Dead Giveaway

17

I've been shot at before, and it's not something you get used to. My hands were shaking when I called Jeff and explained what had happened. He said to sit tight, he was on his way.

Meanwhile, Mr. Washington called 9-1-1, but someone else must have done the same, because a few seconds after I disconnected from Jeff, two HPD squad cars came to a screeching halt in front of the house.

Fortunately we avoided a SWAT team appearance or helicopters descending on us when a neighbor woman came out and explained what she'd seen to the patrol officers and assured them that Mr. Washington and I were not the threat. The threat had sped away in a red car.

Then it was all happy reunion time with the four officers who'd responded. Seems Mr. Washington and his gun were well known to these guys. Meanwhile I had two blue-red indentations across both knees and an attitude that matched the pain. I'd missed that Lexus-driving jerk again.

By the time Jeff arrived, I'd shown my PI license to every smirking, uniformed face, tried to explain why I was here and listened to their skepticism about this assailant being the person who'd followed me yesterday. There were a million red cars in Houston, I was told, and since Mr. Washington had a history of firing at drive-by shooters, perhaps one of his old enemies had returned for payback.

When Jeff and DeShay showed up, the atmosphere changed. Jeff made sure Mr. Washington and I were unhurt before turning his attention to senior Officer Smirk—okay, it said SCHMIDT on his uniform. Jeff said, "You call out a crime scene unit?"

"It's a broken window, Sarge. We—"

"Call one. Now. And get the other officers out of here. You can stay." The icicles in Jeff's tone must have pierced Schmidt's Kevlar vest, because Schmidt sent the three officers back to their patrol units with a "Yes, sir." Then he called on his walkie-talkie for a crime scene unit.

Meanwhile a gloved DeShay was pointing with a pencil at a bullet lodged in the wall right above the sofa—oh so close to the place I'd been sitting not thirty minutes ago. "We need this bullet," he said.

"You think this incident is related to the case the woman was telling us about?" Schmidt asked.

"Tried to tell you about," I piped in.

"The woman's name is Ms. Rose and she's working with us," Jeff said, looking at the bullet hole, his head tilting right then left.

"Guess that's a yes," Schmidt said quietly.

"I think you'd be right, Schmitty," Mr. Washington said from his spot at the kitchen entry. He'd already apologized several times for knocking me down and now held a bright blue plastic ice pack. "This might help, Ms. Rose."

I hobbled over and took it from him. "Thanks. I think what just went down puts us on a first-name basis. I'm Abby."

"Thaddeus. Just so you know, he wasn't aiming for neither of us."

This observation got Jeff's attention. "What's that, Mr. Washington?"

"From what I could tell—'course these things happen in a split second, so I could be wrong—he hit what he wanted to. The window. I mean, he was a damn twenty feet away and missed us by ten."

"A warning shot," Jeff said, nodding in agreement. "Get a look at the shooter?"

Thaddeus shook his head no. "Black glove and shiny gun through the driver's side window, that's all. I did hit a taillight, though. You might want your crime scene folks to take a look in the street."

Jeff smiled. "You got off a shot?"

"You betcha."

Jeff glanced down at me. I was sitting on the floor next to Thaddeus, holding the frozen gel pack across both knees.

He said, "Seems Miss Abby Rose is one of the lucky ones. She makes friends willing to defend her wherever she goes."

After I gave Schmitty a formal statement, I left at Jeff's insistence, even though I wanted to see what the crime scene people came up with. He told me the house was so small I'd be in the way, so I tried not to pout when I said good-bye. There is nothing more unattractive than a pouting girlfriend unless she happens to be a Playboy centerfold candidate. Those types could chew tobacco and men wouldn't care.

But if I thought the excitement was over, I was milking the wrong cow. My cell phone rang about halfway home.

"This is Blinks Security. Vega here," said the caller.

Yes, Blinks. I still wonder when Brinks will file suit.

"What is it, Mr. Vega?" I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Your security company does not call to say, "Everything's fine at your place, if you're wondering."

"You've had a break-in, Ms. Rose. West U. police are already on the scene. We arrived first, by the way."

I sighed. "Of course you did, and I'm so proud. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

I'd hired the security company and had a system installed after a suspect in another case walked right into my screened-in porch with her trusty gun in hand. A lot of good it did me today. I felt like I'd had my clothes stolen while I was skinny-dipping. Embarrassed, angry and foolish about summed it up. See, I was now certain that someone had gotten someone's license plate number even if I hadn't. Mr. Red Lexus got mine, probably when he ran out of Verna Mae's house the other night. The bastard had been on my tail ever since, and apparently following me had been as easy as catching fish with dynamite.

I returned home to meet with Vega and the West U. police, a visit that didn't last long. Vega said he'd have my broken lock replaced before nightfall. Then when the police and I did an inventory and discovered the only thing missing was the Washington file, they left as happy as blowflies on manure. Who cares about a pile of paper?

I sat at my kitchen table, fists supporting my chin. I didn't want to call Jeff and tell him what had happened. I was too upset. The Washington files were gone, the files I had promised Joelle Simpson I'd take care of, stolen while I'd been giving a statement, stolen no doubt by Mr. Red Lexus. Had he shot at and missed us for just this purpose? To delay me across town? Probably. After seeing me with Thaddeus Washington, he put two and two together, created a diversion and headed straight here to find out what I had that led me to Lawrence's father. At least he hadn't hacked into my computer. That would have required time considering how well-protected it was. No, my computer wasn't important to the thief, anyway. I'd left what he wanted in plain sight.

I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling a headache coming on. Damn. First Verna Mae's scrapbooks and now the files. Someone did not want the old case and Verna Mae's death connected—and that meant bigger secrets were out there somewhere.

I had to tell Jeff. Despite the disinterest by the local police, the thief could have left evidence in my kitchen. Yeah. Big fat fingerprints all over the place. Probably even spit on the table to make sure we had DNA. Right. Like he'd never seen CSI or Forensic Files or any other crime show that offers crooks recipes for success.

I sighed and took my phone out of my purse, but before I could even speed-dial Jeff's number, Aunt Caroline rapped on the back door and then came prancing in like she always does. Could this day get any worse?

"Abby, I heard you were robbed. What did they take?" She was wearing a pink polo shirt and golf shorts, her electric beach tan just a little too dark this week.

The break-in probably happened an hour ago and she already knew. The woman never ceases to amaze me, and I don't mean that in a good way. "Nothing antique or encrusted with jewels was stolen, but thanks for asking if I was home or I was hurt or any of those less important details."

If she hadn't applied so much plum blush I might have detected embarrassment over her being more concerned about material things than her niece. Her reaction, however, was par for the course, and I didn't give a flying flip anyway. How would I explain to Joelle?

"Who told you?" I asked.

"The news is all over the neighborhood, so Marion Callaway called me immediately, which is more than you did."

"I only just found out and who the hell is Marion Callaway?"

"Your neighbor down the block. You really need to be more sociable, get out and meet people. I met Marion at the country club, we got to talking and I found out she lives right near you. We've been friends for several weeks now."

Great. Aunt Caroline had her own CIA agent in my neighborhood. "Listen, I'd love to give you all the tantalizing details, but there aren't any, and I don't feel much like visiting, so—"

"Marion said she's seen that car several times hanging around your place and didn't think it belonged to anyone she knew. Then this happens and she sees the police and—"

"She saw the car?"

"Oh, yes. Didn't see the driver, but Marion is quite good with numbers. I swear she could keep her golf score in her head. God knows, she always keeps track of mine. I only hope when I'm as old as her I—"

"Numbers? What about numbers?"

"She remembered the license number. I think she said she was calling it in to the West University Police right after she hung up from me. Unlike you, she knew I needed this information immediately, even before the police." Aunt Caroline smiled—the last face-lift was already wearing off, so she could actually smile without splitting her lips at the corners—and for once her smug face didn't make me clench my teeth.

I called Mrs. Callaway after Aunt Caroline left, and the woman was more than happy to give me the license number she'd already phoned in to the West U. police. She was a talker like Aunt Caroline, and I listened with half an ear while she rambled on about crime and being a good citizen and how my aunt was proud of me for me getting my hands dirty in the real world. This implied that she and Aunt Caroline wore gloves—expensive ones—to keep their hands clean. After I disconnected, I called Jeff with the plate number but got his voice mail, so I left a message.

But I wasn't done with phones. I'd no sooner hung up when Will called.

"How's the case going, Abby?" he asked. "Did... did the DNA result come back yet?"

Abby, you idiot. How could I have forgotten to at least call Will's parents, let alone him? Probably because I had tunnel vision right now. One thing kept leading to another in this case, and Will had been the beginning of the trail—a meeting that seemed so long ago now.

"I am so sorry, Will. I should have phoned you right away."

"I probably couldn't have talked to you anyway. They're pretty strict about us focusing on the game at camp."

"Nice of you to let me off the hook, but I'm still sorry. I found out Wednesday evening that Verna Mae was not your birth mother."

A short silence followed, then Will said, "It kinda makes me feel better. Does that sound bad?"

"No, not at all. I think we both knew deep down she wasn't your birth mother. I am making progress in other ways." Should I tell him his father might be in prison for murder? That answer came easy. I had to be honest. It was my job. I filled Will in.

"Man, this blows my mind. He's in prison. Do you think that officer was right? That he didn't kill that girl?"

"I have no hard evidence, but Frank Simpson never gave up on Lawrence, and that says a lot. Now that I've lost his files, though, I—"

"You didn't lose them. Someone took them," Will said.

"I feel responsible, and the fact that someone wanted them that badly tells me they're worried about what Simpson kept."

"You mean they wanted the evidence that might prove the man who is probably my birth father is innocent, in prison for a crime he didn't commit?" Will, my usually subdued young client, was angry. And so was I.

"Officer Simpson didn't have hard evidence, so I'm not one hundred percent sure about anything Will, not even about Lawrence Washington being your birth father. But I promise you, I will learn the truth."

"But you believe this man in jail is him. My birth father."

"Yes, Will. I do," I said quietly.

"Okay, I want to see him. See the man who's probably my grandfather, too. When can that happen?"

"Listen, I understand this is upsetting, but give me more time, let me find out what's true and what's not. Lawrence wouldn't have even let me in to see him without police help. I doubt if it would be wise to take you to Huntsville."

"I'm sorry, Abby. This just pisses me off. It's so wrong."

"I'm sure your parents have told you more than once that what's fair and right doesn't always happen. In this case, I'm hoping we can fix that."

But while I was reassuring him of my commitment, I was thinking about something Will had just said. He wanted to see his grandfather. Lawrence might not be willing to give up any DNA to prove paternity, but I was certain Thaddeus wouldn't hesitate. Grandparent genes had to be good, though I hadn't had a case yet where I'd needed them. If they could identify Billy the Kid's relatives after a hundred years, not to mention Thomas Jefferson's mixed-race offspring, then surely I could get the proof we needed.

"Abby? You still there?" said Will.

"Sorry. Are you back from camp?" I asked.

"No. I have a few more days to go. We aren't supposed to use our cell phones except for emergencies, but I couldn't stop thinking about that poor dead lady and what you were doing. I'm hoping no one rats me out about phoning you."

"You do what you're supposed to in Austin, and I promise I'll have more answers when you return." Okay, so I'd offered up more than a little hope that Lawrence Washington was innocent, though I wasn't totally sure, had left out a few details—like how Lawrence was stonewalling and how I'd been followed and warned and had basically put myself and my sister at risk. But that's what I'd signed up for when I chose this life, and Will didn't need to know all that.