Shoot from the Lip

22

Monday held the promise of leads on Fiona Mancuso from both her ex-pimp and the hypnosis Emma had agreed to. I awoke way too early, had three cups of coffee before eight a.m. and my second breakfast by ten. I called Jeff but he couldn’t talk long, as he’d phoned a few home health agencies for information and was awaiting return calls.

Emma was more than willing to be hypnotized, but Kate and Emma couldn’t clear their schedules until this afternoon. DeShay and White were meeting with the parolee-pimp around lunchtime. I’d asked if I could go along and had been given a firm “No way.”

I tried answering mail, paying bills and finally decided the best thing might be to work off my extra energy. I plugged in my iPod and off Webster and I went. But even our fast walk came to an early end when it started raining. Webster loved splashing around on the way home as one of Houston’s lovely unexpected downpours hit hard and filled up the streets almost at once. At least I knew what I would do next-take a long, hot shower.

By the time I got behind the wheel of my Camry and headed for the congested streets of the medical center, I felt like I had a stomachful of bedsprings. The slick streets slowed everyone down, which made me even more anxious and impatient.

When I entered Kate’s office, she and April were in the reception area talking.

“Kate, I need therapy for acute Houston Traffic and Parking Syndrome. Is there any hope?”

She smiled. “Not with your personality. Emma called and she’s having a hard time finding parking, too. I’m ready to start as soon as she gets here.”

“You’re sure it’s okay that I’m present during the hypnosis?”

“She wants you here. She has a very strong and positive connection with you, and I can’t think of anything that would make her feel more comfortable.”

I smiled. “Really?

Before Kate could respond Emma walked through the door with a cheerful, “Hi, everyone.”

Kate led us through the reception area, door and down the hall past her family therapy area, the only therapy room I’d been in before today. We entered a room set up like a cozy living room. A matching green pastel sofa and love seat were separated by a rocking chair-the glider kind. There were lamps on two end tables, and both lights were turned on, spreading a soft, warm glow over the room. An afghan Kate had crocheted was lying across the glider.

“Let’s all sit-Emma, take the rocking chair if you would-while I explain what will happen,” Kate said.

Emma placed the afghan across her knees after she sat down. I chose the love seat, and Kate sat across from me, adjacent to Emma.

“First,” Kate said, “let’s clear up any misconceptions about hypnosis. I won’t put you to sleep, though you may feel more relaxed with your eyes closed.”

“There’s no trance?” Emma asked.

“Actually, there is one, but not like a stage show trance. Think about when you daydream. Does the daydream sometimes block out the rest of the world?”

Emma smiled and nodded. “Oh, yes, and I’ve had plenty to block out.”

“That’s all a trance is, a state of intense concentration. I’ll help you get there with guided imagery. Abby, would you turn off the lamp near you?”

I did, then leaned back against the love seat cushions into the shadows.

“Emma,” Kate said, “I’d like you to rock the chair slowly and at the same time think of yourself as resting on a huge, fluffy pillow.”

Emma closed her eyes and moved the chair back and forth.

Kate whispered, “Clear your mind. Think of something that soothes you-a warm bath, a day in the sun, a good book… anything. It’s your decision. Everything is in your control.”

“Okay,” she said.

Kate repeated, “Clear your mind,” several times, and even in the dim light I saw Emma’s body melting into that chair as her rocking became more rhythmic.

“I want you to ride on your pillow into the clouds. Can you do that?” Kate asked.

“Yes.” Emma’s eyes remained closed, her voice calm.

“Take yourself above the streets, above the bus stop you told Abby about.”

“Okay,” came Emma’s reply.

“Tell me when you’re there,” Kate said.

“I want to go slow. Slow is better.”

“Take as long as you want.” Kate had been leaning forward whispering to Emma, but now she sat up without taking her gaze off her subject.

I swear it took an hour, but was probably no more than a few minutes before Emma said, “I see the roof of the covered bus stop. See the streets and the tops of the cars.”

“Good. When you’re ready, float down until you see the people sitting there.”

“It’s better up here.” Emma’s voice sounded a little slurred, like she was talking in her sleep.

“Safer?” Kate said.

“Yes. Much safer.”

“Abby and I are watching out for you. You can look at the people’s faces. Nothing will happen.”

“Abby’s here. Kate’s here. On the pillow.”

“That’s right. When you’re ready, Emma.”

More silence as Emma rocked and rocked for another eternity. “I see,” she finally said. “It’s me, waiting for the bus, and she’s there, too.”

“A woman?” Kate asked.

“Abby. She’s on the bench sitting with me. We’re talking.”

I saw my sister’s eyes narrow, saw her shoulders tense. “Okay. What are you wearing, Emma?”

“The gray suit I found at Goodwill. Only cost me ten dollars.”

“You’re going to work?”

“Yes. Then I have class. Scott will have to cook dinner, and he hates that. But it’s okay. Abby says everyone has to pitch in sometimes.”

Kate leaned forward. “And what’s Abby wearing?”

Emma laughed. “That funny-colored uniform.”

I saw Kate’s shoulders relax and she almost smiled. “What else does she have on?”

“The black shoes with the thick soles. She says she’s on her feet all day. I’m lucky I don’t have to be someone’s maid.”

“She’s a maid?”

“You can tell she works really hard. Her hands are always chapped, and she looks tired, even though she’s young.”

“What else do you know about her?” Kate asked.

“She smokes, but when I sit next to her she always puts her cigarette out right away. I never ask her to. She just does. She cares about other people.”

“What color is the uniform again?”

“Turquoise. White collar. The letters on her pocket are white, too.”

“Are you close enough to see what the letters say?” Kate’s tone was even, her voice soft and soothing.

I wanted to get up, shake Emma and tell her to spit it out. This whole deal was like sucking peanut butter through a straw. But I had to give my sister props. I could never do this job.

Emma went into another long, agonizing silence before she said, “I need to get a little closer.”

“However long it takes is fine,” Kate said.

I wanted to scream, “No it’s not fine!” but I remained silent, sitting on my hands to keep them still.

At last Emma said, “Purity Maids. Those are the words embroidered on the pocket.”

I must have sighed audibly, because Kate held up her hand and gave me a look that would freeze a jaguar. I mouthed, Sorry.

Coming out of the trance was almost as slow a process as it took to get her to that pocket embroidery. Kate brought Emma back above the bus stop and allowed her all the time she wanted to return to reality. Even when she opened her eyes, she still seemed to be somewhere else.

“Turn the light back on, would you, Abby?” Kate said.

I pressed the switch at the base.

Kate said, “How are you feeling?”

“I could live in this chair.” Emma was smiling, her face content in the lamplight.

“I plan on having one like it for my new house,” Kate said.

Emma quit rocking, sat upright. “How could I have forgotten? The owner took your offer. You got the house, Kate.”

Kate grinned. “That’s great. When can I move in?” “Pending inspections and title searches, I’d say a couple weeks. Cash transactions really speed things up.”

“I think we’ve both had a good day-and Abby, too, right?” Kate looked at me.

“Yes. Do you remember what just happened, Emma?”

“Remember you in a maid uniform? I don’t think that’s an image I’ll ever forget.” She laughed. “But why didn’t I see the woman’s face, Kate?”

“The human mind will always seek to protect the psyche from harm-sometimes even in unhealthy ways-but that’s a whole other lecture.” Kate smiled. “By putting Abby’s face on this person, you felt safe enough to get close and to stay long enough in the trance to find what we needed.”

“I did it right?”

“There is no right or wrong in my office, Emma. There’s only your reality.”

Emma nodded, understanding. “Without the two of you, I-I don’t know where I’d be right now. Probably locked in a rubber room.”

“I doubt that,” I said. “Our daddy would have said you’ve got grit.”

“I have a feeling I would have liked your father,” Emma said. And then a sadness filled her eyes despite her smile.

I guessed any father at all for her would have been a bonus.

Once Emma left the office and I thanked Kate for her help, she immediately went into session with another client. I called DeShay after I emerged from the parking garage and told him we got the maid service name. He said he was glad to hear that, since they got nothing from the pimp except what a neat freak Fiona Mancuso had been and that he considered her stupid. All his girls had been stupid.

“I’m glad I wasn’t there,” I said. “You know how I shoot from the lip.”

“I’m certain you two wouldn’t have gotten along. Tell me the name.”

“Purity Maids.” I maneuvered around what had become standard fixtures on Houston city streets-orange construction cones.

“You can bet Fiona picked out a new name when she went straight. Can you work the maid angle? Try to find her?”

“Because you don’t want to scare her off?” I asked.

“Right. If you can get to her without telling anyone who you are, that would be great. We’ve already got one of Christine O’Meara’s friends in the morgue.”

“Don’t remind me,” I said.

“Quit with the guilt. You didn’t cut that guy.”

“That’s what Jeff said,” I answered.

“You probably won’t be able to reach me for a while,” he said. “We just got called out to a murder-suicide. I hate fucking Mondays. I’ve learned people are damn selfish. ‘I don’t want to go to work or pay my bills or make up with my wife, so I’ll kill myself-and maybe take someone with me so I won’t get lonely in hell.’ ”

“DeShay, come on,” I said.

“I know, I know. But suicide scenes are the worst. Usually messy, and then you got the crying relatives. Why do suicides have about ten times more relatives than other victims? That’s what I want to know.”

“Maybe that’s the reason for the suicide,” I said. “Too many relatives.”

“Yeah. There you go.” He laughed. “I gotta run. Keep in touch.” He hung up.

Ever alert for a tail, I’d driven home wishing there weren’t so many damn Ford Focuses on the road.

I sat back in my desk chair a half hour later, stroking Diva and wondering how to learn whether Fiona Mancuso still worked for Purity Maids. Seemed a safe bet, since Emma had talked to her two weeks ago. But I needed to be sure. A simple check of the yellow pages showed an ad that proclaimed Purity had been in business since I was three years old. They must be doing something right. But what if the recent publicity concerning the reality show that had come to town, not to mention the murder of her old bar buddy Jerry Joe Billings, had sent the woman running scared? If so, all I could do was try to pick up her trail.

Like DeShay said, Mancuso probably used an alias to get hired and had a fake or new social security number attached to that alias. Reputable housecleaning agencies required their employees to be bonded, and a rap sheet in your background showing multiple arrests for solicitation wouldn’t get you a job with an agency like Purity. I wouldn’t be asking about Fiona Mancuso, but rather a woman who had a very distinctive and visible tattoo.

How should I approach this? I couldn’t call up and say I was a PI. The agency would get their back up, want to know if there was a problem. I decided I’d be a customer. Since someone cleaned my place every couple weeks, I knew the drill. When I called, they’d send someone out to evaluate my house, determine exactly what I wanted done, how often and at what charge. Which would take about a week. We couldn’t afford to waste time. I needed to be a customer in a desperate hurry for a housecleaning-definitely not a stretch for me.

I dialed the Purity number, hoping I could convince them I needed help right now.

“Purity Maids, this is Randy. How may I help you?” the man answered.

“My name is Abby Rose, and your agency was recommended to me. I understand you do good work, and I’d like to get my house cleaned as soon as possible.”

“Thank you for calling, Ms. Rose. As the manager, I’m authorized to give a free cleaning to the customer who recommended us. Was it a friend or relative?”

Uh-oh. Think fast, Abby. “Um, actually, neither. A friend and I were in line at Panera Bread and I was talking about how I didn’t like my current maid service. This lady behind us mentioned Purity.”

“Too bad. She missed out on her freebie. Anyway, we can get an evaluation done by tomorrow and-”

“But I really need the cleaning done tomorrow-I’m having guests, and the place is a mess. This lady mentioned a specific maid, said she didn’t have her name but that you’d know her because of her tattoo.”

“Unless she works your area, we can’t promise that a certain maid will be sent to your house-and certainly not on a rush job. Tomorrow will require me to do rescheduling, and I’m afraid that will cost extra.”

Damn. I gave away too much too soon. “Maybe she works in my area. This tattoo is on her left ring finger.”

“Ah. Loreen. She’s quite popular. Where do you live? I’ll see what I can do.”

My heart sped at getting a first name. I thought, Where do I need to live? But I had the feeling that if I asked too many questions-like Loreen’s last name or her territory-he’d get suspicious. Nope, I saw no way around giving the manager what he wanted. “I live in West U.”

“Sorry, Loreen works in The Woodlands four out of five days a week, and her other houses are in the Memorial area.”

“Darn,” I said. “Could I get her another day this week?”

“That would take a massive overhaul of my schedule. I have an excellent pair assigned to West U-Angela and Dolly. I can fit you in at, say, ten a.m. Tuesday, depending on your square footage. I’m seeing on my job chart that they only have until noon to do the house.”

“My home is small, maybe twenty-one hundred square feet. And ten is fine,” I said.

After he gave me a quote and took my credit card info, I gave him my address and hung up. At least they were coming tomorrow. I sure hoped Angela and Dolly liked to talk, and that one of them knew Loreen, or at least her last name.

I left my office, which ticked off Diva and sent her scurrying up the stairs to find a warm place in my bedroom. I wanted to swing by Jeff’s apartment and check on how he and Doris were doing, maybe join them for dinner. But before I could gather my purse and an umbrella, the doorbell rang.

I closed my eyes and whispered, “Damn,” when I saw Paul Kravitz in the monitor. Couldn’t he have stayed away longer than a weekend?

I let him in.

“Hello, Abby. Looks like I need to be brought up to speed-especially since you didn’t call me when a certain significant event happened after I left town.” He strode past me into the living room and sat down on the sofa.

I followed him and said, “Hi, Paul. Come on in and have a seat.”

“A man was murdered, a man connected to the Christine O’Meara case,” Kravitz said.

I lowered myself onto the farthest chair from him. “I figured you’d be back soon and I’d tell you then. How did you find out?”

“HPD is communicating with us-but I thought you and I had an arrangement to cooperate with each other, for Emma’s sake.”

“Yeah, well, maybe when I found the GPS tracking device on my car, I decided cooperation is a one-way street for you-and goes in your direction.”

“What are you talking about?” He looked truly surprised.

“And,” I went on, trying to keep him on the defensive while he was a little confused, “what’s with the guy you put on Emma? You never mentioned him.”

Kravitz rubbed at a few drops of rain on his suit jacket shoulder. “It never came up, did it?”

He had me there. “You should have told me.”

“We put someone on Emma because we don’t want her talking to other reporters. Now, what’s your explanation for not telling me about the murder? I want to know about this man and his connection to Christine O’Meara.”

“I thought your police friends already told you,” I said.

He pointed at me. “You are pissing me off. If you’d called me, I would have sent our own guy to the murder scene to tape. Now we can’t even examine local news footage, because going to any of your TV stations would tip them off that the infant bones and the Billings murder might be connected.”

“Listen, Paul. I don’t care whether you got to tape or not. And if you or one of your yokels like Louie put that thing on my car, don’t expect anything more from me.”

He took a deep breath, his stare never wavering from my face. “I did not put a GPS device on your car, and I specifically told my investigators to leave you alone. Since someone else is obviously on to your investigation, did it dawn on you that you led a killer straight to Billings?”

“Oh, yeah. It dawned on me.” I felt an unexpected burning behind my eyes and fought hard to avoid the tears. I succeeded.

But Kravitz saw. He was an experienced interviewer and could read the emotion in people’s faces. “Sorry. That was unfair.”

“No, it’s the truth. What do you want from me?” I asked.

“I want you tell me how you found Billings and what you learned about his connection to Christine O’Meara.”

“Like I said, sounds like you already got everything,” I said.

“Not exactly. I want your take, with every detail you can remember. We’re already doing a background check on this guy, but you were one of the last people to talk to him. It’s the details that make a good story, Abby. The telling details.”