Dead Giveaway

11

I left downtown at rush hour—big mistake—and was late picking up Kate anyway. She was waiting in the parking garage next to her car as planned, wearing one of her "soothing" pastel suits—this one aqua. She's a firm believer that color affects her patient's mood and carefully chooses what she wears to work every day.

When she climbed in beside me, I handed the articles to her. "Could you read these out loud? Help make the drive to Bottlebrush more interesting?"

"No apology for making me stand around in a damp old garage for twenty minutes?" she asked.

I glanced at her as I stopped to pay more parking money—and this time I hadn't even parked. "Sorry. I was at the downtown library at five o'clock and hit gridlock."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry myself for being so cranky. Terry and I had a fight this morning, and I can't seem to shake my bad mood."

I laughed. "You and Terry fought? First time ever or what?"

"He's pressing me again to get married, and you know what a fence-sitter I am on that subject." She began shuffling through the pages I'd handed her.

"I'm staying on the outside of that particular dispute, seeing as how I'm O-for-one in the marriage department."

"Look who you've hooked up with now? Jeff is perfect for you."

"And Terry's right for you, Kate. He adores you."

"Why can't I commit?" she said.

"You're the shrink, not me."

"I know. This is my problem." She sighed and looked down at the stack of copies. "What is all this?"

As we headed for the freeway, I explained what I had learned today and that I hadn't had a chance to read through the articles. "Start with the one that mentions the killer's bright future," I said.

She found that particular article and began to read: "He was voted 'Most Likely to Succeed' and 'Most Athletic' at his high school and had just signed a letter of intent to play baseball for Texas A&M. Yes, Lawrence Washington was going somewhere. But now he's going to jail for the rest of his life. Washington, eighteen, was sentenced to life in prison yesterday, convicted in the execution-style slaying of University of Houston coed Amanda Mason."

"That sounds cold," I said, merging into a line of slow-moving traffic on the 610 loop.

Kate went on reading. "Friends and family can't explain why the bright young man who would have graduated tenth in his class in a few months would commit such a horrific crime. No one, not even the principal of Hurst High, can recall him ever raising his voice, much less getting into trouble. But according to one friend, Washington's mother has breast cancer and the family faces huge medical bills. Perhaps that's why Lawrence Washington put a gun to Amanda Mason's head and pulled the trigger, fearing she would identify him after the robbery if he let her live. Sadly, her cash withdrawal from the ATM near where her body was found that night had been a mere fifty dollars. Fifty dollars for two young lives wasted."

Kate sighed again. "How depressing. Makes me feel guilty for whining today."

"We've got it pretty good, huh?"

Kate took out her cell phone. "I'm calling Terry right now to apologize."

"Good idea, and when you're done, read me the rest of the articles. I need to know everything about this Lawrence Washington, even though I'm praying right now he's not connected to Will—especially when it comes to genetics. He's a black athlete, and that makes him a good candidate for biological father. Unfortunately, he is also a killer."

Kate had been ready to use her phone, but closed it and said excitedly, "The murdered girl could have been Will's birth mother. Yes, and he killed her to—"

"The timing's wrong, Kate. Amanda Mason died in April of 1987 and Will was born probably in October or late September of that year."

"Oh. Right. Reading these articles out of order is confusing." She reopened her phone and called Terry.

We were almost to Bottlebrush by the time she'd made up with him and finished reading the articles to me. One was a short piece on Washington's having exhausted his appeals, another a human interest story on the life and death of Amanda Mason that included interviews of her brokenhearted family. Several more articles had appeared when Washington was due for parole in 2004. Amanda Mason's family and their supporters made sure he stayed in Huntsville State Prison.

Since we'd had to navigate plenty of traffic on the freeways, the ride had taken more than two hours. Dusk was giving way to night when we parked in front of Verna Mae's house.

Before I unlocked the front door, I nodded at the bassinet planter. "There sits my first clue something wasn't right with Verna Mae."

"She was clinging to the most important event in her life," Kate said.

Once inside, I felt around on the wall for a light switch and then illuminated the foyer.

Kate took in the antique coat rack, an expensivelooking side table holding Lladro figurines of mothers and babies, and the plush carpet on the stairway to our right. "Nice place."

"Kind of suffocating, if you ask me. I say we start in her bedroom. That's where Burl and I found the blanket and the albums she'd made of Will's life story. I want those if Burl left them. I didn't get to examine them closely enough."

Kate said, "It is stuffy in here. Mind if I find the thermostat and turn on the air-conditioning?"

"Go for it," I said. "Meet you upstairs."

She took off down the hall, flicking lights on along the way, while I took the stairs. I turned on the light in Verna Mae's bedroom and found things were not as I remembered them. The oak dresser drawers were half open, the closet door stood ajar, even the linens on the bed were in disarray. I set down my purse and went to the four-poster, knelt and pulled out the box where we'd found the blanket and albums.

Empty. Damn.

No wonder Burl turned the keys over with a smile. He'd come back and taken what he wanted, left the place a mess. As Jeff said, the guy was still fixated on an old case he'd never solved.

I shoved the box back under the bed, more than a little pissed off, but when I did, I heard a tiny jingle. I removed the box, flattened on my belly and sank into carpet so thick you could sleep on it. Reminded me of my old digs in River Oaks, the mansion I'd grown up in and didn't miss one bit. With my cheek pressed against the carpet, I looked under the bed and spotted a lump that appeared to be a set of keys. They were more than an arm's reach away, and I had to squirm my shoulder under the frame to grab them.

Wiggling out from beneath the bed, I thought, Got one back on you, Burl. I sat cross-legged to check them out. One key was small, maybe for a padlock, and had a white, round tag marked B-109. The other looked like a house key. I pulled Verna Mae's set from my pocket for a comparison, but no match. Did Verna Mae have more surprises to offer after her death? Like another house?

It dawned on me then that Kate hadn't joined me. Where the heck was she?

I retrieved my purse, stashed the keys and called her name as I made my way to the landing. She didn't answer.

"Kate," I yelled louder. "I found something."

Still nothing. In fact, the house was so quiet you could have heard a hummingbird's heart beat.

My own heart sped up. Something wasn't right.

I rushed down the stairs and followed the path made by the lights she'd turned on, aware that the smell of the spring night—a blend of honeysuckle and humidity—filled the house. Maybe she'd gone outside, leaving the door open so as not to get locked out.

Why? I wondered.

"Kate," I called, my voice cracking with fear. Where was she, damn it?

I ran down the hall, which suddenly seemed like the length of a football field, and stopped dead at the kitchen entry, my hand covering my mouth.

My sister was lying on the cold tile floor.