Shoot from the Lip (38 page)

 

 

 

My daddy used to say there’s news and then there’s sit-down news. When I received the call from a small-town police chief named Cooper Boyd asking me to help him identify a car wreck victim, I was glad I was already seated in the big leather chair in my home office.

“Oh my God,” I said. “Is it Kate? Or Jeff? Or—”

“Ma’am, the victim is female. Who is Kate and when did you see or speak to her last?”

My heart was racing now. “Kate Rose is my twin sister. She has dark brown hair and brown eyes. She went to work this morning and I talked to her before she—Oh God, what happened?”

“Okay. Take a deep breath. Obviously this woman is not your sister. The accident happened last night and I should have told you that first.”

Now that my thoughts were no longer focused on worst-case scenarios, I noticed Boyd’s voice sounded like he’d gargled with axle grease this morning.

“This wasn’t exactly an accident,” he went on. “I’ve come from Pineview near where the wreck occurred. They had to life-flight the young lady to the Texas Medical Center. She’s in a coma.”

“W-will she pull through?” My pulse slowed a little but the coffee I’d just finished was still sloshing around after being stirred by panic.

“Doctors aren’t saying much,” he answered.

“You said Pineview? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s in far northwest Montgomery County. You know anyone up that way? A client? A relative? A friend?”

The word
client
caught my attention. “You must know more about me than my name. Why do you think I can help you identify this person?”

“The victim had your business card in her possession, ma’am. Yellow Rose Investigations, right? And adoption reunion is your specialty?”

“Yes,” I said.

“See, her having your card is one of two things we know about her.”

“And the other?” I asked.

“Someone wanted her dead.”

I closed my eyes, pictured a young woman—not her face of course, since I’m no psychic—but I could imagine her body tangled in the wreckage of an automobile. It didn’t help the swirling in my gut. “And she had my card?” was all I could manage in response.

“Yes, Ms. Rose.”

“Okay, I’m worried she might be one of my former clients, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve never done a search for anyone from Montgomery County. But she could have just moved there or—”

“Listen, I need your help now,” he said. “This young woman probably has relatives who should know she’s in critical condition. Think you could meet me in the hospital lobby?”

“I—Yes. Sure. Which hospital?”

“Ben Taub.”

“Of course.” Ben Taub has one of the best trauma centers in the country. “I can be there in fifteen minutes. How will I know you?”

“I’m in uniform. Brown and gold.” He disconnected without a good-bye.

Since it was August and hotter than hell’s door handle, I was dressed in shorts and a tank top. I decided that wasn’t suitable hospital attire and hurried upstairs, my cat, Diva, on my heels. I quickly changed into lightweight capris, a sleeveless cotton blouse and summer clogs.

“What the heck do you think this is about?” I asked Diva as I applied lipstick. No time for any other makeup to cover my usual crop of summer freckles, which had appeared despite the gallon of sunscreen I’d gone through since May.

Diva answered my question with several insightful meows. Too bad the cat whisperer wasn’t around to interpret her answer.

As I stepped outside and went through the back gate to the driveway, I wondered if I’d ever had so much as a letter from a client from Pineview. I sure couldn’t remember, but there were times when I couldn’t even remember the Alamo.

Using the remote on my key chain, I turned off the car alarm on my new silver Camry. I’d had a superduper special-order car alarm installed; it beeped a reminder to engage it whenever I parked. No one got near my car without that thingee making enough noise to embarrass thunder. I’d had a little trouble on a case last year with a very bad man sticking GPS devices under my bumper every time I wasn’t looking, and I wasn’t about to have that happen again.

Five for Fighting’s latest CD started playing as I turned the key and started the ignition. The drive took only ten minutes, and that meant I had five minutes to find a parking place in the Medical Center—a definite challenge. But since it was nearly noon, most of the morning appointments were over, and I located a spot pretty fast. Then I walked the long path to the hospital.

The air-conditioning made the lobby almost as cold as my ex-husband’s heart. Guess hospitals have lots of stuff that might smell a whole lot worse without AC. I spotted the man in the brown uniform with gold trim and approached him. Then we shook hands.

“Abby Rose,” I said.

“Thank you for coming.” Boyd reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to me. “This is a copy of what we found under the woman’s front seat. We sent the actual card to the crime lab for fingerprinting.”

It was my business card, all right—front and back. Someone had scrawled the words
adoption search
and
do this today
on the back. The card appeared smudged and wrinkled, and this condition made the copy a poor one.

I looked at Boyd, who was average height with a red-blond crew cut. He was graying at the temples but didn’t look much older than fifty. “Can you give me more details? I could have had some contact with this person in the last few years, but as I said, I don’t remember your town.”

“What kind of details do you want?” he said. His drawl had to be East Texas. Very pronounced.

“You’re sure this was a murder attempt?” I asked.

His jaw muscles tightened. “Yes, ma’am, I’m certain.”

He then took me up to the fourth-floor waiting area for the neuro ICU, which was across the hall from the forbidding doors that would allow us in. Boyd told me to have a seat and he’d arrange for us to visit the victim.

A few minutes later, we were admitted, and Boyd took me to the mystery woman’s room. She was covered with a white thermal blanket and was so tiny she seemed lost in the small space crowded with medical machinery, all of which was either beeping or blinking. An IV dripped slowly into tubing that fed down to her bruised arm. But that wasn’t all that was bruised.

Her thick black lashes rested against the dark purple crescents under her eyes. She had a battered forehead and a split lip, and her blond hair had been shaved away for stitches above a large lump on her forehead. She was as pale as the sheets.

“Heck fire,” I whispered. I blinked several times, wondering how anyone would recognize this woman, even someone who knew her. She was lucky she wasn’t already pushing up bluebonnets.

With a heart the size of Texas—and a bank account
to match—Abby Rose has just found herself
smack in the middle of a matrimonial murder and a
broken-hearted bride-to-be when a guest
gets hit over the head with a gift.

 

The bad reception only gets deadlier when Abby is enlisted to resolve the wedding fiasco.

 

 

“Leann Sweeney is a welcome new voice in mystery fiction.”

—Jeff Abbott

“The most likable sleuth to come along in years.”

—Rick Riordan

 

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