Dead Giveaway

22

I heard him run away, and it only took about a nanosecond for me to realize he'd left the door open. Between the wind and air-conditioning, the fire was spreading, engulfing the contents of B-109.

The door is open, Abby. Open. As in you can get the hell out.

I didn't have to stop, drop and roll: I only needed the roll part. Trouble was, I was facing the back of the unit. Rolling would only take me left or right and not away from the fire, and its heat was already making me sweat.

I quickly turned over onto my back and sat up. Pretty damn easily, too. Bless you, Jeff, for getting me in shape, I thought, as I scooted on my butt out of that place.

I'd made it all the way to the A units when Burl found me. Thank God he didn't ask questions. He just uttered, "Damnation," before cutting me loose. Ever the careful cop, he took a Baggie from his pocket and stashed the plastic cuffs inside before pulling me to my feet. Then we ran.

Flames were flicking into the sky by the time we reached the entry gate. Burl helped me into the passenger seat of his Land Rover and called 9-1-1. The station must have been close, because we heard sirens almost immediately and the first fire truck pulled in only minutes later.

They had a swipe card—probably fire code regulations or something—and drove their truck in. Burl spoke to the cops who'd come barreling in on the heels of firemen and then returned to me.

He pulled a bottled water from the back floorboard. "Here. Drink this."

I twisted open the top and drank greedily.

"We need a paramedic for you, Abby?" he asked.

"No. I have a busted lip and a bruised ego, but other than that, I'm fine."

"Were you in B-109 when the fire started?" he asked.

"Yes. And I am so sorry, Burl. I—"

"How's your breathing? You inhale any smoke?"

"I got out of there pretty fast, so I'm really okay," I said.

"Good. Now what the hell do you think you were doing, girl?" The anger had finally surfaced, and I couldn't blame him. I was pretty mad at myself.

"I know I should have waited for you, but—"

"You got more buts than an acre of monkeys. You could have been killed."

"But I wasn't," I said. "And you know something? That's weird. He had a gun. He could have put a bullet in me."

"Maybe he thought you'd die in the fire."

"He left the door open, Burl. He knew I could get out. He didn't want me. He wanted to destroy that place."

Burl nodded in agreement. "Makes sense, and from the looks of that fire, we may never know what was so important."

"I saw some of it. Had a little flashlight and—oh, no."

"What?"

"My car keys. They're in there."

"Don't count on finding them anytime soon," said Burl, looking up at the black cloud hanging over us.

After I filled in the cops and the firemen on everything that happened, Burl drove me to Kate's place so I could get a house key. I'd lost that, too.

On the way, I explained everything I could remember about the inside of the unit, and Burl said he'd get with the firemen tomorrow about examining whatever could be salvaged from the fire. As expected, Burl had a warrant to search the contents, and I guess that still counted even if there was nothing but ashes left. I called Jeff, but got his voice mail, so I didn't leave any message aside from asking him to call. Some things you do not leave as a recording.

I rapped on Kate's back door. She must have been in the kitchen, because she answered right away.

"What happened to you?" she said, focusing on my fat lip. She pulled me inside by the wrist, and I winced. Plastic cuffs are brutal, I'd learned.

She looked down and saw the red abrasions. "Oh, my God. Where have you been? Who hurt you?"

"I'll explain everything, but I will need my house key before I leave. Lost my car keys, too, but I have a spare at home."

She put an arm around me and gently led me to the kitchen barstool. "You need help getting up?"

"I'm fine, Kate."

"I have something to help heal your lip, so—"

"Do I have to drink it? Because I'd rather have coffee than drink any of your—coffee! Yes. I want a huge mug of dark, strong coffee."

"You're not making sense. You've been saying for the last week that you might never drink another cup of coffee in your life. Were you hit on the head or—"

"Go get your magic potions and fix me up, doc. Then I'll explain."

After my lip had been slathered with goo and some different homeopathic ointment had been applied to my wrists and ankles, I told her everything over freshly brewed Starbucks Kenyan. It tasted so good, and I was thankful my coffee aversion had ended. Near-death experiences tend to make you appreciate what's important in life, I guess.

"Verna Mae had created a shrine to Will?" Kate asked after I told her what I'd seen tonight.

"I can't think of a better word. She must have gone there and prayed for him, what with the kneeling rail and candles. But with the picture of Sara Rankin there, too, she obviously knew way more than she let on when Will and I visited her—the visit right before she was found beaten and shot. I'm wondering now if that's why she called to meet with me that Friday— to tell me about Sara."

"How did Verna Mae learn what's been so hard for you to discover?" Kate asked.

"She knew from the beginning, is my guess. Knew exactly whose baby had been left in her care."

"Left by Sara? I'm confused. I thought she died in May and Will was born in the fall."

"I'm guessing Sara died during childbirth or right after, not in a fall. The Rankins had that service in December because they knew she was dead."

"And they gave the baby to Verna Mae?" she asked.

"I don't know."

Kate said, "Maybe Sara did fall. She could have been in a coma from a head injury. I've heard of comatose women being kept alive so they can deliver at term. What if her parents pulled the plug on life support after Will was born? Are they the type who would do that?"

"I can't answer that. I only know that something, maybe something more than grief, drove the pastor to the edge. Could his grief be mixed with guilt for pulling that plug?"

"Certainly. Especially if his religious teachings told him to keep her on a machine and he didn't," Kate said.

"Okay. That makes sense. Now, is there a connection between the Rankins and Verna Mae?"

"Maybe she attended their church," Kate said.

"I never explored that possibility," I said. "It's on my to-do list now, though."

Kate stared at me, her coffee cup held between her hands. "I'm still confused. Why would the Rankins manufacture such an elaborate cover-up before Will was born?"

I explained my theory about their daughter being a sinner. "I think they would have been humiliated and embarrassed by Sara's behavior, don't you?"

"From all you've told me about them, yes."

"There's more, Kate. Verna Mae is dead because she knew something I don't. At least something I don't know yet.

"I'm worried, Abby. Please turn this over to Jeff? You got lucky tonight, but—"

"This is my life, now. This is what I do. A woman died an awful death. Lawrence Washington has been sitting in prison for a crime he didn't commit. Someone set him up, and that has to be made right. For Will, for Thaddeus and for Joelle Simpson."

Kate leaned over and took my face in her warm hands. "Okay. I understand.... But please be careful, Abby."

The call from Jeff woke me at three a.m, so I knew he'd heard about the fire or he would have waited until morning.

"Still have your eyelashes?" he asked. He was joking, but I could hear concern beneath the humor.

"I'm fine. Are you working twenty-four shifts now?"

"I crashed here at the precinct. Then I get a wakeup call from someone saying Burl Rollins wanted to talk to me. I think you know the rest."

"Too well. More excitement than I planned on."

"You get a read on the bad guy?"

"Not really. He was all in black and a man of few words."

"Could he have been someone you've interviewed along the way?"

"The only thing I can say with certainty is that he was male. Probably the same person who's been following me like a coyote after a lost calf since day one."

"I need to teach you a few things about busting a tail."

"Not tonight, please. But if the offer is still good to get back into the prison, I want to talk to Lawrence Washington, find out why he kept quiet about Sara all these years, figure out why he won't help himself if he's innocent."

"I'd like to hear those answers myself. We'll go tomorrow. Bring the father, if possible."

"You want that leverage, huh?"

"Yup. We might even have Thaddeus's DNA results by the time we get to Huntsville," Jeff said.

"I know what the test will show, but if we can convince Lawrence he has a son—"

"He'll talk about his relationship with Sara," Jeff finished. "Her story, what happened to her, is key."

"Right. I'll arrange for the handicapped van. See you tomorrow, then?"

"Absolutely. I'm very glad I will be seeing you tomorrow," he said quietly.

"Are you upset with me for going into that storage unit without Burl?"

"Not as much as when I first heard what you did. I should have known you'd keep a set of those keys, and don't repeat this to anyone with a badge, but I admire you for working this case every which way you could, even if you've made a few dumb moves."

"Dumb moves? I'm allowed to label them dumb, not you," I said with mock anger.

"Remember that the next time I do something stupid," he said. "I love you, Abby. See you tomorrow."

The arrangements for the van and Jeff's need for a few hours of sleep came in quite handy. I also had a chance to retrieve my car from the storage facility. We didn't pick up Thaddeus until around three p.m. Monday. The driver took care of getting Thaddeus and his chair into the back passenger area, then designated me to carry the insulated medical bag containing Thaddeus's glucose monitor, snacks and insulin.

The call from the lab came right after we merged onto the freeway heading toward Huntsville. Jeff put the call on speakerphone so Thaddeus could hear.

"Paternal grandparent isn't always the best—we like maternal connections when you skip generations," said the woman on the phone.

"Bottom line?" Jeff asked.

"Seventy percent probability older donor is closely related to young male donor."

"Yes!" I did a Tiger Woods fist pump.

"Thanks, Bev. I owe you," Jeff said.

"You never owe me," she answered, before disconnecting.

My excitement at having this confirmation was overshadowed by a tinge of jealousy. But I kept my lip zipped about it and said, "I knew it, Thaddeus. You have a grandson."

I was sitting next to him, and he reached over and took my hand. His was cold when he squeezed mine. "Something good for once. Praise God, something good."

"Maybe this will help us convince Lawrence to tell us what he knows," I said. "The bullet found inside Verna Mae came from the same gun that put a round in your wall, Thaddeus."

"How's that help my son?"

"That same gun killed Amanda Mason," I said.

Thaddeus took this in, not speaking for several seconds. "That's hard evidence," he finally said. "Think he could get a new trial out of this?"

"I don't know," Jeff said quickly. "But if you can convince him to talk, tell us if he knew who owned that gun, it would sure help."

"That's why we're a traveling road show today, right?" said Thaddeus. He looked at me. "Tell me again, how old is Lawrence's boy?"

"Nineteen."

"I've missed nineteen years. Got plenty to make up for."

"You ever watch college basketball?" I asked.

"Nope. After Lawrence was taken from us, it hurt to watch kids doing what he should have been doing— using his talent. We'd gone to every one of his high school baseball games, stood behind him when he signed his letter of intent. Nope. I got to hate sports, all of them."

"You'll have to learn to at least like basketball again. Your grandson is a star athlete," I said.

Thaddeus smiled. "Won't be hard to like it. Won't be hard at all."

We talked about Will all the way to Huntsville, and I told him all I knew about his newfound grandson. When we arrived at the prison barricade, however, Thaddeus's good spirits faded quickly.

"He'll be upset at me coming," he said as the driver lowered the automatic ramp and then maneuvered Thaddeus and his chair onto the parking lot asphalt.

"He loves you. He'll get over it," I answered.

Jeff said, "We'll take it from here" to the driver.

After we went through the security checks, Jeff arranged for us to meet with Lawrence in an interview room rather than the visitors' area. Guess he has more pull than DeShay.

"I get a bad feeling every time I come here," Thaddeus said as Jeff wheeled him down a corridor, one of Goree's gray shadow guards leading the way. "But it's worse today. They say hell is hot, but I think it's as cold as this place."

"You need my jacket?" Jeff asked.

"Nah. This kind of cold comes from inside. No jacket gonna help that."

We were taken to a small room, bigger than the chaplain's closet, but still a tight squeeze for a wheelchair. This place had been built long before wheelchairs were common.

We waited in tense silence as the guard left to get Lawrence. When they finally brought him in, the tension grew a thousandfold.

Lawrence looked at his father for a brief second then turned angry eyes on me. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Sit," Jeff said, his voice hard as granite.

"I wanted to come," said Thaddeus. "I got something big to tell you, son."

Lawrence looked down, rubbing his white-clad thighs up and down. "You don't need to see me like this. It's not good for you, Pops."

"Don't you want to know why they brought me?" Thaddeus's voice was soft, and when I looked his way, I saw his eyes were brimming with tears.

Lawrence had noticed this, too. "See what you all have done? He doesn't need this kind of stress."

"He needs his family," I said. "And that's you."

"What do you know about it?" Lawrence raised his chin defiantly.

"She knows more than I did a few hours ago," Thaddeus said. "You have a son, Lawrence. I have a grandson."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Even though his father had spoken, Lawrence directed the question at me.

"Time to tell us about Sara Rankin," I said.

Lawrence shook his head, looked down again. "I don't know what you're talking about. You've been filling my father's head." He glared at me. "What are you, some kind of sadist?"

Jeff said, "We have DNA proving that your father and Will Knight are related. If we could get your DNA, the picture would be complete."

Lawrence suddenly rose, still shaking his head. "You're lying. All of you. Why, Pops? Why do this to me?"

"Son, have I ever lied to you?"

Lawrence had gone white around the lips, and I could see he was trembling. He turned to the guard. "I want to go back to the cellblock. I'm done here."

He looked confused and lost, and at that moment I was certain Lawrence did not know or yet believe his baby, the child he conceived with Sara Rankin, was alive.

Suddenly, Lawrence bolted, the guard hot on his tail.

Jeff was already on his feet, headed for the door. "I want him back here."

"Maybe we should leave him be?" Thaddeus said. "It hasn't sunk in."

"Wait, Jeff," I said. "I've got an idea. Before we drag him back unwillingly, I know someone who might make this easier."

Ten minutes later, after Chaplain Jim Kelly had arrived and we filled him in, he said, "Do you think that what you're on to will free Lawrence?"

"I can't promise anything," Jeff said.

Thaddeus's shoulders slumped, and I rested a hand over his. "But if you can help get Lawrence to tell us about his relationship with Sara Rankin, we'd be a lot closer to the truth about Verna Mae Olsen's murder."

"In good conscience, I must have Lawrence's permission to speak about what I know," Kelly said quietly.

"Will he come back here with you?" I asked.

"He might. I'll try," the chaplain said.

Once Kelly was gone, I noticed dabs of sweat bordered Thaddeus's hairline, and he, too, looked pale around the mouth.

"Could you get me my bag, Abby?" he asked.

I handed it to him, but he was shaking too badly to unzip it. He asked for the glucose monitor, and Jeff was the one who ended up pricking Thaddeus's finger. After the blood was applied to the little strip, the number that appeared seconds later was 530.

"That's bad, right?" I said.

"I've seen better," Thaddeus replied, his voice weak.

"I'm taking him to the clinic," Jeff said. "You handle this, Abby. You've talked to Lawrence before and the less people staring at him, demanding answers, the better. Learn what you can."

As Jeff wheeled him out, Thaddeus raised a hand and brushed my arm. "Make my boy help himself. Please."

I was concerned about Thaddeus, and when Kelly arrived with a now handcuffed prisoner, Lawrence must have read my anxiety.

"Where's Pops? Is something wrong with him?" he asked.

"He wasn't feeling well. Sergeant Kline took him out for some air," I answered. Sometimes the whole truth is not beneficial.

"You made an old man sicker than he already was. You happy now?" Lawrence said.

Kelly put a hand on Lawrence's shoulder. "I believe this woman wants to help you and your father. You need to tell her the truth. Tell her what you told me."

Lawrence looked sideways at Kelly. "I don't know. She comes here with her stories, brings my father out of a sickbed and—"

"Sit down and start talking," Kelly said. "That's what you do with me."

Lawrence closed his eyes, let out a heavy sigh. And then he sat.

Kelly took Jeff's abandoned chair.

"You haven't tricked my father into thinking I have a son, right?" asked Lawrence.

"No, I haven't. You do have a son, and though I've known it since I first saw Will Knight's resemblance to you, we now have scientific proof."

"I don't get it," Lawrence said, shaking his head. "How could this be true? And how did you find out about Sara?"

"That's a very long story. Jessica Roman convinced me that that you and Sara were lovers. You conceived a child."

"Yes," Lawrence said, his gaze beyond my shoulder, as if he were looking back in time. "God, we were happy."

"I'm here to help you." I leaned forward, hands between my knees.

"But Sara fell. She died. I thought our baby died with her. Died because of me." Lawrence's voice was strained, his expression again confused.

Kelly said, "We've worked on this, Lawrence. It wasn't your fault. You were in the Harris County jail when the accident happened."

"But she ran away because she was pregnant," Lawrence said. "Ran from her parents. If she hadn't, then she'd be alive."

"There was no mission trip?" I asked.

"That's what the pastor and his wife told everyone when she disappeared. She'd left them a note—we wrote it together—saying she had to leave home to take care of someone in need. It was the truth, in a way."

"That's how it became a mission trip to them, I guess. Did she even plan on telling them about the baby?" My guess was no.

"We talked about what to do, who to tell. Sara was underage and we were sure her parents would make us give the baby away, so we couldn't go to them. And if you knew Sara—" He stopped, closed his eyes.

"Sara knew what she wanted, right? She wanted you and the baby?"

"Yes. And I wanted what she did."

"You did some shopping before she left town, though. Bought some baby things?" I asked.

Lawrence looked at me. "How did you find out about the blanket?"

"Not important. She ordered it, you picked it up, right?"

He nodded. "She'd seen that blanket when she was shopping with her mother in this British store. She said she had to have one nice thing for our kid."

"She was already gone on the so-called mission trip by the time you picked up the blanket, though. You two must have been in touch, right?" I asked.

"We were afraid to. Thought someone might find

out, give us up to her parents. We'd planned ahead for Sara to sneak back to Houston after I'd had time to pull together some money."

"She left town, then came back?"

He nodded. "She'd taken a bus to Dallas, stayed in some shelter. It seemed like a good thing—they don't tell the cops anything about runaways—so she stayed in one when she came back to Houston, too. I'd asked a few uncles for some cash, worked extra shifts sacking groceries. I had a couple hundred bucks to give her."

"Plus, you needed to see each other, right?" I said, thinking how even two days away from Jeff made me crazy.

He sighed. "It was hard being apart. Keeping secrets from everyone."

"These people you asked for money assumed you needed it for your family's medical expenses? Your mother's cancer treatment?"

Lawrence cocked his head. "You've been doing a lot of reading about me."

"You better believe it. Go on and answer the question," I said.

"The cop who arrested me? Dugan? That was his theory—that I was trying to get money for Mom. I never said that. Anyway, the night they arrested me was the night Sara and I met." He paused, took a deep breath. "I gave her the money and the keys to my car. I kissed her good-bye and never saw her again."

I smiled inwardly, one tiny puzzle piece falling into place. "The police didn't find your car, but not because you dumped it to hide evidence or sold it for cash. Sara drove it away."

He nodded.

"Okay. I have to ask this next question, mostly so I can tell Sergeant Kline I left no stone unturned. Some of that money you pulled together? Did it come from Amanda Mason?"

Lawrence hung his head, his fists clenched in his lap. It seemed forever before he looked up and said, "I never killed anyone."

"And those unaccounted-for ninety minutes? You kept quiet because you were with Sara and wanted to protect her?"

He nodded, and I noticed Kelly was nodding right along with him.

"You're sure Sara never contacted her parents, told them about the pregnancy?"

"I don't think so. I mean, she knew they'd never accept our child. I'm black, if you haven't noticed."

I felt embarrassed then, embarrassed for my own race. "I know this is hard, but let's keep it flowing, okay? The pastor came to visit you when you went to jail. What did he say?"

"First time, he said what they'd been saying since Sara ran off, that she was on a mission trip. Then the last visit was to tell me she'd died. I remember him saying that since she and I had been friends in the youth group, he wanted me to hear the news from him. He was so torn up, and meanwhile I had to hide everything... keep it all stuffed down while he sat there across the glass crying for her." Lawrence's lips tightened and he slowly shook his head from side to side.

Kelly gripped Lawrence's shoulder. "Hey. You've worked hard on accepting she's gone, on living here where you don't belong."

I was fighting my own emotions, knowing that my anger might eradicate logic. The pastor said he came to visit Lawrence to offer solace to a prisoner. Instead, he'd brought Lawrence unbelievable pain.

"Once you learned Sara was dead, did you ever consider telling people about your relationship? Tell them you were with her the night Amanda Mason was murdered?" I said.

"What good would that have done?" he asked. "I'd already been tried and convicted when her father came and told me she was dead. She was my alibi and she was gone. Who would believe me if all of a sudden I said I was with Sara when Amanda Mason was being murdered? Besides, no one needed to know about us—especially not her parents. I'd lost Sara, my mother was dying and I didn't care about anything. I—"

The chaplain broke in. "Lawrence went from being a happy, successful young man who'd found the love of his life to a convicted felon, all in less than a year's time. He wasn't thinking clearly, and to be honest, I'm not sure he got the best legal help, either. When Lawrence refused a plea bargain—"

"You see what I'm talking about? Even my lawyer thought I was guilty." Lawrence's eyes flashed with anger.

"Okay, so who set you up? Because I think someone made sure you got arrested that night. Maybe someone who knew you were with Sara."

Lawrence looked at me. "I have no idea. It doesn't matter anyway. No one believed me then and they won't believe me now."

"I believe you," I said.

Kelly cleared his throat. "Lawrence and I have discussed this more than once. It had to have been a friend, an acquaintance, someone who knew where he lived and could plant the evidence. Since he was pretty well-known for his athletic skills, it might have been a jealous kid on his ball team who thought he should have had that letter of intent to A&M. Or maybe someone who held a grudge Lawrence knew nothing about. He could have just been someone's scapegoat."

I remembered Frank Simpson's notes. That's what he thought, too. "You're saying you never told your lawyers about meeting with Sara that night?" I asked.

"No," Lawrence said. "Just the chaplain. And now you."

"Were you punishing yourself? Or did you just not care about your own freedom after Sara was gone?"

"I promised her I wouldn't tell her parents about the baby," said Lawrence quietly. "If I gave her up to save myself—well, I couldn't do that to her."

"But you were arrested in April, put in jail and stayed there until trial. She never came forward, Lawrence," I said.

"That's because she was dead," he said through tight lips. "That's the only reason she wouldn't come back to help me. Besides, nothing mattered with her gone."

"You assumed she was dead," I said. "But don't you understand? She lived long enough to give birth. She could have come forward and—"

Lawrence lifted his cuffed hands and pointed intertwined fingers at me. His voice had gone hard again when he said, "If she was out there, she would have come back, she would have told the cops we were together when Amanda Mason was murdered."

"That's why you needed to believe there was no baby, right? But there may be another explanation, Lawrence. There may—"

"I'm done here," he said, his face and voice devoid of emotion. "Take my father home. He doesn't belong here."