Dead Giveaway

20

I was dog tired when I made it home, too tired to revisit my Internet searches looking for Jessica Roman right now. I'd just finished microwaving a pizza when Jeff showed up. Nothing better than more chardonnay and a little sex for my dessert. I'm never too tired for that.

An hour later, we were lying in bed, my head close to Jeff's ear, when he said, "The bullet is a match. The same gun that murdered Amanda Mason killed the Olsen woman."

I sat straight up and shoved Jeff's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me the minute you walked in the door?"

"Because I had other plans. What would you do with that information tonight anyway?"

"I don't know. Drink more wine, maybe. I mean, this is great."

"Great because it connects the crimes, but it still doesn't do much for Lawrence Washington or your client," Jeff said.

"It's evidence. Unless you're trying to convince me that Lawrence gave the gun to someone after the murder, or sold it, or pawned it, and then years later the same gun is used to shoot Verna Mae? Come on, Jeff."

"I'm trying to make you think this through. For one thing, you can't be certain Will is Lawrence's son."

"If you'd been in that prison and seen him, you wouldn't have a doubt—they look that much alike. I plan on asking Thaddeus Washington for a DNA sample tomorrow, since Lawrence won't cooperate. Then we'll have even more hard evidence."

"Good idea. I'll handle that. Send someone out to collect a sample tomorrow. You won't get your private lab tech to work on a weekend."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks," I said.

Jeff tucked several strands of hair behind my ear. "You're distracted. What's going on?"

"I keep thinking about Lawrence Washington, Jeff. He claims he's innocent yet he won't cooperate about this baby thing. That tells me he's either protecting someone or he's got nothing to tell." I reached down, grabbed Jeff's shirt from the floor and put it on. "Protecting the mother of his child? Protecting his father? Protecting the son he never knew?"

"Maybe all three," Jeff said. "Or maybe he didn't want to get his hopes up about getting out, feared the parole board would bypass him again. Now that you've got a little leverage with him, he might talk."

"Leverage?" I said.

"His father. I saw you two together. You got old Thaddeus charmed. Rent a wheelchair van and take him up to Huntsville. I'll call ahead, arrange the visit. With his father urging him to cooperate, you might get something out of Lawrence."

"Do you guys have a wheelchair van?"

"A wheelchair paddy wagon is a better description. Not exactly a comfortable ride for the old guy."

"Wait. I have an idea on where to find a van, not to mention some willing spirits at the Church of the Reverent Life that might just lend me the transportation."

The next morning, I called the church hoping to talk to B.J. and learned you do not call a church on a Sunday morning and expect to get any help. I didn't even bother to leave a message. Turned out Jeff couldn't get me into the prison anyway. Someone had stabbed one of their best buddies with a paper clip, and discipline was the order of the day. My need for an interview wasn't deemed important enough to override the warden's order for all inmates to remain in their cells.

Needing another means of transportation to get Thaddeus up to the prison, I found a United Way volunteer who'd rolled over the office phone to his cell. He told me they'd help whenever I needed them. I didn't even have to donate money, though I made a call and left a message for my very excellent financial adviser—who did not go by the name of Oscar Drummond—to get a donation to them in the mail tomorrow.

I turned my attention to Jessica Roman. I had been unable to find her through usual computer searches, but finally did locate her using one of my expensive pay-as-you-hunt Internet companies. Strange how a picture does not always tell a thousand words. She looked prim, serious and even a little nerdy in the old church photo, but it turns out I could have gotten tons of information about her from Jeff for free. Jessica Roman was a "massage therapist" with a rap sheet as long as a well rope. Apparently her God-fearing days had ended long ago.

I called Jeff, and he hooked me up with a vice officer who knew Jessica well. But Officer Marty Lamar didn't want me visiting Jessica at her "business" by myself and offered to take me. Seems he and Jeff were pretty good friends and he'd been told to look out for me.

Marty picked me up in the late afternoon. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and I'd opted for the same. A minor cool front had blown through and knocked the temperature down to the high seventies today. He was short and muscular, maybe late forties, but had spent way too much time in the Texas heat. His skin was leathery and sun-damaged, but what was more striking was his cynicism. Every word he uttered told me he should consider changing jobs. Vice did not agree with him.

We headed to a very nasty section of the city where massage parlors lined the streets, and he took me straight to where Jessica did business—Vivi's. The sign on the door read ALWAYS OPEN.

"Guess you know Jessica pretty well?" I asked.

"I know 'em all," Marty said. "But my view is kind of one-dimensional. She might be nice and helpful and all those things normal people are. I've never bothered to find out and don't give a shit, to be honest."

His attitude reminded me how much I had to learn about crime, despite long talks with Jeff—but then Jeff was as different from Marty as sugar was from salt. Not that Jeff was sweet and soft. He just had something Marty might have lost along the way. Compassion.

When we walked into the very small, very rundown portable metal building, a woman at a front table jumped up.

"Cool your jets, Bitsy," Marty said. "I'm not here on a bust. Where's Jessie?"

Bitsy was a bleach blonde with lips painted as red as Twizzlers. She was about as "bitsy" as a longhorn steer. "She's, um, busy. Guy with a really bad back needed help."

"Yeah, right," said Marty. "You go fix his back and get her out here. Now."

"Sure. Whatever you say."

While she hurried down a small narrow hall, I said, "I'll bet for every one of these you shut down, another springs up."

"Every fuckin' day. This used to be the Ocean Club. Looks like a club, doesn't it?" He offered a wry smile.

I just shook my head.

Less than a minute later Jessie appeared, wiping her hands on her spandex pants. I sincerely hoped that white stuff she was shedding was massage lotion.

She stopped short of us. "I'm losing money by the second. What do you want, Marty?" Despite her lifestyle, Jessica Roman had aged well. She still had the kinky red hair and high cheekbones in the photo— not to mention a very nice body. The boobs, however, were bra-busters, probably not original issue.

"Let's go out to the car. Have a little chat," Marty said.

She looked at me with skepticism. "Who's she? An assistant D.A.? 'Cause I'm clean. Off the crack, doing real massage—"

"Save it for some rookie, Jessie. Let's go."

We went out to Marty's unmarked Ford, and Jessica and I slid into the backseat. He started the engine and turned on the air-conditioning over Jessica's protest that it was cold in the car already. He pulled a turkey sandwich from a brown bag and started eating while I explained I was a PI and needed her help.

"And why should I help you?" Jessica asked.

"Because I said so," Marty answered with a full mouth, his icy stare catching her in the rearview mirror.

"Okay, okay," she said. "Shoot."

"A long time ago," I said, "you belonged to the Church of the Reverent Life."

"When I was fifteen. So what?" She lifted her chin, her hostility evident.

"Hey, this has nothing to do with religion or the lack of it, if that's your problem. Don't get all bent." I had to thank Will for the vernacular one of these days. Helps with the job.

"In return for me talking to you, I don't get busted? Is that the deal?" she asked.

"That's right," Marty answered over his shoulder.

Jessica rolled her eyes and sighed. "What do you want to know?"

"There was a kid in your group, Lawrence Washington. He ended up in jail."

"Yeah. Lawrence. Killed some girl. Not what I expected from him. He probably had an IQ bigger than Pastor Rankin's. He was one smart dude."

"You thought Lawrence did the murder?" I asked. "To tell you the truth, no. But everyone's got a dark side."

"Yeah, including you," Marty said.

"Shut up," Jessie shot back.

"Back to the youth group," I said. "What do you remember about the pastor's daughter?"

"Sara?"

"Yes."

"Oh. This is about her and Lawrence?" Jessica settled into the corner of the backseat, her smile a surprise.

When in doubt, act like you know more than you do, I always say. "How long had they been a couple?"

"They clicked the minute they set eyes on each other. But how'd you find out? I thought I was the only one who knew," she said.

"Believe me, it hasn't been easy to get at the truth. Tell me about them."

"Her parents would have freaked if they found out, I can tell you that. After she was gone and Lawrence got sent up, I decided it wasn't something anyone needed to know, especially the parents. A dead issue. Fuckin' Romeo and Juliet deal."

"Jessie's been reading Shakespeare?" Marty said. "Stop the presses."

"Hey," she said. "There's a whole lot you don't know about me, so screw it shut, Marty."

I cleared my throat. "Getting back to Sara. Exactly when did she disappear?"

Jessie squinted in thought for a few seconds. "Right before the whole Lawrence thing. All of a sudden two people were gone in a couple weeks' time. Her mother said she went on some mission trip to Mexico, but Sara never said anything about going anywhere to me. Other kids went on those trips all the time, though, and Sara got a lot more out of that Bible crap than I ever did. It would have been her kind of gig. Not up my alley, I can tell you."

Marty said, "You're serving mankind in your own special way, Jessie." He balled up the paper sack that had held his sandwich and tossed it in her lap. "Take care of that for me on your way back to work."

"Sure, asshole." She looked at me. "Anything else?"

"You're certain Lawrence and Sara were... close?" I said.

"You mean doing the nasty? Oh, yeah. I'm sure. I could tell by the way they snuck their little church school glances across the room. I would have liked a little of that Lawrence action myself. The guy was hot."

"They're all hot to you," Marty said. "Even the scuzzy ones with hair growing out of their ears."

"Okay. I'm done here," she snapped. She opened the door, launched the twisted bag at Marty's head and left.

After Marty drove me back to my car, I thanked him for his help, and he apologized for the interaction between him and Jessie, saying he got carried away. He said she was a smart woman wasting her brain and it pissed him off, that he ran into way too many people like her.

I was a little pissed off myself at the information the Rankins had omitted. I decided another visit to them was in order. Maybe they didn't know about Lawrence and Sara, but I was beginning to think that trip she took had been a mission all right, a mission trip the Rankins organized to get their daughter away from her black boyfriend. I needed to know when Sara left, and if I got lucky, the pastor and his wife might even come clean about what they knew or suspected about Lawrence and Sara.

The parking lot was packed when I arrived at the church and discovered a late Sunday service was in progress. I tiptoed into the sanctuary and chose one of those movie theater–type seats in the last row. Pastor Rankin was miked, and I had to admit the little man could make you believe he was alone with you despite the full house. No wonder they needed this huge place.

I'd come in on the tail end of the sermon and only knew Pastor Rankin had focused on God's grace, grace that allowed friend and foe alike to gather as one community. I didn't really listen to the words, but focused more on the rhythm of his delivery. Does someone teach you to speak like that? I wondered. Or was he born with the ability?

He finished, saying, "All of you are present on earth to glorify God, to expand His kingdom by proclaiming His word in the world."

I was surprised when the audience stood and applauded. No one applauded in my church, not for anything. This whole production reminded me of a Broadway play.

I hung around in the vestibule for what seemed like an hour as people visited with each other and the Rankins. The crowd finally began to disperse and then the pastor and his wife were alone, preparing to leave.

They both seemed surprised to see me. "I have a few more questions," I said after we exchanged greetings.

Mrs. Rankin said, "Did you just arrive?"

"No, I came in on the end of the sermon. Impressive, Pastor."

"I'm so thrilled you joined us tonight," said the pastor's wife when he didn't respond.

Rankin was wearing that odd smile that had made me so uncomfortable the other day, his eyes never straying from me. Finally he spoke. "You've brought the light again. More light to fill our church home and our hearts, Abby Rose."

I thought this aura business might have been a diversion last time, but now I wasn't so sure. He seemed so sincere, so mesmerized by me when it should have been the other way around.

As for Mrs. Rankin? She was definitely bothered and was staring at him with that same confused look I'd noticed yesterday. "Andrew, the only light you seem to be speaking of comes from God or from Jesus, our savior. Please remember that."

I decided it was time to fish or cut bait, get to why I was here. "Why didn't either of you tell me Lawrence knew Sara?"

Mrs. Rankin didn't miss a beat. "You never asked."

Now that answer pissed me off. Not wanting to burn my bridges, however, I bit my tongue and sweetly said, "Okay. I'll try to be direct. Did you suspect they were having a little romance?"

"Of course not," said the pastor. "I told you before, he was... black." He whispered the word "black," a tactic used often in these parts to let a listener know where a speaker stood on race relations. I already knew where the pastor stood, though. Blacks might be welcome to worship here, but they would never really belong in the fold.

"Sara had no boyfriend," Mrs. Rankin said. "She was very involved in charity work, school, many other things, too. Besides, she'd left for Mexico before the murder, so I'm unsure why it even matters that they knew each other."

"The police never asked about her either, did they?" I said.

"No. She wasn't here the night Lawrence was arrested. They had no reason to ask," she said.

"Some people happen to think Sara and Lawrence were close, maybe even intimate."

"Intimate only with God." Pastor Rankin had flushed so red I thought we might need to call the fire department. His eyes had filled, and I was worried he might plunge over the deep end again.

"I didn't come to upset you, Pastor," I said. "I'm trying to get at the truth."

"Oh, I know," he said. "The light of truth follows you everywhere. God is helping you in your quest. Allow Him to lead you down the righteous path. Give in to His wishes, and the truth will follow."

Problem was, Rankin's so-called righteous path led me to this church, but his unwavering stare made me wish I was somewhere else. "Are you certain you knew nothing about your daughter's relationship to Lawrence?" I asked.

"There was no relationship," Mrs. Rankin said, placing a manicured hand on her husband's sleeve. "You know how spent you are after a sermon, Andrew." She looked at me. "The sermons sometimes take him someplace else, a place where his senses are heightened. I think he needs to rest."

I said, "Well, I'm not resting until I learn the truth. See, there's a man sitting in prison for a crime he didn't commit. If Sara was the person you say she was, she'd want you to help him—not take a nap right now, Pastor."

"Yes... she would want to help," Rankin said. "Sara cared so much for the less fortunate, the—"

"Please let him gather himself before you continue," Mrs. Rankin said. "We are willing spirits, but a church this size has its stresses."

"I hate to be persistent, but I need to know about Sara's trip," I said. "When did she leave? When did you find out she was missing?"

"Maybe we should go into the office," Mrs. Rankin replied. "All I ask is that you be gentle with Andrew. He has not healed from our loss despite accepting God's will. Any questions concerning that time are distressing."

Andrew took my elbow as we walked down the hall to the office. "I feel so humble in your presence, Abby Rose. Your dedication to your cause, the determination in your eyes—how I wish I had half of your passion."

I fought the urge to pull away from his touch. How could someone go from being vibrant and in charge of a huge audience to downright disturbed in less than an hour?

Since they were vacuuming the pastor's office, we opted for the library and sat in those cushy chairs. I took a deep breath before I spoke. Having had a min ute to think made me realize that being a little less pushy might be a better approach with them.

But before I could open my mouth and offer a kinder, gentler Abby, a lady in turquoise scrubs with little panda bears all over the fabric came rushing into the room. I recognized her as the one who had been driving the van yesterday.

"Pastor? I—" She looked at me. "I am so sorry to interrupt." She stood there, her fingers working, obviously distressed.

Pastor Rankin stood, his concern evident. "Is it Chester? Is he going downhill?"

The woman nodded.

Reading my questioning look, Noreen Rankin said, "This is Olive, our nurse's aide. She visits the shutins, makes sure they get medical care, takes them out to pick up their medicines. We don't know what we'd do without her."

Olive sure had a huge job if she was serving the gigantic congregation by herself. Maybe there was more than one aide, though.

"Noreen, Abby Rose," said the pastor, "I'm needed elsewhere. Will you forgive me if I leave?"

"Is someone sick?" I asked.

"Yes. Please return, Abby Rose. We have much to discuss and the light... I think I understand now. You've been sent to help me past the sorrow."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs. Rankin close her eyes and shake her head. Maybe she needed to consider upping his meds.

The pastor left with Olive and I turned to Mrs. Rankin. "Tell me about your daughter. You must have loved her very much."

If Noreen Rankin was unnerved by her husband's less-than-normal behavior, she'd stuffed it down. She rested against the cushions, raised her eyes to the stained-glass ceiling. "She was our angel. Gifted in so many ways. God must have needed her, called her to His side."

"She left for the mission trip several weeks before Lawrence was arrested, correct?"

"Yes. Our ministry was working in central Mexico with a town in need of help. Sara felt the calling."

"But what about school? It wasn't summer, so she was supposed to be in school, right?"

"School is more than a classroom and textbooks, Ms. Rose. Her education never stopped."

"She went alone? Didn't that worry you?"

"Her father took her, left her in the hands of the pastor there. Andrew was much more in touch with reality back then." She looked me straight in the eye. "He does have some lingering emotional problems, as I'm sure you've noticed."

"But he is a wonderful speaker," I said with a smile, at a loss for anything better to say.

She just smiled back.

I had to fill the awkward silence, so I moved on. "When did you realize Sara... wasn't coming back?"

Mrs. Rankin fiddled with the hem of her pale yellow sweater and spoke softly, saying, "May. We got a call, that horrible phone call every parent dreads. She'd fallen and they couldn't find her body. What a nightmare. We spared no expense searching, but she was gone. I have spent years learning to accept God needed her and took her. I am at peace with that today."

"The pastor's not at peace," I said.

"He's not always in touch with the world outside that sanctuary. He thinks she'll walk through the door one day, still sixteen, still as full of life as ever."

I considered the timing. Sara could have left, but maybe she didn't die in May as her parents assumed. If she gave birth to Lawrence's child in the fall of '87, the mission trip was a cover to hide the pregnancy from her family. "Several months passed from the time she left until you knew she was... gone for good?"

"We kept hoping for a miracle throughout the year. Andrew wouldn't give up the search. He was a strong man back then, poured his heart and soul into his ministry—I think sometimes to avoid spending every minute thinking about Sara."

"Why did you finally have that memorial service at Christmastime?" I asked, remembering what Oscar Drummond had told me and the small newspaper article mentioning the celebration of Sara's life.

"How did you know? From the books?" She glanced over her shoulder at the shelves.

"I located someone from the youth group. Oscar Drummond told me."

"Ah, Oscar. Nice young man. Anyway, I convinced Andrew we had to let go of Sara. In the years that followed, I thought I'd made the right decision, because Andrew seemed to be coping well. He moved up the ranks, brought so many more people to our church." The smile that had disappeared when Mrs. Rankin had been talking about her daughter's death returned.

"But things have changed?"

"He has his good days. Lucid ones. And I hope you'll be kind enough to not say anything about his unusual behavior tonight. We don't want to trouble those who need him and might falter if Andrew were forced out of his position here."

"Sure. I'm just looking for the truth, and I do appreciate your help. I knew Sara's death took a toll on your husband the first time we met, but I didn't realize the magnitude."

"Maybe Andrew is onto something about you, Ms. Rose, because I'm inspired by your dedication to your job. You've learned so much in a day's time, and I've done nothing to reach out to the others who must have felt our terrible loss back then. They were her friends, after all."

"Oscar would love to hear from you." And love to manage the church money, given half a chance. Plenty of money here, that's for sure. Enough money to help keep a big secret? But before I could think harder on this, I heard the muffled ring of the phone in my purse. "Excuse me," I said.

I answered and was surprised to hear Burl's voice. "I found the place."

"The place?" I said, confused.

"Verna Mae's storage unit. In Houston. I'm on my way there."

"Can I meet you?" I asked.

"Sure." After he gave me the address, I hung up and looked at Mrs. Rankin. "Thanks for talking to me. I know it wasn't easy."

"Can you find your way out?" she asked.

"No problem," I answered.

As I hurried to my car, I was willing to bet Sara had left home to hide a pregnancy and gave birth, maybe in that Mexican village. Was Mrs. Rankin telling the truth? Or did Sara's parents guess the real reason she left? They might have made up the mission trip story and the mysterious fall to keep the church from learning the truth about their daughter's sin— and they surely would have considered her behavior a sin. Maybe they hoped Sara would return after time passed—their "lost child" miraculously found. But then a real tragedy occurred—teenage pregnancies can be dangerous, and Sara could have died in childbirth. The Rankins found out somehow and left the baby with Verna Mae.

Then I thought of another scenario. Jessica Roman could have been Will's mother and was lying through her teeth today, thinking she could get busted for abandoning a child.

You don't know enough to be sure of anything, I thought, as I climbed into my Camry. I pulled out of the parking lot hoping that storage unit would yield something to tie everything together. I needed more than wild guesses.