Shoot from the Lip (13 page)

I looked at Kravitz. “This is all they had to go on when they decided to sign Emma for
Reality Check?”
I noticed that Sandy had put her case on her lap and opened it to reveal dozens of pots of makeup as well as brushes, foam wedges, and Q-tips.

He said, “The research team does extensive work before they decide on a deserving family. We’ve learned pretty much everything about Emma.” His gray eyes stared straight into mine.
“Everything.
We didn’t anticipate the discovery of the bones, however. How could we?”

“Do you think I did?” Emma said almost to herself. She was staring at the letter I’d put down.

I poured myself a mug of coffee, thinking I understood Kravitz’s unspoken message. He knew about Gloria Wilks and her sons.

Kravitz said, “This begins our preinterview, Emma. First Sandy will dust you up with some makeup, enough to take away any shine. Then Stu will roll—but again, I promise you, none of this tape will be used by anyone except me. I will study the preinterview and decide if I’m going in the right direction. The actual interview will be far more thorough. Our investigators are still working in case the
Reality Check
researchers missed anything.”

“Forgive my paranoia, but I want your promise in writing not to use any of this preinterview,” Emma said.

I swallowed my second sip of the truly disgusting coffee and set down my mug. “Good idea. I’ll get some paper.”

While Sandy went to work on Emma, and Stu moved the chair she’d vacated to a different position with the lamp table beside it, I made up a minicontract on hotel stationery.

Kravitz, looking amused, signed it willingly. I served as a witness. Emma then moved over to the chair, looking more relaxed than I’d seen her all morning. Having a morsel of control seemed to have helped.

Kravitz told Stu to roll and said, “Emma, do you recognize the handwriting in the letter I just showed you?”

“No.”

“We have a handwriting expert examining the original. The person who wrote this is either left-handed and uneducated or they were faking one or both of those traits,” Kravitz said. “Does that information help you in any way identify the person who wrote it?”

“No,” Emma said.

I probably wasn’t supposed to say anything, but I did anyway. “Shouldn’t the police be given the original? Maybe the letter writer knows more about the baby’s disappearance. There could be DNA or fingerprints and—”

“Close to twenty people have handled that letter since we received it. I doubt there’s any usable evidence.” Kravitz didn’t seem bothered by my interruption; in fact, he seemed to welcome it. “Besides, the police haven’t asked for anything from us yet.”

“Right,” I said with more than a tinge of sarcasm. “And why give up anything without a request?”

“I was a print journalist before
Crime Time.
Forgive me if I’ve learned to keep information to myself. Offering to let Emma see the letter is a good-faith gesture,” he said evenly.

“And I
am
grateful,” Emma said. “Seeing the words in black and white is very different from hearing about this from Mr. Mayo. It seems much more real. Someone knew all about us. Someone was watching. But I can’t think who that could have been.”

“You have no clue?” Kravitz said.

“None. No one knew about the baby but me and my—” Emma’s free hand flew to her lips. “Oh, my God. My mother.”

Kravitz’s satisfied smile told me he’d gotten exactly what he wanted by producing that letter.

“You think Emma’s mother sent this?” I asked Kravitz. I was angry with myself. I hadn’t seen this coming.

“Could there be a more logical person? She may have abandoned her family, but we’re betting she hung around, checked up on you and your siblings, and when guilt got the better of her, she sent this to
Reality Check.”
He gestured at the letter.

I nodded. “Makes for a great story. Doesn’t quite explain the baby under the house, though.”

“In my experience interviewing more than a hundred criminals, I’ve come to understand that many of them want to be caught—their conscience at work, when they have one. Emma’s mother is probably no exception. She sent the letter, subconsciously hoping we’d track her down.”

This wasn’t working for me. Why did Christine O’Meara wait five years to disappear after the baby’s death? And I didn’t buy that she’d want to draw attention to a crime she may have committed, subconsciously or not. However, I decided not to question Paul Kravitz on these points. I liked him better than Chelsea or Mayo, but he sure hadn’t earned my trust yet.

Emma looked at me. “If my mother wrote the letter, that would mean she cared at least a tiny bit about us, wouldn’t it, Abby?”

“Do
not
get your hopes up about that,” I answered. “Think about it, Emma. Are you ready for a reunion with her while America watches? Because that’s what they’re setting you up for.”

Emma closed her eyes. “No, no—”

“Abby, Abby, Abby,” cut in Kravitz. “You have no idea how we work. We’re here to help solve a mystery.”

Sandy, who had been watching us all carefully, looked at Emma and said, “I’ve done makeup with Paul for years. He wants the truth; that’s all.”

I could tell Sandy believed that. It was nice to have a normal, self-possessed grandmother type in the room. She was so un-Hollywood.

Emma said, “Can we finish this?”

“Tell me what you know about your father,” Kravitz said.

Emma started right in, happy to talk about this subject.

“So,” Kravitz said when she’d finished telling him how he’d left her the house and the trust, “you never tried to find your extended family?”

Emma’s eyes hardened. “I did. But when I found out my father was married when he died, I took it no further.”

“You know about Gloria Wilks, your father’s widow?” he said.

“She knows,” I said. “What does Mrs. Wilks have to do with any of this?”

“Don’t know yet,” said Kravitz. “Maybe nothing. But background is important.”

“I didn’t even know her new married name,” Emma said. “I didn’t want to know.”

“You didn’t want to meet Xavier Lopez’s sons?” Kravitz said.

Despite Sandy’s great makeup job, Emma’s face paled, making the patches of color on her cheeks look like brush bums. But she recovered quickly. “Now that this story has become a hunt to find out what happened to my sister, I don’t see how meeting my brothers has any relevance. My father died long before the trouble with my mother, and I’d like him left out of all this.”

“I need every morsel of information I can collect, whether it turns out to be relevant or not,” Kravitz said.

“But—” Emma started.

He held up one of those long, skinny hands. “Let me finish. We may never use this part of your history. But I won’t put that in writing.”

A short, tense silence followed, Emma’s gaze trailing back to the letter.

Kravitz said, “Sandy, what kind of vibe are you getting from Emma? How do you think our viewers will receive her?”

Sandy smiled at Emma. “She’s well-spoken, which you would expect from such an intelligent young woman, and you know as well as I do that the camera will love her. She will come across as very sympathetic, because, well, she is.”

“I agree,” Kravitz said. “Now, I’d like to hear about your sister’s birth, her disappearance and all that followed. Forget about the camera. Just start talking.”

Emma had repeated the story so many times this week, her words ran together. She also lost focus more than once, and I had to help her get back on track. She was probably unnerved to have her half brothers brought up. I blamed myself for that. I should have felt her out before these people ever showed up.

When Emma was finished talking, Kravitz stood. “You’re looking overwhelmed, but you’ve given me good ideas on how to present this mystery to the public. I’ll keep you up to speed on the next steps, report anything new I might learn from the police.”

Telling Emma not to get up, I walked them to the door and out into the hallway. Stu and Sandy went on to the elevator after I asked to speak to Kravitz alone.

“Why’d you have to bring up the brothers?” I said.

“All the facts should be on the table. That’s the way I work. Did she even know about them?”

“I don’t know, but wasn’t it obvious she wants her father’s family out of the loop? They don’t need to be dragged into this mess.”

“No promises on that, Abby.”

“You’re pushing, Paul. The girl’s been traumatized enough in the last few days, and now you want to pile on something more?”

“No one tortured her into signing that contract,” he said. “Remember that the next time you’re feeling sorry for your client.” He turned and strode off to join Sandy and Stu.

I knocked on the suite door and Emma let me back in.

“That wasn’t as bad as I’d anticipated,” she said.

Oh, yes, it was,
I thought. “Did you know about your half brothers?”

“You probably read the same obituary I did,” Emma said.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I said.

“Discovering my father was married was bad enough. I didn’t want to picture him with his family. See, I had this little private dream that if he’d lived, he would have come back to us and everything would have been different. No drinking, no babies born in bathtubs, no—”

“And maybe he would have rescued you, but you’ll never know,” I said softly.

“H-he never got the chance to tell me the truth, and for some reason, I believe he would have. A girl’s got to have something to hang on to, right?” Her eyes were bright with tears. “Thanks for talking to Mrs. Wilks for me. The last thing I want is to intrude on her life. I can only hope Paul Kravitz agrees there’s no story there and stays away.”

I smiled, resting a hand on Emma’s good shoulder. “You spoke your mind, and that’s all you could do. You know, I’m learning a lot from how you handle things. You’re tough. And now I believe you need a ride to the county morgue.”

She smiled. “How did you know?”

“I’m a detective, of course.”

After Emma signed a release at the morgue and had her mouth swabbed for a DNA sample, I drove her back to her hotel. I was on my way home when DeShay called and asked me to meet him at the House of Pies on Kirby.

When I walked into the diner—House of Pies isn’t only about dessert—I was never so grateful for the combined odors of baking pies and greasy hamburgers. I’d always loved this restaurant, not only because they have about forty different desserts on the menu, but because the thin neon-red tube lights bordering the mirrored back wall, the mismatched Tiffany light fixtures and the sixties-style wallpaper were so gaudy and wonderful all at the same time. Open twenty-four/seven, this relic must be an ideal place for homicide cops who often worked nonstop on a case.

DeShay waved to me from the back of the small restaurant, and seconds later I slid into an ancient twoseater booth. “Feels like that morgue smell is still clinging to me like cobwebs,” I said.

“All in your head, Abby, my girl. You smell like you always do. Delicious. Almost as delicious as this.” He picked up his fork and dug into a humongous slice of fresh apple pie.

A maroon-clad waitress appeared and took my order. Her apron and the gray-trimmed uniform pockets and collar matched the retro atmosphere. I scanned the place mat that served as the pie menu and went with lemon meringue—even though strawberry cheesecake would have tasted oh-so-wonderful in all its twice-as-many-calories splendor. With Jeff not around to kick me out of bed and into my running shoes every morning, I hadn’t been exercising, and reckless cheesecake intake requires plenty of exercise.

“Was that your first time at the morgue?” DeShay loaded up his fork again.

“Yes. Took us only a half hour, but that was about twenty-five minutes too long. Apparently they had a decomp and decomps stink up even the office areas.”

“Indeed they do,” he said, still attacking his pie and doing plenty of damage.

“When you told me to meet you here, I thought I’d be chewing Turns and not eating. But pie is a healing food, right?”

“Thinking like that, I’d say you’re almost a cop, Abby.” DeShay grinned.

My lemon meringue slice and a stoneware mug of coffee arrived and we ate in silence for a while, both of us lost in pie heaven. Once I’d wiped out half the dessert, I said, “I take it you found out something about Christine O’Meara?”

“We did,” he said.

“We?”

“I told you this isn’t my case,” DeShay said. “The more I thought about it, I knew I had to talk to Don White, tell him what you wanted me to check on. Guy wasn’t too happy, but that’s nothing I didn’t expect.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be. People like Emma hire PIs, and the PIs do their job. Simple as that. Fact is, he’s more focused on the baby’s death than the mother’s disappearance right now. Even gave me the go-ahead to research Christine, though he grumbled long and hard.”

“I apologize for putting you in that position. I realize you have to work with those guys every day.”

“You think I care if that old fart White wants to whine?” DeShay said.

“Obviously you don’t,” I said with a smile. “What did you find out?”

He shoveled in several mouthfuls before he said, “Christine O’Meara was arrested once. Picked up for loitering along with several other
ladies.”

“She was a prostitute as well as a drunk?” I hoped Emma was unaware, if this were true.

“I don’t think so. If she was a true pro, she’d have a distinguished rap sheet, but she was never arrested again.”

“You’re saying you got nothing useful from the arrest report?”

“She was picked up on South Main back when the city was trying to clean up that area. Astrodome-goers didn’t appreciate their kids seeing women wearing postage-stamp skirts leaning into open car windows. Maybe her being there was bad luck.”