

  ''Great. You're horny and I'm trying to—''

  ''Sorry,'' he said. ''What have you got?''

  ''I think this is the bullet that killed Amanda Mason.''

  Jeff's expression went from playful to unhappy in a hurry. ''Simpson took more than notes and files? He could have gotten himself in big trouble, Abby.''

  ''It was a closed case. Don't you get rid of evidence after awhile?''

  ''They do clean out the evidence lockers after appeals are exhausted. Sorry for being critical, but from all you've told me, I like this Frank Simpson. Stupid of me to worry about a dead cop getting in trouble.''

  ''Reputation is important to you guys,'' I said. ''I understand your reaction.''

  He smiled. ''You understand a whole lot about me. Guess this bullet would have been destroyed if he hadn't taken it. You know the Mason case better than I do. How can this help with the Olsen woman's death?''

  ''Here's the deal. The gun that killed Amanda Mason was never recovered, was not part of the evidence they found in Washington's bedroom that night. They figured he ditched it. What if that gun is still out there? What if it was used in some other crime later on and you have ballistic evidence waiting to be found in your police database?''

  ''I would have said you were nuts an hour ago, that you were reaching, but guess what we discovered when we ran the bullet we pulled from Thaddeus Washington's wall?''

  ''What?''

  ''It matches the one the ME dug out of the Olsen woman's chest.''

  My mouth went dry. ''Uh-oh. You mean Verna Mae's killer shot at Thaddeus and me yesterday?''

  ''That's the logical conclusion, a possibility I like about as much as I enjoy Kate's cooking,'' he said. ''Maybe next time it won't be a warning shot.''

  I took a deep breath. ''Yeah. Scary. What about looking for a ballistics match to the Mason murder?''

  ''It's a long shot—no pun intended,'' Jeff said. ''But maybe someone's been hanging onto a .38 for a very long time.''

  ''Would the Mason ballistic evidence still be in the system?''

  ''Probably never was. DRUGFIRE didn't exist in 1987.''

  ''DRUGFIRE?''

  ''The ballistics database. We do have two bullets already and now this one. If the Mason bullet matches the others, we'll have hard evidence that everything that's happened in the last week is connected to Will's abandonment. Probably not usable in court since you found this in a dead cop's attic, but still a clue. Let me get this to the right people and we'll know.''

  I returned home and showered the cobwebs out of my hair along with the grime and sweat off my skin. Once I was dressed in sensible clothes—denim shorts and a crop top—I transferred the picture of the youth group from the camera phone to my desktop computer.

  After enlarging it, I used my software to sharpen the images so I could read the caption beneath the picture. Even though I no longer had Frank's notes, I recognized a few of the names from his files. Good. I had them in writing again. Then I found something that made me sit back in my chair and say ''Damn.''

  Diva, who had curled up on my lap, did not appreciate my tone or my shift in position and took off with a hiss.

  Why had Frank failed to note this? He never mentioned this person in his files—unless I'd missed it. A bigger question loomed. Why didn't the Rankins tell me their daughter, Sara, had been in the youth group? According to the caption, Sara Rankin was right there in this photo for God and everyone to see, standing next to guess who? Lawrence. She had long blond hair, a perky smile and dark brown eyes much bigger than her father's. She and Lawrence were the tallest kids in the group.

  Maybe Frank's investigation focused on the group members present the night of the murder and that's why his notes didn't include Sara Rankin. The pastor's wife mentioned that her daughter had been on a mission trip, so the girl could have left home long before Mason was killed. Still, the fact that their daughter knew Lawrence seemed like an awfully significant piece of information to omit from our conversation— especially since I'd asked who was in the group more than once. Had the same information been omitted before? Could Frank Simpson have known nothing about Sara Rankin and that's why she wasn't mentioned in his files?

  
Okay, I
thought. I
should give those people the benefit of the doubt.
Perhaps the pastor and his wife were so traumatized by their daughter's death that year, they failed to remember she knew Lawrence, or maybe decided it wasn't relevant. No matter what the reason, this required a very close look. I took down the names of the other members in the picture and began Googling them, starting with Sara Rankin.

  The first thing I expected to find was an obituary, and I did. Sort of. A notice appeared in the religion section of the
Chronicle
in December 1987, an invitation to celebrate the life of Sara Rankin at the Church of the Reverent Life. I found one earlier reference to Sara: January of 1987, in a list of Confederate Legion debutante candidates—a crew of young women selected every year as the most gorgeous and precious relatives of men who had served in the civil war—on the Confederate side, of course. This social ritual still went on today and always made me shake my head in amazement when I saw newspaper pictures of all those pretty young girls with ties to slavery. I figured they didn't even realize what they were doing—or maybe I was the one who knew diddly-squat. Better not judge without the whole story, I guess.

  Having not learned much about Sara, I picked the next name on my list. Nothing. Not until I ran a search for Oscar Drummond did I get dozens of hits. He was a financial planner and his name and face were all over cyberspace—almost unrecognizable as the face from the photo, since he'd gained more than a few pounds. His big smile gave him away, though. To meet with him on a Saturday might be tough. All I could do was try. I got an answering machine when I phoned, but mentioned in my message that I was the late Charlie Rose's daughter. A mention of a late, rich father would get a quicker response from a financial planner and sure enough Mr. Drummond called back in thirty minutes, eager to meet.

  Forced to change clothes again, I chose something more appropriate for dinner downtown. Not a skirt, but khaki pants and a pink striped shirt that did not show my belly button even though I was pretty proud of my abs. I'd been running and working out with Jeff for almost a year.

  The downtown streets were still crowded with late afternoon shoppers, but I managed to find a parking place in a theater district garage. I enjoyed a pleasant breeze as I walked two blocks to Birraporetti's, a fun Italian restaurant with ''a heck of an Irish bar,'' as they liked to advertise.

  Drummond was waiting for me at the hostess station, as eager as a groom in the last hour of the reception. I hate mentioning my money. It makes people act like they wouldn't be surprised if I spit a few gold nuggets at their feet before I spoke.

  Drummond's infectious smile was the same as in the photo. He wore a charcoal suit, probably Armani, but I didn't think he could button that jacket if push came to shove. Not over the banjo belly. I never mentioned when I called that this wasn't about forging a relationship with him to manage my millions, so he was about to be let down big time.

  ''How good is your memory?'' I asked, after we were seated in a booth far from the noisy bar and had given our drink order.

  ''As good as it should be, Ms. Rose. I manage a hundred clients, and if it weren't confidential information, I could tell you what the earnings are to date on their portfolios without so much as a glance at my computer. I customize to meet their individual goals, as any good money manager should.''

  I took a card from my purse and handed it to him. ''Wonderful. Then I'm sure your memory can help me.''

  He kept the smile going. ''Your father was quite the entrepreneur. I wish we could have met, but you—'' He looked down at my card and fought to hide his confusion. ''You, um, have a business of your own aside from your late father's?''

  ''Yes. Not as lucrative, but far more satisfying.''

  He rebounded quickly. ''Great. I assume you're looking for help building and maintaining your assets while you pursue your new project?''

  ''It's not about money, Mr. Drummond. Sorry.''

  Though he was beginning to understand I hadn't met him here to hire him, he was still optimistic. I suppose that's what financial planners specialize in— optimism.

  ''I'd be excited to help you with anything, Ms. Rose.''

  I'd printed out the youth group picture and I placed it in front of him. ''Do you remember any of these people?''

  He picked the page up, stared at it for a second. ''Where did you get this?''

  ''At the Church of the Reverent Life.''

  ''Whoa. That was aeons ago. What I remember most is that life did not turn out too well for a few of my friends. A good life takes planning and hard work, Ms. Rose. When we're done with your inquiries, I hope you'll let me give you a quick little summary of the services I—''

  ''I'm sure you remember Lawrence as one of those unfortunate people you were referring to?'' I cut in.

  ''Yes. He was a good guy. Ballplayer. Never understood why he messed up his life like that. For a stupid fifty dollars. Never made sense.''

  ''What if he didn't mess up his life? What if someone else messed it up for him, set him up?''

''Are you serious?''

  ''Serious as Greenspan. I know Lawrence's story, probably better than anyone does right now, but I want to learn more about Sara Rankin. This picture was taken in '86. Did she continue attending meetings in '87? More specifically, was she present the night Lawrence was arrested?''

  Before he could answer, my chardonnay and his scotch on the rocks arrived. We both sipped our drinks, and then Drummond said, ''I believe she'd left the country sometime within the month before the murder on a mission trip to Mexico.''