Pushing Up Bluebonnets

23

I was too stunned to speak for a second and must have looked it because Cooper put a supportive hand on my elbow and mouthed, "Are you okay?"

My stomach felt like I'd eaten a batch of Texas kumquats right off the tree, but I gave him a thumbs-up to let him know I was fine. Then I said to Jeff, "Dugan was murdered?" so Cooper would understand what we were discussing.

Cooper reacted with raised eyebrows to my words while Jeff went on, saying, "When's the last time you remember anyone swimming in that bayou? Yes, he was murdered."

"Sorry I asked." This terrible development had apparently made us both testy.

"You're obviously in the middle of something uglier than we thought, what with this murder and last night's incident in that garage." He didn't add "so I worry," but I knew that's why he still sounded pretty tense. "Anyway," he continued, "Bart and I caught a drive-by shooting first thing this morning and when we got back to the sixth floor at Travis, DeShay and Chavez were heading out on the bayou call."

DeShay Peters and Jeff were once partners but had been split up because they were both day-shift sergeants. Now all the murder squads—God, how I hated that title—had a sergeant and an officer working together. DeShay was with Chavez and Jeff's new partner was Bart Pulanski.

"DeShay drew the case?" I said. "That's good."

"Luck of the draw. I filled him in on the tampered car, the coma victim's relationship to the complainant. I told DeShay I'd met Dugan and that you knew him, too, so expect a visit or a call."

I could never get used to Jeff or the rest of his homicide buddies calling victims complainants. It sounded like the dead person might rise from the grave for a court appearance. "Sorry, I'm a little blown away by this. What did you say?"

"DeShay will call you."

"I could phone him right now or—"

"He'll get to you when he can, Abby."

"But this is huge. This is, well, awful." I was sure glad Cooper was standing next to me because I was feeling a little sick to my stomach. Nerves? Or leftover side effects from the drugs?

I swallowed, heard Jeff sigh.

He said, "I guess because you're Abby, you have to be doing something, not wait around. Did you say Boyd's with you?"

"Yes."

"Can I talk to him?"

"Sure." I handed the phone over.

Cooper said, "What's going on, Jeff?" Lots of uh-huhs and okays followed before Cooper closed the phone and handed it back. "Jeff said you'll know where to go when I give you the body location, but I'm driving."

"He doesn't think I can drive? I'm perfectly capable of—"

"My decision. You may think you're fine, but I saw your face in that parking garage a little while ago and just now when you got this news. You're shook up. We do this together or I'll find my way there alone."

I sighed in frustration. "I need my car, Cooper. We can both drive."

"We'll pick yours up later," he said decisively. "We need to get to that scene now."

"Okay, let's rodeo." I said this calmly though I felt anything but calm. A suspect was dead and added to that, either Cooper or Jeff decided not to allow me behind the wheel. So why did I feel a little relieved that Cooper was driving? Probably because that guy screwed with my head last night. I preferred control, not having to deal with rubber legs and feeling like I was drunk.

Turned out we didn't have far to go. Since Cooper was in plain clothes and had come to Houston in his truck, he had to show his badge and ID to the officer standing on the Brays Bayou embankment. We were waved on when the officer told us that Sergeant Peters was expecting us. Guess Jeff called DeShay.

Patrol cars and officers from the Harris County Sheriff's Department and HPD were waving along the rubberneckers who were delaying traffic on the overpass. No one on foot had stopped to look—maybe because this was not a walker-friendly part of town.

I saw the familiar black baseball caps that the medical examiner's investigators wear, as well as the navy-clad Crime Scene Unit officers. The body had been dragged up to a spot where the concrete met the grass. Because of the steep embankment, DeShay had to sit by the corpse—his position such that I couldn't see Dugan's face, thank God. No matter how ugly the guy had been on the inside, his face and body had been beautiful. If he'd been tossed from the top of the embankment and rolled down fifty feet of sunbaked ground and concrete to the water, I was betting his outside matched his inside now.

I pointed out DeShay to Cooper and he eased down the bank to join him by the body. I stayed where I was, arms crossed, keeping my focus on the two men as they greeted each other. That way, I saw nothing more than Dugan's wet, muddy pants. A few minutes later they came back to where I stood. DeShay shed his gloves and held out his arms. "How's my girl?"

We hugged and I said, "I miss you, DeShay. You can still come over, you know."

"Yeah, but then I'd start thinking about the best partnership HPD ever had. My man and I got it done, Abby. You know that."

His "man" was Jeff and they had been a good team. "What happened to Kent Dugan?" I said.

"Wish I knew. Not shot or knifed, far as I can tell. The body was definitely moved to this location if I'm reading the lividity right. Someone probably rolled him up in the carpet remnant CSU has already picked up. And that's about all I can tell you for now. What can you tell me?"

"He was a player," Cooper said. "Should have gone to jail more than once but never did."

DeShay turned to me. "Abby, you met the complainant more than once, from what Jeff told me. Got any clue about next of kin? 'Cause we sure can't find anyone. His cell phone got wet, so we don't have that to help us right now. I'm hoping the tech guys can recover something, anything."

"He has a live-in girlfriend named Georgeanne, but I don't know her last name. She works at some printer place—she might have told me where—it sure wasn't Kinkos—but I can't remember."

Cooper said, "Someone tried to kill his last live-in girlfriend. Jeff said he filled you in on that. Maybe we need to find out if this Georgeanne is okay . . . or might have had a little struggle with our friend Dugan."

"A warrant to search Dugan's place is on the way. But this other girlfriend—the one before Georgeanne— she had a wreck and is in a coma, right?"

"They're gradually bringing her out and she's at least able to talk. Pretty groggy, though, as of an hour ago."

The medical examiner's body movers, wearing their "don't get a hernia" back braces, took a stretcher down to pick up the body, and the CSU officers backed off to allow them room. My stomach knotted up again. I did not want to see Dugan when they brought him up, not even in a body bag. No matter how much I disliked him, I sure as hell hadn't wanted him dead. I turned my back enough that I couldn't see what they were doing.

DeShay's dark forehead was beaded with moisture and the waistband of my capris was soaked with sweat. Cooper looked cool and calm and I wondered how he managed that in ninety-degree heat.

"Since it's hot enough to evaporate dirt, can we discuss this in the comfort of air-conditioning?" I said.

"I don't have the unmarked. I sent Maria for a search warrant of the Dugan residence." DeShay checked his watch. "She should be back pretty soon."

"Who's Maria?" I asked.

"Officer Maria Chavez. My new partner." He smiled as wide as a small dog with a large bone.

So the "Chavez" Jeff had told me about was female. As the three of us walked up to the street, I said, "By the look on your face, I'd say she's hot."

"Oh, yes. Like my granny always said, when God shuts a door, He opens a window. Jeff may have been forced to close a door, but there stood Maria waiting behind the curtains. Smart woman, my Maria. Very smart."

I pulled my purse-size SPF 30 cream from my bag and squeezed a dollop on my palm. "Can we please find shade somewhere to talk while we wait for her?"

"No need," DeShay said, looking past me. "She's making the turn onto South Main now."

I rubbed sunscreen on the back of my neck, which would make the hair back there greasy, not to mention wet from sweat. I reminded myself we were headed to a dead man's house, not my aunt Caroline's. No one would even notice.

Officer Chavez pulled up to where we stood.

"Get in," DeShay told us, opening the back door.

Cooper and I climbed into the Taurus. Then DeShay took the front passenger seat. The car was blessedly cool and smelled like a pine tree. I noticed an air freshener hanging on the rearview.

Maria Chavez turned. "Who are you two?" She wore an orange cotton shirt and her shiny dark hair was French-braided, her olive skin beautiful despite little or no makeup. I could tell why DeShay had taken a shine to this one.

"Chief Cooper Boyd, Pineview PD. And you're Officer Chavez?"

"That's me. And you?" She lifted her chin in my direction.

"I'm Abby Rose."

"Wow. The famous Abby my partner talks about all the time? Did you know DeShay Peters is the president of your fan club?"

"Maria, get moving," DeShay said. "That is, if you know where we're going."

"Oh, I know—probably better than you, amigo." With that, she put the car in drive and made a screeching U-turn that practically landed me in Cooper's lap. I hitched on my seat belt and gave Cooper a wide-eyed "Holy crap" look.

We filled them in on what we knew about Dugan as Chavez drove to the condo—drove like she'd stolen this cop car. DeShay took notes, barking at Chavez several times to slow down so he might have a chance of reading what he wrote later on. Then Chavez asked us a few questions. She was certainly abrupt, but after a few exchanges I realized this seemed to be her way, maybe because she'd decided a female in Homicide Division needed to come across as tough and in control.

When we arrived at our destination, we were all surprised to see another Taurus sitting in the driveway. A man wearing a tie and short-sleeved dress shirt was walking away from the front door. The badge and gun on his belt indicated he wasn't a Jehovah's Witness out on a mission.

"Hamlin, what the hell are you doing here?" DeShay called.

Meanwhile Chavez said, "What'd you do, Peters? Alert everyone in HPD?"

"I didn't talk to anyone besides Jeff," he said. "Hamlin works in the financial crimes division, so Jeff wouldn't have sent him." DeShay met this new officer halfway up the front walkway, Chavez tailing behind muttering about how this was their case and they didn't need any damn help—and she was probably including us.

While the three of them greeted one another, Cooper looked at me. "I called HPD last night, left a message for the forgery unit." He started toward them and I followed.

Cooper cleared his throat. "I'm Cooper Boyd, Pineview PD. I made a call last night—"

"Got your message, Chief Boyd. You think this residence is a possible ID shop?" Hamlin said.

"Yes," he answered with a nod. "Seems it's more than that now, though."

My turn to clear my throat. "Um, hi. I'm Abby Rose, a PI connected to this case."

Hamlin grinned. "The Abby Rose? Jeff Kline's best friend? Russ Hamlin." He extended his hand and then took mine in both of his, squeezing hard. "We know how you helped him after he was shot. We owe you."

I felt uncomfortable being praised by HPD for helping Jeff, praised by the men and women who put their lives on the line every day. I wanted to move past this. "Are there two warrants for this house, then?" I asked.

"I didn't have enough for a warrant, but since Dugan's dead, I suppose you do," Hamlin said to DeShay.

Chavez smiled and held up the paperwork. "Exigent circumstances, too. We can go in without an invitation, since the complainant's condition indicates another crime scene. I am learning fast how to ask for these warrants and get exactly what we need."

"Anyone home?" DeShay asked Hamlin.

"No one answered," he said. "But that doesn't mean much."

"Not good." DeShay rested a hand on his SIG Sauer. "I hope we don't find a dead girlfriend. Take the back, Chavez."

Hamlin's expression went serious. "You want me to back her up?"

"I don't need any help," Chavez said over her shoulder as she started around the garage.

"Excuse me for carrying a weapon, Miss Homicide," Hamlin shot back.

"Sorry about that, my man," DeShay said. "She's new in homicide. Got a lot to prove. Can you stay with Abby and Cooper until we find out what we got inside?" DeShay looked at me. "Tell him what you know about Dugan, Abby."

Hamlin said, "You're gonna need the Moby, unless you got the keys. Heavy door, dead bolt, too."

"The ME investigator took the keys, so Moby, here I come." DeShay hurried to the unmarked and opened the trunk.

"What's a Moby?" I asked. "A whale with an attitude? A rock star who suddenly grew muscles?"

Hamlin smiled. "Lady has a sense of humor. You need that in our business."

DeShay started for the front door carrying a two handled battering ram. I'd seen those things on Cops a hundred times. Now I knew what they were called.

"Let us know when we can go in, Sergeant Peters," Cooper said as DeShay rushed by.

"You got it," DeShay said over his shoulder.

A few seconds later I heard DeShay shout, "Houston Police Department. We're entering the residence," before the earsplitting crunching and cracking of the door drowned out anything else he might have said. From the sound of things, I was betting that door had been reduced to sawdust.

Hamlin said, "What's your connection to Dugan?"

"Cooper and I knew him. Sort of." I didn't add that I knew him far better after our little conflict—was it only yesterday? I licked my lips, the heat fueling my sick stomach and the headache that I'd thought was completely gone.

"So you got my message about the guy?" Cooper said.

Hamlin nodded. "Got a message from Jeff Kline, too. I decided to come out right away. I arrested Dugan for being a paper hanger back when he used to live in an apartment across town. Very downscale place compared to this. Looks like he bought himself a piece of the American dream—probably with someone else's money."

Cooper and I filled Hamlin in on the possible forged IDs we knew JoLynn had in her possession at the Richter place.

"You think Dugan made her those IDs, huh?" he said.

"Seems logical." I was about to come clean about peeking in windows and seeing the copier and laminator that backed up my theory, but DeShay appeared on the front path and waved at us with a gloved hand, saying the house was clear.

We all went inside the well-air-conditioned condo and I felt better almost immediately. Ninety percent humidity can't be good for anyone's health.

The home's pristine appearance remained unchanged from my last visit.

"No one's here," DeShay said. "Some kinda neat freak, our friend Dugan. Hamlin, you'll be interested in the room down the hall to the left. I had to force that one open, too."

"He had a shop? Did I die and go to heaven?" Hamlin pulled gloves from his pocket, his eyes wide and bright, just like his smile.

"Hey, that's your territory, man, but tell CSU when they get here what you want carried to the crime lab 'cause I don't know anything about financial shit, not even my own."

"I will be more than clear about what I need. Can't wait to get in there." Hamlin snapped on his gloves and started toward the hall.

DeShay looked at me. "Maria found the girlfriend's last name on a credit card bill. She's on the phone in the kitchen trying to locate Georgeanne Wilson now."

"And then we'll question her?" I said.

"Maria will. I don't want to intimidate this woman. At least not yet. You get what I'm saying?"

Yet he was sending the less-than-shrinking-violet Maria Chavez to question her? Maybe she had interpersonal skills I'd somehow missed in the little time since we'd met.

Cooper said, "Can we stay and observe?"

"You both know what you're doing, so sure," DeShay said. "But I gotta say, nothing's jumping out at me aside from the ID shop. I'll do a little more hunting. See if I can get a lead on this guy's least-best friends."

"Just so you know," I said, "Georgeanne and I hit it off when I paid her that visit. I can help out with her."

"I might take you up on that later, Abster. But we have to do this my way for now."

"Abster?" I said. "I'm not an SNL joke, DeShay."

He smiled. "Touchy, aren't we? Anyway, I can't rule this out as the primary crime scene until CSU tells me so, but even the damn garage is cleaner than my front room. I'll be checking out the master bedroom closet if you need me. Lots of shoe boxes on the top shelves in there."

Touchy? I was not touchy. "I'd like to see the ID shop." I nodded in the direction Hamlin had gone.

DeShay smiled. "Cooper, my man, make sure Abby keeps her hands in her pockets—if she can get her hands in those pockets. Nice threads, Abster. Glad you're showing off what you got today."

I gave him a playful punch in the arm as Cooper and I walked by. Maybe my capris were a tad tight, but my T-shirt was clingy only thanks to the weather.

We found Hamlin busy looking in one of two tall filing cabinets when we got to the now-unlocked room.

He said, "Check this place out. Dugan went totally high-end. Shoulda kept track of the bastard. Probably raking in cash left and right with this stuff. Excellentquality IDs, that's for sure."

I glanced around the room, realizing DeShay had been right. I wanted to search through everything . . . open cabinets and drawers, lift the lid on the color laser printer, see what was in those filing cabinets for myself. But I stayed put just inside the door and said, "That printer probably cost, what? Twenty grand?"

"More than that," Cooper said. "We had one similar at the bureau. I heard it cost forty."

Hamlin nodded. "That's in the ballpark."

I kept exploring with my eyes. "Big old laminator, too. Nice desktop computer. So this is what you need to create the driver's license JoLynn had?"

"If the folder labeled 'holograms' and the one marked 'licenses' contain what they say they do, then yes. Dugan has every weight and color of paper and card stock in here. Probably has blank passports and Social Security cards, too." Hamlin's gloved fists rested on his hips as he glanced around the room like this was his best Christmas ever.

"But you don't know exactly what he's got in those filing cabinets?" I said.

"Have to wait on CSU to photograph everything before I start making my list for evidence collection. That hard drive is definitely going to the property room—that and who knows what else."

"We have to wait? Don't you have a camera?" I was beginning to sound as anxious as the third monkey on the Ark's gangplank.

Cooper rested a hand on my back. "If the guy wasn't dead, Hamlin could take his own pictures, but now we have to wait on CSU."

Hamlin added, "We know Dugan created and sold fake IDs, probably bribed someone to sell him the blank Social Security cards, but I want client and seller names. Dugan may be dead, but whoever he did business with is going down and that's why I have to dot all the t's and cross my eyes." He did cross his eyes then, probably hoping I'd chill out.

I had to smile, because this made him look like he had the mental capacity of a windshield wiper. "How long until CSU gets here?" I said, once he'd grinned back at me.

"They're part of Homicide Division," Hamlin said. "Homicide needs to come first and they have the Dugan crime scene to work. But come on over here. There's something a little strange that I can show you."

My hands still in my pockets, I walked over to the filing cabinet with Cooper alongside me. I'd left my bag in the unmarked and wished I had my phone so I could snap off a few of my own pictures.

Hamlin carefully bent over the open filing-cabinet drawer and pointed a gloved finger inside. "See what's under those files?"

"Looks like newspaper," I said.

"That's right. Wondered at first if the guy was lining the bottom of the drawer for some reason," Hamlin said. "But he didn't do that in any of the other drawers."

Being careful not to rest my stomach against the side of the drawer, I tilted my head and tried for a better look. "Looks like about an inch-thick stack of newspaper. Why no file? Dugan seems to have filed everything else."

Hamlin looked at me. "You sure you're not a cop?"

"She's not, but I'd sign her up," Cooper said. "Anything else unusual?"

"Nothing obvious," Hamlin said. "We have to wait."

An agonizingly long thirty minutes later a female CSU officer arrived and began photographing everything. Hamlin then removed the files to get at the newspapers beneath. From my vantage point in the doorway, I decided they were clippings, not entire newspapers. Lots of clippings. Hamlin set them on the spic-and-span desktop and the CSU officer took more pictures after Hamlin removed the letter-size manila folder that sat on top of them.

An unfiled folder? That was strange, too.

Hamlin glanced our way after opening the folder for the officer to photograph its contents. "We can take these to the kitchen counter while she finishes up in here." He turned to her. "The hard drive goes to Tech, the newspaper and folder to Latents when I'm done, okay?"

She nodded and went back to work.

Carrying the newspapers and folder away from his body like a tray of coffee, Hamlin joined us in the hall. "Let's see what we got here." He gestured with his head toward the front of the house.

We walked to the kitchen and Hamlin placed the stack on the immaculate granite counter. I caught the Houston Chronicle date header beneath the folder—looked like from two years ago.

Hamlin said, "I have my digital camera in the car. Be right back." He left before I could say anything.

I said, "But they already took pictures, and I thought he said—"

"He's taking his own photos," Cooper said. "If they send these for latent prints, none of us will know the importance or lack of importance of the newspapers. With his own set of pictures he can read what he wants whenever he wants and hopefully will share that info with us. That is, if it's anything related to JoLynn. Might be nothing, Abby. Just mementos."

"This doesn't feel like nothing, Cooper. Dugan concealed these things—though, I'll admit, not very well. But he had a locked door and probably left Georgeanne, and maybe JoLynn before her, with strict instructions to stay out of his office. From what we've learned, both women were under his thumb."

Cooper was about to respond, but Hamlin returned with his camera, breathing hard, rivulets of sweat running from his scalp.

He fiddled with his equipment for a second and then moved the folder aside to photograph the top article.

I took in a sharp breath and must have gasped, because Cooper and Hamlin said, "What?" in unison.

"Th-that article on top," I said. "That's the same one I found online about the Richters. And there was a copy under a clock in the Richter library."

Cooper said, "Maybe this is proof Dugan knew about the family, perhaps knew where JoLynn had gone."

Hamlin was squinting at the article. "And you know this how?"

"Long story," Cooper said. "But JoLynn definitely had a fake ID that I'm betting was made right here."

Hamlin fanned out the articles, then started taking pictures. This gave me time to look over the clippings. I began to understand their connection to the first one. These all seemed to be personal-interest stories from cities and towns all over Texas and beyond. Gosh, how I wanted to scoop them up and take them home rather than hunt them down one by one on the Internet, see how they were connected to the article about Katarina— that is, if they were connected.

"Do you mind if I get the newspaper names and dates on these?" I could look up the articles online and print them—at least the ones that were online.

"No problem." Meanwhile Hamlin picked up the folder he'd set aside and opened it.

I was glancing around the kitchen looking for something to write on, but the magnetic whiteboard on the fridge, the one that had the words "Georgeanne—milk today!" printed on it in black marker, probably wouldn't do.

Cooper took out his little notebook. "I'll help."

"Thanks." I read off the newspaper names and dates while Cooper wrote them in his notebook.

A minute later we were interrupted by Hamlin, who now held out a stack of photographs in his palm. "These were in the folder. They mean anything to you?" He placed them on the counter one by one, touching only a corner with his gloved hand.

The first one was a grainy shot of a petite blonde placing flowers on a grave. "That's JoLynn at Glenwood Cemetery. The caretaker told me a girl fitting her description brought flowers every week to Elliott Richter's family plot."

Hamlin looked confused. "So she is related to the Richters?"

"Since we know her mother abandoned her at a bus station when she was nine and Katarina was already dead by then, I doubt it," I said.

"Then why go to the cemetery?" Cooper asked. But he seemed to be asking himself this question, not us. "Unless she had someone take these pictures to show Elliott how devoted she was to Katarina, her long-lost mother . . . who was not really her mother."

"That doesn't make sense. How would she present these photos to Richter?" I said. "By saying, 'Oh, by the way, here's proof of what a loving family member I am.' I don't think so, Cooper. Maybe we should consider the possibility that Katarina placed JoLynn with someone and that's the person who abandoned her."

He scratched his head. "Maybe. Big maybe, in my book. No matter what, Dugan took these pictures for a reason. You see a camera in that ID shop, Hamlin?" Cooper asked.

"Yup. A nice Canon. A forger needs good resolution from an expensive digital so he can magnify whatever he wants to copy—get a nice, up-close picture of what he hopes to re-create. That's an excellent way to capture every nuance and color blend on the target document. I'll print out any pictures that he had on the memory stick and if it looks like it's related to your case, I'll e-mail them to you."

I rattled off my e-mail, telling Hamlin that Cooper was staying with me. Then I said, "These are pretty poor-quality photos. Like something I'd take with my cell phone. Since I know next to nothing about photography, can either of you explain how an expensive digital camera would give us these?" I waved my hand at the pictures.

"Maybe they were taken with a cell phone," Cooper said.

"More likely a telephoto lens." Hamlin was staring hard at one of the cemetery pictures.

"But why?" I said. "Unless . . ."

"Unless Dugan was stalking her, getting a handle on her routine so he could kill her," Cooper said.

"Okay . . . but then, who murdered him?"