Dead Giveaway

13

Before Jeff's partner picked me up Wednesday morning for the trip to Huntsville State Prison, I made a quick run to Marjorie McGrady's place—calling first, of course. She agreed to see me, and I showed her the newspaper photo of Lawrence Washington. She remembered the layout of the article, where the story had been placed on the page more than his picture, and stared at the photo for a long time before deciding he was indeed the man who'd picked up the blanket. I stared right along with her, and though I decided Washington and Will bore a vague resemblance, it wasn't enough to add to the list of reasons he was the birth father.

After I returned home, DeShay Peters picked me up in his unmarked police car and we started north on I-45 toward the prison. The first hour of the drive was dedicated to a discussion of DeShay's latest girlfriend. We had come to the conclusion that she was too high-maintenance for him. DeShay, forced to wear a coat and tie for the job, would rather be wearing baggie jeans and Houston Texan T-shirts, whereas Tisha spent hours shopping at the Galleria for shoes when she wasn't getting her nails painted with little American flags.

"Good," he said, leaning the driver's seat back a little. "Tisha's history. Now, Abby, tell me more about your side of this case. You know Jeff. The man's good, but he'd rather chew gum than talk. I only got the Cliffs Notes version of what we're doing today."

I told him what I'd learned so far, and by the time I was done, the rifle towers and razor wire surrounding the old redbrick units that make up Huntsville State Prison appeared on the horizon.

"I try not to look on either side of the highway when I drive by here on my way to Dallas," I said.

"Why?" DeShay asked, sounding surprised.

"Because Huntsville State Prison is a nasty old dungeon filled with hatred and violence."

"As far as I'm concerned this is the best damn place in the world, even if half the population are brothers. Not to say I don't work every day at getting more white guys locked up. White guys do just as much evil shit as the next man, but they got so damn much money, they get mouthpieces who can actually talk for them. Black dudes? They got nothing but mamas who cry a lot. Damn injustice, Abby. You hear what I'm saying?"

"I hear, all right. Jeff tell you my ex is here? He's a white dude."

"Say what?" DeShay sounded genuinely shocked.

"Yup. Killed two people."

"If it'll make you less jumpy, he's not here, Abby. He'd be in Livingston."

"No," I said. "He's here. On death row."

"Death row's been moved. 'Course when they give him the needle, they'll bring him here. You gonna come and watch?"

"Are you kidding? I never want to see him again, alive or dead. He blackmailed my adoptive father, nearly killed me and then for some stupid reason, when he was about to drown in a flash flood, I saved his sorry ass."

"That's the difference between you and him. It's called a conscience."

"Yeah, I have plenty of that," I said, nodding. "My daddy used to say conscience is like a toothless old hound. It might not bite you, but you can't keep it from barking. Mine barks all the time."

"Jeff talked about the case that brought you two together after we were partnered up, but he never said your ex was the bad guy. How'd you hook up with someone like that?"

"He was smart, could charm the skin off a snake and I thought I loved him. Didn't take me long to figure out his charm came courtesy of Jose Cuervo. He was an alcoholic, and I divorced him. But did I keep my distance? No. Big mistake. He killed my yardman, partnered up with the lawyer who'd arranged my illegal adoption and then murdered him, too. All for money. It's very sordid and makes me sound like a fool."

"You are no fool, not if Jeff Kline, the smartest guy I ever met, is head over his ass about you."

I laughed. "Feeling's mutual."

"You like the PI stuff?" DeShay asked, pulling into the parking lot of the Goree Unit, where Washington had lived for the last eighteen years.

"More than I thought," I said, noting the turnoff was almost in the shadow of the humongous cement statue of Sam Houston that for some bizarre reason guards the interstate. The thing was ugly, white and about six stories high. What in hell were the folks in Austin thinking when they contracted for this? That statue was scary enough to give kids nightmares.

DeShay parked after we were checked through at the gate—a police badge is handy at locked entrances—and as we got out of the car, I said, "I hope you plan to help me out with this interview. If I go wrong, pinch me or something."

"Jeff would send me out of this life if I hurt you."

I slugged his arm. "You know what I mean."

"Hey, I'll be right next to you the whole time. Just give me a look and I'll step in, but this is your deal."

Once we were escorted inside, DeShay turned over his weapon, and since I was civilian, I gave up my driver's license. We passed through a metal detector, and a young man wearing a gray uniform with navy epaulets led us down a narrow, bleak corridor.

We were taken to the empty visitors' area. The long room was split by a counter with chairs facing mesh and Plexiglas that divided the prisoners from their visitors. Despite the air-conditioning, the old room smelled of mildew with an undercurrent of body odor and urine— those smells leaching from beyond the divider. And then there was the hint of eau de sour mop.

The guard gestured us to chairs and said the prisoner was on his way. Then he stood in one corner, hands behind his back, his young, smooth face impassive.

"This place makes me feel so small." I didn't add scared, but my heart was pounding so hard I felt every beat in my temples. Gates and bars and ancient, chilly rooms had a definite effect on me, I was learning. Not to mention the unsmiling faces of the gray shadows who worked here. How could they do this day in and day out? Where do you stash your fear before you step beyond those heavy doors?

Through the distortion of the scratched, smudged Plexiglas I saw a guard let Washington into the room. He wore no cuffs or shackles as I'd expected, and they left him alone. Tall and not as dark-skinned as DeShay, his prison-issue pants and shirt were as white as the Sam Houston statue.

He sat across from us, and I stifled an "Oh, my God." The grainy, copied picture from an old newspaper had not told the truth. This man's resemblance to Will shocked me. Sure his skin was darker, his eyes brown not amber, but he could have spit that boy out, that's how sure the resemblance was.

"Why am I here?" Washington's soft voice hardly carried through the mesh and glass.

I couldn't answer right away. All doubts had disappeared now that I was being confronted with a resemblance almost as honest as a mirror. Will's father was a murderer. That wasn't quite what he or his family had hoped to discover.

Washington stared straight into my eyes, awaiting my response, and when I didn't answer, he repeated the question.

"I'm sorry," I said, focusing on this familiar face. "It's just that you look like someone I know."

"Get to the point. I have work to do in the laundry." Even tone. Not insolent or sarcastic.

His gaze and demeanor spoke of intelligence and self-control. Not what I expected from a man sentenced to life in prison. Guess I thought he'd be as egotistical as my ex. I took him in more fully and thought I also saw sadness in his eyes. A profound sadness so tangible it made my heart heavy. This was an awful place, and every bit of pain he'd been subjected to rested in his eyes. I didn't want to feel sorry for him, but I did. I just did.

DeShay cleared his throat to encourage me to speak, and I managed to find my voice. "My name is Abby Rose and this is Sergeant Peters. I'm working in conjunction with HPD on the murder of a woman named Verna Mae Olsen. I'm hoping you can help me."

"Then you'll put in a good word with the parole board?" Washington asked, eyebrows raised.

I looked at DeShay for this answer.

"Depends on what you got to say, bro," he said.

"I am not your brother." Washington's eyes glinted with anger.

"I think we'll move on," I said quickly. "Maybe you'll find a reason to help after I've explained why I'm here. I'm working for a young man named Will Knight. Basketball player at UT. Ever heard of him?"

"Who hasn't?"

"He's my client and he's—" I stopped, remembering the guard on the far side of the room. Would he leak the connection between Will and Verna Mae to the press? Was this how information got out? But... Jeff wouldn't have helped me get here if he hadn't been willing to risk that possibility.

"You know a superstar," Washington said. "I'm impressed. What does that have to do with anything?" Sarcasm had surfaced now, but I could tell he was interested.

"Will Knight was adopted as an infant," I said. "He hired me to find his biological family. That search led me to Verna Mae Olsen. Did you know her?"

He looked down at his hands folded on the divider's ledge. "Never heard of her."

"She was murdered after my client and I paid her a visit. See, she found Will on her doorstep in 1987. We discovered a baby blanket at her house after she died. A very special blanket. A blanket I've learned that you picked up from a British import store about nineteen years ago."

Washington's head snapped up. He glared at me, the muscles of his forearms bulging with tension. I began to wonder about the strength of Plexiglas about then.

The angry silence that followed seemed to slash through the mesh. I'd never felt so intimidated and yet so exhilarated at the same time. That blanket meant something to Lawrence Washington.

"I never bought any blanket." He enunciated slowly, every word cold and bitter.

Semantics, I thought. You may not have bought it, but you sure as hell picked it up. Arguing with him wouldn't get me anywhere, though, so I said, "I believe Verna Mae's connection to Will might have something to do with her murder. I need more proof. Please tell me about the blanket."

"I don't know anything about any blanket or any baby or any woman who got killed. That's all I have to say." He held my gaze.

I swallowed. Jeez, this was unnerving. But though Washington's presence was intense, I could tell by his eyes, the shifting back and forth, he was thinking hard. Had I surprised him? Had he been unaware until now that Will Knight was most certainly his son? Had he never noticed the resemblance when he watched Will play basketball on TV? That wouldn't really have surprised me, however. I'd looked at a photo of my birth mother before I knew who she was and never saw the obvious resemblance between us.

I leaned forward, holding his gaze. "What's going on, Lawrence? Why are you so upset?"

He laughed. "Upset? Not me. But you? I think you're as crazy as a shit-house rat."

DeShay half rose and pointed his finger at Washington. "Watch your mouth, inmate."

I put a hand on his forearm. "No problem, DeShay." Looking back at Washington, I had no choice but to press harder. "Tell me who bought that blanket. Was it you? Or did someone send you to pick it up?"

It was then that the thought of this man conceiving a child with Verna Mae flashed through my mind— sort of like a teeth-rattling smack to the face. I couldn't picture her as a seductress of teenage boys. No. That theory was all wrong. Had to be. Maybe Washington picked up the blanket for her that day and now that she'd been murdered, he wasn't about to talk. Why should he risk being even remotely connected to another crime?

Washington straightened, his lips tight, his eyes closed. "I have nothing more to say."

Everyone has their currency, I thought. Problem was, I had no clue what was important to Lawrence Washington. Big mistake. I didn't know enough to be sitting here. Yup, I'd screwed up again.

I had nothing and Washington knew it. He stood and yelled for the guard to take him back to the laundry.

Out of the side of his mouth, DeShay whispered, "Abby. He's splitting."

"That's okay. We'll be back—when I'm better prepared."

DeShay sighed. "You're the boss."

As we were led out, I spoke to the young guard. "Washington have many visitors?"

"Not since I've worked here. He sees the chaplain every day, though."

"Every day? Is the chaplain here?" I asked.

"Sure," the guard said.

"Could we see him, please?"

The chaplain, we soon learned, had an office behind several sets of locked doors deep inside the facility. We had to wait in a hallway outside while he finished a session with an inmate. I moaned to DeShay about my poor preparation for the Washington interview and he cheered me up by saying I'd done pretty damn good for a rookie.

Finally, the inmate left and the chaplain came out to greet us, his wispy red hair and freckled arms telling us a little something about him before he even spoke. The Irish skin never lies. Not that a man of God would lie, but you never know.

"Jim Kelly," he said, reaching for my hand first and then shaking hands with DeShay. He was casually dressed in Dockers and a plain white polo shirt.

After we introduced ourselves, he grabbed a hall chair and dragged it into his office. We followed him into a closet-size room.

A pewter cross hung on one wall and a giant box of tissues sat on an otherwise bare desk. The wastebasket alongside the desk was filled with crumpled Kleenex. Though the sadness that shrouded Lawrence Washington had touched me, that full wastebasket gave me an odd sense of satisfaction. It shouted loud and clear that prison is hell, as it should be. At least some of these men cry, and that had to be a good thing.

Kelly sat behind his small metal desk and gestured for us to be seated as well. "I'm told you want to talk to me about Mr. Washington, but you understand I'm required to keep inmate confidences."

"We know." DeShay sat in the hall chair while I took the padded one I assumed the inmates used. "Just want your take on the guy. We need his help on a case and he's not obliging."

Kelly steepled his hands. "I see. That surprises me."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I have always found him to be a gentle, cooperative man."

"Really?" DeShay said with a laugh. "You mean gentle for a murderer?"

Kelly flushed, his earlobes turning crimson. "You've met him once, Officer. I've known him for years."

"He sees you every day?" I asked.

Kelly looked at me. "Yes. Are you wanting me to put in a word? Help him see the importance of his cooperation?"

"That would be great," I said.

"Then you'd better have a compelling reason I should do that, Ms. Rose. I have a strong bond with Lawrence and I will not break that trust by convincing him to do anything not in his best interest."

"Strong bond, huh?" said DeShay, his voice iced with sarcasm. "You know why he's here and you can forget he killed a girl? God says that's okay?"

Whoa. What was with DeShay? Why had the chaplain struck a nerve with him? Kelly seemed like a good guy.

"God forgives what others can't," Kelly said calmly. He'd no doubt heard plenty of what DeShay was dishing out.

"God's forgiven Lawrence?" I asked.

"If there was anything to forgive, yes," Kelly replied.

DeShay groaned in mock agony. "Oh, so he's innocent in God's eyes? You guys with collars think—"

"You think he's innocent?" I said quickly, interrupting DeShay's off-putting attitude before he did more damage.

Kelly intertwined his fingers. "I believe he is."

"Why?" I rested a hand on DeShay's forearm and squeezed, hoping he'd keep his mouth shut.

"In my opinion, Lawrence Washington does not think or act like a criminal—and I've seen plenty of hardcore criminals. What's even more convincing is that the other inmates have told me they think he's innocent, too. Believe me, they know."

"He could have lashed out in anger the night he committed the crime," I said.

"Do you know the details of that murder?" asked the chaplain.

"I researched it, so yes." But not enough, I added to myself.

"Did what you researched sound like someone lashed out at that poor young woman?" Kelly said.

"I read it was an execution-style murder," I said.

"Good. I've made my point." Kelly leaned back in his chair.

"Has he told you he's innocent?" I asked.

"That's confidential, but do I really have to answer that question?" Kelly replied.

"I guess not," I said.

"Do you plan to tell me why you need Lawrence's help?" Kelly asked.

"Sure, if it will get us some answers." I related all I'd learned so far while a sullen DeShay kept quiet. Something had definitely turned him off to Jim Kelly. I finished my summary, saying, "I have to tell you this. Will Knight and Lawrence Washington look very much alike. If Washington can provide us with a DNA sample, we might be able to prove those two are father and son."

DeShay piped in. "We already have a DNA sample, Abby. He committed a crime in Texas."

Kelly's relaxed attitude disappeared as he sat straighter. "You cannot check for paternity with a CODIS sample, Sergeant. Federal law is very strict about how you use the database."

DeShay sighed. "Guess you know the law almost as well as you know your best buddy inmates. You and God gonna help us on this one?"

Kelly smiled. "I might do that, Sergeant, because you see, I think God is the one who sent you both here."

On the ride back to Houston, I called DeShay immediately on his attitude change after we'd sat down with the chaplain.

"Sorry," he said, "but some things get to me. See, the reason I wear a badge is because my sister was murdered when she was sixteen. Drive-by shooting. Some damn bleeding-heart minister convinced my mother to forgive the crackhead who killed her. Mamma actually testified during the penalty phase on the bad guy's behalf. Then she dropped dead the next day. Had a massive stroke. Now that's God talking, you ask me. The Big Man called her on her mistake."

"So you're mad at her, too?"

"No. I only wish things would have turned out differently."

"You go to church anymore, DeShay?" I said quietly. If his mother's faith had been that strong, he'd probably been raised in a religious home.

"Don't feel comfortable there, you know?"

"Yeah. Forgiveness may be a choice, but it's not an easy choice. And before you get all pissed off again, I'm in that boat myself. I'm having a hard time forgiving my adoptive Daddy. I thought he hung the moon, but after he died, I found out he was a liar. A liar with good intentions, but still a liar. Then I married an even bigger liar who blackmailed and killed and generally messed up my life and plenty of other folks', too. I haven't forgiven either of them."

DeShay changed lanes to avoid a convoy of trucks traveling the interstate toward Houston. "You're a lady who leads with her heart. Sounds like that got you into trouble. Not all bad, putting your emotions out there. Me? I deal with them by working the streets, loving my job."

"Me, too. Even when it gets... emotional and scary."

"You got the smarts to do this investigating thing, Abby. Be careful with that Washington dude, though. Bad guys are pretty much all psychopaths, and psychopaths are convincing SOBs."

"What if he is innocent?" I asked.

"Washington's guilty of something or he'd be talking. They all want that get-out-of-jail-free card and we hinted we might offer a good parole report. Somehow, that wasn't enough. That tells me something."

I glanced out the passenger window. DeShay was right. If Washington was innocent, why had he walked out on the interview? Was he protecting someone? The mother of his child—who probably was not Verna Mae? I could be wrong about that, though. DNA doesn't lie. If it wasn't Verna Mae, who was the birth mother? I didn't know, but maybe looking deeper into Washington's past would help me answer that question.

After DeShay dropped me off at home, I went straight to the garage and climbed in my car. I couldn't fix the mistake I'd made by rushing to the prison prematurely, but I could take the keys back to Burl, explain why I had them and enlist his help as Jeff had suggested.

About five p.m., I walked into the Bottlebrush police station, and Burl came out to the front desk to greet me.

"What's up, Abby?"

"I'd like to take you out to dinner and, well, apologize. Then maybe you'll help me with something."

"If you're apologizing for not telling me you and your sister were coming to town last night, there's no need, Abby."

"It's not that. I have to talk to you. Anywhere we can grab dinner?"

"You think the Missus would like it one bit if I went out to dinner alone with a woman who looks like you? Believe me, she'd hear about it before I paid the check."

"I'm paying the check," I said.

"No. We'll go to my place. That will make everyone happy."

We left a few minutes later, with me following Burl home. He lived on the outskirts of Bottlebrush in a sprawling brick one-story home. When we arrived, he introduced his wife, Lucinda, who had come out on the front porch to greet us. She responded by giving me a punishing hug while reminding me we'd already met on the phone.

"Pretty thing, isn't she, Burl? You married?" she asked as she and Burl led me into their house.

"Divorced," I answered. I was proud of that particular piece of paper.

"You're free. Great. Our oldest, Burl Junior, is—"

"Lucinda. Quit." Burl looked over his shoulder at me. "He's twenty-one. She thinks he needs to get married as soon as he graduates next May."

"He's a little young for a thirtysomething like me, wouldn't you say?" I smiled, glancing around. If there was an opposite of the place I'd visited this morning, this was it. Warmth and comfort filtered out from walls crammed with photos of a smiling family, not to mention the smell of the home-cooked meal that saturated the air and had my mouth watering.

"Hope you like fried chicken," Lucinda said when we entered the country-style kitchen. "We'll have plenty for ourselves. The boys are gone doing their thing. One has swim practice; the other's into martial arts, so he's out breaking apart planks of wood. Boys do like to destroy stuff. Burl Junior's up at A&M taking a summer Spanish class."

An oval table covered by a green woven cloth was set with bright plates, all different colors, cloth napkins and tall glasses of tea. Steaming bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans surrounded a platter of golden chicken pieces.

"You knew I was coming?" I asked.

"Burl called me to set a place for you on his way home. We talk a lot. Or I do, if he's telling it. Anyway, this is a better dinner than you'll get in town. Not a decent restaurant to be found unless you're looking for eggs and grits. Casey's Cafe´ does serve up an acceptable breakfast after church."

"Sit, Abby," Burl said, "or Lucinda will talk you to death before you get to taste the best fried chicken in the world."

So we ate, and I found no time for talk during that meal. I was too busy savoring every mouthful. Lucinda managed to get in plenty of conversation, though. By the time she was finished, I knew everything that had happened in Bottlebrush that day, down to the woman who'd broken a liter of Dr Pepper in a supermarket aisle and thought she could just walk away without telling a clerk. The way Lucinda told it, the woman had more nerve than a sumo wrestler turned cat burglar.

Burl leaned back in his chair, a contented smile on his face. "I'm curious. What do you need to apologize for, Abby?"

"A set of keys I spotted under Verna Mae's bed. I grabbed them, but when I found Kate hurt, I forgot all about them." I rose and went to my purse, which Lucinda had set on the kitchen counter. I removed the originals and handed them to Burl. "Here you go."

He stared at the keys in his palm. "You gonna give me the copies you made, too?"

"And why would I make copies?" I said evenly.

"Hand them over." He sounded just like Daddy used to when I got caught in a lie.

"Is there a reason I can't keep a set? I mean, the estate belongs to Will and he's given me free rein."

"Think for one second and answer that question yourself," he replied.

"Okay. So you don't want me messing with evidence," I answered.

"Aren't you glad we never had girls, Lucinda?" Burl said.

"I don't know, sugar," said Lucinda. "This one might make me proud if I were her mother. You gotta admit, she's working her case."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "But she still needs to give me the copies."

I did. One set, anyway. "Looks like the key with the label might be for a storage unit, right?" I asked after I handed them over.

"Yup, and just 'cause I have these, doesn't mean you can't know where these keys lead me."

"Thanks. See, that's what we need help with. Finding what they belong to."

"We?"

"Sergeant Kline and me. I am working with HPD on this."

"How could I forget? You want to fill me in, then? 'Cause I got a feeling you're holding back."

"I am not holding back. That's why I invited you to dinner, to tell you everything I've learned—though coming here was a far better idea." I smiled at Lucinda. "If I ate like this every day, I'd have to make two trips just to haul butt."

She laughed. "I think you two should go in the other room and talk while I clean up."

"Let me help you with the dishes," I said.

"Go," she said sternly. "Both of you. Now."

We went to the front room and settled into worn armchairs. I told Burl about Lawrence Washington and my visit to Hunstville today.

"Have you had time to tell your cop friend you're convinced Washington is Will's daddy?" he asked when I'd finished.

"No," I said with a grin. "I was too busy copying keys."

"Even if he is the daddy, it still doesn't explain much. We got a bleeding-heart chaplain who thinks the guy's innocent, a blanket connecting Washington to Verna Mae, and a resemblance that says Will and the prisoner are related. Thing is, Washington's been locked up tighter than oil in a barrel for a long time. How does he figure into Verna Mae's murder?"

"Good question. If there had been an argument over the baby or some other problem between him and Verna Mae because she was supposed to care for the child, maybe he got someone on the outside to murder her. Maybe—"

My phone rang and I dug it out of my purse. It was Jeff.

"Hey, there," he said. "I dropped by your place and you weren't home."

"I'm with Burl. Filling him in on the case."

"Good. Then you better share this piece of news, too. Just got the DNA report. Verna Mae Olsen is not Will's birth mother. She's no relation. Period."