Dead Giveaway

15

I saw no sign of the red Lexus on my way back from Joelle's, maybe because I kept glancing at the file sitting on the passenger seat rather than in the rearview mirror. I couldn't wait to read Frank Simpson's notes. Maybe a dead cop's dedication to his job would yield some solid clues.

On the drive home I encountered the same stopand-go traffic, giving me time to think about other avenues I hadn't explored on this case. Verna Mae hadn't lived in a vacuum. Who were her friends or, better yet, her enemies? Who did she talk to and what did they discuss? And who had she left out of that will? Surely one relative had to have been lurking in the background thinking they'd inherit.

That side of the case was Jeff's territory, but I needed to know, too. He'd been so busy lately, he hadn't shared much of anything, so before I took home the file and concentrated on its contents, I wanted to talk to him. Okay, I wanted to see him, too. Smell cinnamon on his breath and, if I got lucky, make him smile.

I reached him on his cell, and he said he wanted to see me, too, if only for a little while. We agreed to meet at the Beck's Prime hamburger place on Kirby for lunch, one of our favorite places to eat.

Thirty minutes later we were sitting across from each other at a small table reminiscent of McDonald's. But the hamburgers? A whole other world. This was fast food with a reason to exist. I'd indulged myself with a chocolate shake along with my burger, and then kept stealing from Jeff's mound of ketchup-drenched fries. It's not like you can order your own fries when you've given in to a milkshake.

We ate in silence for awhile, me with my grilled onions and cheddar dripping out the sides of the burger and Jeff making amazingly neat work of his pickle and jalapen˜ o pure Angus concoction.

I picked up a napkin and wiped mustard from the corner of my mouth before saying, "You ever find any of Verna Mae's friends?"

"The woman had acquaintances, not friends. She belonged to a garden club and that's about it. By the way, I've discovered I love interviewing garden clubbers a whole lot more than guys with bad attitudes."

"What did they tell you?"

"Nothing we don't know already. EZ TAG records offered far more. I learned she made lots of trips to Houston, used the toll roads. Made at least one trip a week over the I-10 bridge before heading south on the Sam Houston Tollway. Made the same trip back. I have dates and times. She usually made a day of it."

"She went south from I-10?"

"Right."

"If you were heading for downtown, you'd stay on the freeway, right?"

"I would, but then some folks will drive ten miles to avoid traffic on I-10."

"True. Any pattern to her visits? Maybe she had regular meetings in town."

"Lots of Wednesdays, but she came plenty of times on other days of the week."

"Like the Friday she died," I said. "Did you ask the garden clubbers if she ever mentioned where she was going on her trips out of Bottlebrush?"

"I asked. Like I said, the ladies were nice, but no help," Jeff answered. "They talked flowers and shrubs with the Olsen woman. The only other place they saw her was at church."

"Last Friday?" I asked. "You have a time line on her activities that day?"

"She used her EZ TAG coming toward Houston at two-fifty p.m., but never used that prepaid cell phone we found near the body. So we checked your cell records, to see how she contacted you before she was murdered. She phoned you from a gas station pay phone in the vicinity of the coffee shop."

"Why buy a phone and not use it, Jeff?"

"Good question. I don't have the answer. She purchased it that morning at a Target store east of Houston. Wish I could ask her about phone records. We checked her landline in Bottlebrush and got nothing. No toll calls to Houston. No long-distance calls period. My guess is she always used prepaid phones or calling cards, and probably did so for a reason. We find that reason, we're a step ahead."

"What about relatives? Any luck finding someone who might have been interested in her money?"

"DeShay's on that. So far, he's got nothing. She was estranged from her in-laws—hadn't spoke to them since the husband's funeral. Rock-solid alibis. They didn't ask about money when the notification was made. The deputy who visited them said they acted like they hardly knew the woman. Her parents are gone, have been for years. No kids. No siblings. Nada. The lady was a loner."

"An obsessed loner," I said. "But maybe that's redundant."

"Unless she went to the Galleria every week, we don't know what she came to Houston for. You check out her closets? Was she a shopaholic or something— and I cannot believe I just said 'shopaholic.' " He rolled his eyes. "That's what I get for hanging around garden clubbers."

I laughed. "I wouldn't say she was a big shopper. She appreciated nice things, had well-made plus-size clothes, but not an overflowing closet or a designer wardrobe. With luck, that storage unit key will tell us why she drove into town week after week. Burl is checking into that."

"Glad you turned over those keys to him. He sounds like a guy with some smarts. Did you learn anything from Dugan?"

"Not much. Simpson's widow helped me far more. I have his file on the Washington case."

"Simpson copied HPD files?" Jeff's pupils constricted, enhancing that glacial blue stare I'd seen a number of times when he was bothered by a case. He reached in his shirt pocket for gum.

"No," I said. "He did his own investigating. Is that wrong?"

"If he worked a closed case on the clock, yeah."

"He's dead, Jeff. And his wife... I think she'll need his pension."

"Chill, Abby. Who do you think I work for? Internal Affairs?" He smiled.

"Thanks," I said.

"For what?" He folded two sticks of gum and laid them on his tongue.

"For the smile. I don't get enough of those."

He reached across our tiny table and took my hand. His fingers trailed down mine when he pulled his hand away. Suddenly I wanted to be home alone with him, murders and prisons and evidence forgotten.

"Tell me more about this file," he said.

"I haven't gone through it yet. Just took a quick glance. I did learn a few things talking to Simpson's wife, and there are these photographs he took—the guy had an amazing talent, by the way." I told him more about my visit with Joelle and ended by mentioning that I thought I'd been followed there.

His gum-chewing speed switched to double time and he stared at me, eyes narrow in thought. Finally he said, "You should have called me when you spotted the tail. I could have given a description to any patrol units in the area. Hell, you could have taken a video with your fancy phone and we'd have it right now."

"What? Stick my phone out the window so I could take a picture? Oh, wait. I could have jumped out of my car, waved my arms like I was as crazy as a road lizard and shouted, 'Hey, are you following me?' "

"You should have called me, Abby." No smile. He was as serious as the tax man.

"I have my .38 in my glove compartment," I said.

"When's the last time you took target practice? You know you have to keep up your skills, make sure—"

"Don't get parental on me, Jeff. I hate that."

He sighed, closed his eyes. "You're right. I worry, that's all."

My turn to smile. "That's what a girl likes to hear."

After I left Jeff, I made the short drive home, came in through the back door and immediately spread out the contents of Frank Simpson's folder on my kitchen table. His organizational skills? Not so good. Soon Diva arrived—she has a nose for anything made of paper laid out on a table—and thought she might help me rearrange things. I quickly carried her off and bribed her this time with a catnip toy. I didn't need her taking a nap on Frank's notes.

While Diva knocked herself out with her fake mouse, I sat and began the process of making order out of chaos. Some notes had been jotted on scraps of paper or on the back of his business cards, others on full notebook-size sheets. At least he'd been good about dates and times. Guess cops do have to pay attention there. When I was done putting everything in chronological order, the compilation spanned years and wasn't as much information as I had initially thought. The papers and cards were messy and crumpled after being jammed in the folder, making it seem like there was a lot more.

I decided to put all this in an accordion folder, arranging the notes by years, and was about to get one from my office when I heard Kate's familiar rap on the back door. I let her in.

She wore a pale green silk blouse and matching straight skirt, and her dark hair was gathered with a jeweled clip. Despite the flattering clothes and hair, she looked exhausted.

We hugged and then I held her at arm's length. "You okay?"

"Just went to the chiropractor. Whoever hit me the other night knocked a few things out of place. I'm better now."

I touched her bruised face, surprised at how well she'd healed in two days. "Damn. I am so sorry for dragging you into this. No more. I promise."

She pulled away, her gaze on the table. "Don't you dare say that. We take care of each other and that's not about to change. What's all this?"

"Information concerning the Amanda Mason murder... from the cop who worked the case."

Kate went to the table and sat, picking up one of the scribbled-on business cards. "Wow. How'd you manage to get a hold of this?"

"I'll explain in a minute. Now, while I fetch a folder to organize this mess, make sure Diva doesn't jump up and send everything flying."

Kate saluted. "Yes, ma'am. I am now officially on cat duty, ma'am."

I grinned. If she could joke around, she wasn't hurt too badly—but I still felt guilty.

Once we had all the years sorted into their separate compartments and I had brought Kate up to date on the case, I scooted my chair close to hers and started with the 1987 information. Much of what was there were small notebook pages of people Simpson had interviewed about Amanda Mason.

"Looks like Officer Simpson was searching for any connection between Mason and Lawrence Washington and found none," said Kate.

I picked up notes from Simpson's interview with Mason's parents. "These are sketchy. She didn't live at home. They gave him her apartment address. I remember seeing something titled VICTIM NOTES. Where is that?" I shuffled papers and cards.

"Simpson took a photo of her parents, right?" Kate said.

"He did, and—wait. Here it is." I sat back and read aloud from a notebook page:

"Parents say Miss Mason lived on own for last two years. Juvie record for shoplifting. Finished high school in detention. Turned it around, according to father. Theology major at U. of H. Mother called me 5/1/87 at 09:00. Worried daughter's past would be made public. Victim had contact with drug dealers and gang members in high school. Assured mother press would not hear about this from us. Not relevant."

I looked up.

"That's it?" Kate asked.

"Not exactly. Apparently Simpson wasn't so sure about the relevancy. He follows with a list of her old friends. William Collins, Byron Thompson, Neil Cohen, Jamie Smith, Ross Dayton, Celia French, Lori Edwards... You want more? 'Cause there's plenty."

"He thought one of her friends might have killed her?" Kate asked.

"I think police do a lot of eliminating, from what Jeff says. But gosh, Frank Simpson did plenty of interviewing if he followed up on all these people."

"He was thorough," said Kate.

"We have years of notes, Kate. When does 'thorough' turn to obsession?"

"Maybe we should jump to a later year. Unless you want to follow everything just as he did."

"I do," I said, spotting something else. I removed a photocopy of the picture caught by the ATM machine with the date of the murder printed in ink at the bottom. Amanda Mason was withdrawing the fifty dollars that would later be found in Lawrence Washington's room. The girl had short hair and looked more like sixteen than her actual nineteen years.

Kate leaned forward to see, then her fingers flew to her lips and she gasped.

"Kind of creepy looking at a ghost, huh?" I said.

"It's not that, Abby. My God, she looks like you."

"She does not," I shot back.

"Look at her. Her eyes, the shape of her face. She could be our sister."

"Yeah. Our dead sister," I said, pushing the photo away.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"It doesn't bother me, okay?" But we both knew it did. This case had been one disturbing episode after another, and her saying I looked like a murder victim made me realize it wasn't getting any better.