Shoot from the Lip (23 page)

“Maybe I can meet you there this evening?”

“That would be great, but I hope you don’t feel the need to protect me. The house seems like a small thing after everything that’s happened.”

“And something else
has
happened. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“A witness has been murdered.”

She drew in her breath, covered her mouth with her hand. “Is it someone I know?”

“No—at least, I don’t think so. We can talk about all this later. There’s something more I want you to think about, even though we’ve been over this before. Your mother obviously didn’t write the letter to
Reality Check.
Finding out who did could help us. That person knew the baby was missing. Think about counselors or teachers or neighbors who took a special interest in you. Maybe one of them decided to disguise their identity by making the letter seem like it came from an uneducated person.”

Emma sighed, tucking strands of silky hair behind her ear. “I’ll try, Abby, but I’ve already gone over this a hundred times since we were chosen for the show.”

“Revisit it for me again, okay?”

“Sure. I should be over at the property by five. Can you tell me the name of the person who ... died?” Today she’d been free of the worried expression I’d seen all week, but now it had returned.

“Jerry Joe Billings,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “J.J. I remember my mother mentioning someone named J.J. Was it him?”

“Since she and Billings were definitely friends, the answer is probably yes. See? You do remember more than you realize.”

She smiled sadly. “When prompted by terrible events, yes. Now I need to get to work.”

When she walked into the living room, she reverted to Realtor mode—probably her
safe
mode. “Drapes are old, but the floor is in excellent shape.” She walked over and pulled aside the heavy fabric that covered the window. “New windows, too. That’s a plus.”

Kate and Roark’s laughter echoed through the empty house, and Emma and I joined them in the kitchen.

Emma stopped in the entryway, her hands on her hips, and scanned the large room. “This is different. Haven’t seen a house with this layout in West U.” She glanced down at her paper. “No dining room. I’ll bet they knocked out a wall to enlarge the kitchen.”

I took in the room, then swallowed, hoping to get rid of the lump in my throat. One end of the kitchen, beyond the breakfast nook where a bay window offered a view to the backyard, was a second cozy living area with fireplace. This arrangement was unbelievably similar to the house we grew up in River Oaks. How I had loved that kitchen.

Kate glanced at me and smiled. “Isn’t déjà vu wonderful?”

More love at first sight,
I thought. “Maybe, but knowing you, you’ll look at about a dozen other places before you decide.”

“If the upstairs and the bathrooms pass muster, I doubt it.” She took Clint’s hand and they went off to explore the rest of the house.

What had happened to her? The new Kate would take some getting used to.

While Kate and Emma went to Emma’s office to draw up a contract—she was absolutely crazy about the house—Clint left to pick up his son, and I went home. I’d already started separate files for each case—one for Billings, one for Christine and one for the two babies—hoping that organizing them this way would give me better clarity. I planned to work on them, but there was a message on my phone, which Diva pointed out with loud meows and much pacing on the counter. It was Jeff.

“Didn’t want to call you on your cell and disturb you if you’re working your case, but I’m home now. When you get a chance, give me a call.”

Didn’t want to disturb me? When I got a chance?
Had everyone I loved gone nuts?

Speed dial is the best thing ever invented, and he answered on the first ring.

“I’m home, so get your butt over here,” I said. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Can you come here instead?”

“Sure, but—”

“Is Kate there?”

“No. Why?”

“I prefer if no one knows I’m back yet.”

“Okay, sure.” This was strange.

“And Abby, do something for me first. After we talked about the Billings murder with Don White and you were feeling all guilty about leading the killer to Billings, I got to thinking. My five-hour flight offered plenty of time for thinking. You need to check your car for a GPS tracking device.”

“You mean the thingie I never use? You’ve seen it. It’s right on the dash—”

“No. I mean someone may have put a monitoring device on your car.”

“You think?” I’d never even considered the possibility.

“Get a mirror and look under your bumpers. If it’s there, the device might be hard to find, could be smaller than a deck of cards.”

“I’m on it. And then I will see you very soon.” I hung up and realized that my heart was beating ninety to nothing. There was no doubt I had a grade-A-pasteurized passion for that man.

The cool fall air had remained, and I ran upstairs and changed into low-rider jeans and a new scoop-neck sweater that Jeff hadn’t seen yet. I considered wetting my hair and restyling it, but didn’t want to waste the time. I grabbed my makeup mirror, the kind that magnifies on one side, and also took an old beach towel outside to lie on.

Turned out the magnifying side only made all things dirty under my bumpers blend together. Using the regular side, I began my search again, going too quickly at first, impatient to get to Jeff’s place.

I stopped and took a deep breath. “Slow down and do this right, Abby.”

I hit pay dirt on the back bumper, driver’s side. I found a small black rectangular case amid the filth. I pulled it free and slid from beneath the car. “Damn,” I whispered.

How do you shut this thing down?
I wondered. I turned it over and saw there was a battery case, opened it and dumped out the double-As. I gathered everything up, used the baby wipes I keep in my car to clean my hands and took off to see Jeff, thinking,
follow me now, whoever you are.

With Saturday shoppers out in force, getting to Jeff’s apartment took more than thirty minutes. I kept a watchful eye for a tail, but no one seemed to have followed me into his complex. I even parked by the manager’s building for five minutes and waited for anyone else to drive in. Nobody did.

Jeff’s car was parked in the first spot near the sidewalk leading to his building, and again my heart sped up. I hurried to his door and knocked my special knock.

When he opened the door we were in each other’s arms at once. Our kiss was getting better by the second when a woman’s voice interrupted us.

“Jeffy? You got a girlfriend, Jeffy?”

I pulled away and peered around his shoulder. A short, chunky woman wearing blue sweats stood in the center of Jeffs mostly barren living room.

I blinked, not quite believing what I was seeing. No mistaking: This woman had Down syndrome.

“This is Abby,” Jeff said. “She is my girlfriend.”

With Jeff’s arm around me, we came in and he kicked the door shut.

“I’m Doris.” The woman grinned, opened her arms and ran to us, capturing us both in a bear hug.

“Really nice to meet you, Doris,” I said after she let us go.

“Jeffy took me on the airplane. I want to do it again.”

“Not for a while.” Jeff looked down at me. “Doris is my sister.”

“I-I ... Wow,” I said. “You have a very cool brother, Doris.”

“Cool?” She picked up his hand and pressed his palm against her chubby cheek. “I don’t think so, Abby. Jeffy feels warm.”

I smiled. “Sorry. You’re right. He is warm, and I’ve missed him a lot since he was in Seattle with you.”

“Linda lives in Seattle. But she went away and Jeffy came. He says Linda’s not coming back, that she’s visiting God.”

“Linda took good care of Doris.” Jeff’s voice was soft, almost a whisper.

“Was Linda related to you two?” I asked.

“Not by blood,” Jeff said. “But she loved you, didn’t she, Doris?”

Doris averted her narrow eyes. “Can I have a Coke?” “Sure.” Jeff walked toward the kitchenette, Doris on his heels.

I followed, wondering why in hell Jeff had kept this from me. But the more I thought, the more I understood. He had a mentally retarded sister twenty-five hundred miles away from Houston—and not once since I’d known him had he visited her. He was a workaholic homicide investigator who’d put his family on the back burner. Talking about Doris to me or anyone else would not come easily to him. In fact, it would probably be harder for him than staring down at a corpse covered in blood.

“This isn’t the red can, Jeffy.” Doris was holding a Diet Coke and pouting.

Jeff said, “I know, but—”

“I want the red can. Linda always gave me the red can.” Doris’s happy demeanor had vanished, and I got the feeling I was about to witness the kind of tantrum that produced the wail I overheard on the phone the other night.

I stepped toward Doris. “This is my favorite kind of Coke. Texas Coke.”

Doris looked at me, frowning, then glanced at the can. “They had red Coke on the airplane.”

“But the airplane isn’t part of Texas,” I said. “This is what I drink all the time.”

“Your girlfriend drinks Texas Coke, Jeffy. And so do I.” She held out the can to Jeff. “Help me?”

After he popped the top, she reclaimed the soda and took a long drink. “Texas tastes kinda good.”

I smiled, and Jeff looked plain relieved. No way was he equipped to deal with this situation if a soft-drink issue made him this tense.

Doris, meanwhile, had something else in mind, because she walked by us, her Texas Coke in hand, headed for the TV. That was when I noticed the stack of DVDs—it looked like all Disney titles. She sat cross-legged on the floor, set her can beside her and started rummaging through the titles.

I said, “Does she need help with—”

“She can work the DVD player and remote like an expert. In a minute, she’ll be so into her cartoons we can talk.”

Jeff was right. Shortly after
The Little Mermaid
started, Doris seemed transfixed.

Jeff and I sat at the card table in his small dining area. I vowed not to say what he expected, like,
Why the hell didn’t you tell me about Doris?
But before I could come up with an adequate response to learning something new and very unexpected, he spoke first.

“I’m sorry, Abby. I couldn’t—”

I put a finger to his lips. “Don’t be sorry. I understand.”

He took my hand and kissed it. “When my parents died, it seemed right to leave my sister with Linda. Linda cared for Doris for years. Structure and routine are important for Down people. When I got the call after Linda had the heart attack and died, the doctor wanted me to put Doris in a group home.”

“But you couldn’t do that,” I said.

He shook his head, lips tight.

“Do you plan to find someone like Linda here?”

“Yes, but that won’t be easy. That’s why I don’t want anyone to know I’m back, or they’ll be calling me out on cases. I need time. Does Kate have contacts in social services? I can’t exactly put an ad in the paper and hire the first person who shows up.”

“I’ll ask. In the meantime, how are you?” I put my hands over his.

“I won’t lie. This has been harder than any homicide I’ve ever worked. At first I planned to do what the doctor said. But it seemed wrong to send her off to live with strangers.”

“How functional is she?” I asked.

“She can’t fix her own meals—unless you call opening a package of cookies fixing a meal. But she can take care of herself in every other way—dressing, the bathroom, you know.” His ears colored with embarrassment and his hands balled into fists.

I rubbed those white-knuckled hands, trying to ease his strain. “I’ll help you any way I can.”

He leaned forward and kissed me. “Thanks.” He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Big Red. When he had two sticks of gum working, he said, “Did you look for the GPS device?”

I picked up my purse, took the thing out and placed it on the table. “You were right.”

“Ah. Easy to tail someone with this.” He picked up the little box and turned it over several times. “No identifying marks—looks like the manufacturer’s label has been removed. This thing sends your location to a satellite and—”

“Oh, I know,” I said. “Then someone picks up the signal on their little handheld computer loaded with fancy software. This spy stuff doesn’t come cheap. Why did I ever trust those TV jerks for a second?”

“You think they’re the ones who tracked you?”

“They have the money,” I said.

“If it was them, how did the killer find Billings?” The smell of his gum filled the space between us, and I was finding it hard to concentrate on anything but him.

I sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe the killer was the one who put that thing on my car. Or followed the Venture investigators who were following me. I probably had my own motorcade.”

“Come on. I think you would have noticed.”

“The idea that a murderer could put this under my bumper is scary. Without any identifying information, can we find out who bought this thing?”

“Give it to DeShay,” he said. “Our tech guys might recognize the brand, or might be able to activate it and find out where the signal is being downloaded.”

“I don’t think that will work, Jeff. When I disabled it, I probably clued in whoever was receiving my location information. They know I pulled the plug.”

“You’re the computer whiz, so I don’t doubt you’re right, but it can’t hurt to turn it over to DeShay and Don, see what the department can do with it.”

“Will do.” I checked my watch. “Wish I didn’t have to go, but I promised to meet Emma. Can I do anything for you? Pick up groceries, maybe?”

“Yeah. That would be good. Taking Doris to the supermarket would get her all revved up—something that’s not hard to do. Linda was great with her, but from the number of empty Coke cans I found at the house where they lived, I’ll bet Doris drank at least a six-pack a day. Maybe you can convince her that there’s a better Texas Coke—one without caffeine as well as sugar.”