Shoot from the Lip

4

The next day, a sunny Monday morning, I awoke with plenty of energy, juiced by all the information and leads to follow. I had to see Mayo, and I figured that since the demolition was set for tomorrow, he might be in town. I showered, dressed in shorts and a blue T-shirt, and went downstairs in time to hear the message Kate was listening to on the answering machine.

“Please, Kate,” Terry’s recorded voice said. “I’m sorry about how upset you were when you left. I don’t feel any closure. I believe you want what I want, but you just don’t know it. Can we get together someplace neutral? Talk this out? Because-”

Kate hit the delete button on the machine and said, “No way, Terry.”

“Good for you,” I said.

She sighed. “He’ll make a great father and husband when he meets the right person. That’s not me. Meanwhile, I have clients to see.”

She was dressed for work: dark gray linen skirt and shirt with matching shoes. But despite the gorgeous natural-stone necklace that added some life to her appearance, this was a mourning outfit. Funeral attire. When she went back to her usual pastels, I’d be relieved. For now she needed to grieve, and I respected that.

“You booked all day?” I asked.

“Pretty much. I’ll be plenty busy.”

“Me, too. I hope to find Erwin Mayo, talk to him.”

She looked me up and down. “Dressed like you’re going to the mall?”

“Hey. I know you’re having a hard time, but-”

She held up a hand. “Sorry. That was out of line.”

I nodded. “You’re right. And maybe now’s a good time to set a few ground rules about our eating habits during your stay. I am not into organic brown rice and black beans. And I swear tofu is not real. It’s produced by al-Qaeda and sent here to wipe out all the smart people like you.”

She actually laughed. Good sign.

“Now get to work before you have to fire yourself.” I headed for the fridge after she left and grabbed a yogurt, the kind that tastes like dessert.

Webster was whimpering at the door for his lost mistress, but Diva rubbed up against him, and pretty soon the two of them would be curled together to sleep the morning away.

Yogurt and spoon in hand, I went to my office, took out Emma’s file and found Chelsea Burch’s card. She answered on the first ring and must have seen my caller ID, because she said, “Abby. What’s going on? Have you spoken to Emma?”

“I have. Now I’d like to talk to you. Where can we meet?” I left out my real purpose-getting to Mayo. Let her think I was her best friend. Bet she needed one.

“We have a trailer set up on an empty lot down the street from Emma’s house. We’ll be working out of here from now on.”

“You never mentioned the demolition was set for tomorrow,” I said.

“We don’t talk about our schedule. I mean, like, you could say something to someone, and then we’d get all sorts of extra media attention. When we go to smaller towns it’s no problem, but in a big city like Houston we can’t have a huge crowd all wanting to be on TV.”

“I’m with you on that.” I sounded as pleasant as possible, considering she’d decided I couldn’t be trusted with the schedule. “When can I come by?”

“I’ll be here all day, preparing for the first taping.”

“See you within the hour.” I hung up. Just like her, I planned to give out very little information. And once I learned Erwin Mayo’s whereabouts, I’d be done with Chelsea Burch.

Emma’s neighborhood in northeast Houston had been crying for help probably as long as I’ve been alive. Peeling paint, damaged roofs, and houses tilting in the ever-shifting Texas soil told the story. A few small homes must have already been rebuilt, because they looked new and had cement foundations, unlike most of the houses on Emma’s street. I found the trailer first, on an empty corner lot, but after I parked on the grass and got out, I realized something was happening down the street. Loud voices carried from very near where Map-Quest had told me Emma’s house stood.

I thought I heard Emma, and sure enough, she and Chelsea Burch were standing in the street beside a small moving van. Chelsea’s arms were crossed, and Emma was yelling and gesturing at a small clapboard house that hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in maybe thirty years. Looked to me like the place might fall down even before they brought in a bulldozer.

I hurried their way, thinking that Emma and her family were lucky they hadn’t all died under a collapsed roof. But before I reached them, my cell rang. I pulled my phone from my pocket and flipped it open. Mark’s caller ID.

I slowed my pace. “Hi, Mark. What’ve you got?”

“No way out of that contract, Abby-not without a long, expensive legal battle. Venture owns Emma Lopez’s story-even has all future rights. But the family will be getting plenty-a newer, bigger home and unspecified gifts valued at a hundred thousand dollars or more.”

“No loopholes anywhere?” I asked.

“None that my colleague could find, and he looked long and hard. These folks have played this game many times. They know how to seal a deal.”

“That’s what I figured. Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime. But can I ask exactly why she wants to give up a new house and a lot of money?”

“The TV producer is hinting that this story will turn out to be more like an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. They may focus on Emma’s alcoholic mother and other things Emma doesn’t want the world to know about.”

“I get it. Venture pulled the old bait and switch.”

“Exactly. Thanks again, Mark.” I closed the phone and reached Emma and Chelsea a few seconds later.

“You can’t make me do this today,” Emma was saying. “I’m not ready.”

Chelsea was wearing those same ridiculous boots from yesterday, along with a bohemian skirt and short jacket over a T-shirt. Her antiperspirant had to be working overtime.

I cleared my throat and they both turned my way.

“Um, Emma? Can I talk to you for a minute in private?”

Chelsea rolled her eyes with impatience. “What’s this about? Because they’ve moved up the demolition to today and she still won’t let the movers in to pack up their shit-I mean stuff. We have to get this done. We need all the daylight we can get for taping.”

I ignored Burch. “Emma? Please? Let’s talk?”

Emma turned to Chelsea and pointed her finger in her face. “You don’t do anything without my say-so. Understood?”

Chelsea pushed Emma’s hand away. “You know something? I’m getting real tired of-”

I grabbed the sleeve of Emma’s lacy cream-colored shirt and pulled her toward me. “I need to tell you something. Let’s go across the street. You can watch from there and make sure the movers don’t sneak in.”

Emma whirled and marched across the asphalt, high heels clicking. Then she stood with her arms folded across her chest.

I followed and in a calm voice said, “My daddy used to say you can’t be angry and reasonable at the same time any more than a horse can buck and eat hay. I need the smart, reasonable Emma I met yesterday to reappear so we can talk.”

Emma closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “It’s happening, and I can’t stop them, can I?”

“No, you can’t. I’ve heard from the lawyer, and he says the cost of any legal action you take would be enormous and probably unsuccessful.”

“Figures. I never realized how their digging around in my life would affect me when I signed that contract. I know the house has to come down, but I feel like I’ve sold my soul to the devil. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense, considering what I’ve heard about Hollywood producers. But there’s no turning back.”

Emma’s jaw tightened. “I know. But I’m not kissing that woman’s butt. All she cares about is her damn taping.”

“Let go of the anger. You’re stressed enough as it is. How’s this? I promise not to turn over anything I learn about your missing mother and sister unless I believe doing so will help you.”

She looked into my eyes. “You can’t promise that. They have money, they wanted to hire you, and now that you’re on my side, they’ll find someone else to dig up dirt on my mother, even though giving away that baby was probably the best thing she ever did.”

My turn to sigh. “You’re right, probably because the worse she looks, the more sympathetic you and your family appear. I guess that makes some kind of sense.”

“I only know I saw a big change in Erwin Mayo’s attitude when I said I didn’t want them talking about my missing sister,” she said. “He got all arrogant and pushy. That’s why I’m glad you’re on my side. Trusting people is very difficult for me, but you’re different. You seem to truly care.”

“I’ve been on your side from the minute I heard this story. Now a simple ‘Okay, do your job’ to Chelsea might make the process easier on everyone.”

“I can handle that. If I have to be nice to make this easier, be reasonable like your daddy said, then so be it.”

Turned out Emma’s shift in attitude worked well, with one small glitch. Chelsea came with us to watch the movers pack. She seemed to think we were all sorority sisters who had simply had a tiff, had gotten past the issue and were best friends again.

Emma maintained her cool, and I was proud of her. She didn’t even flinch when Chelsea put an arm around her shoulders and said, “I know how hard this must be. But we will make everything all better. You’ll see.”

I could tell why Chelsea was behind the camera rather than in front. She was a horrible actress, couldn’t even fake sincerity.

The packers, already sweating from having to wait outside, worked quickly, starting in the kitchen. They had the room finished in about fifteen minutes. I was bothered by the small amount of food I saw being packed up, felt guilty as I thought about my overflowing pantry and overloaded refrigerator. Yet this family had managed to thrive in a small dark house with tilted floors and a musty odor so strong it overpowered the plug-in air fresheners. A worker picked up a couple of throw rugs, took the mop and the vacuum from a hall closet and laid them alongside several boxes on a dolly. He wheeled his first load away under Emma’s watchful eye.

I followed her out of the kitchen, stumbling over the handle to the crawl space trapdoor that had been covered by the throw rug. Sometimes, I swear, I could fall up a tree.

Emma had eyes only for the two other workers, who had taken away the kitchen table and chairs and were now busy in the living room. We both stood beside the way-too-happy Chelsea.

“These guys are the best,” she said.

“Where will Emma’s things be stored?” I asked.

“We’ve rented an air-conditioned storage unit not far from here.” She turned her beaming smile on Emma. “Emma, Luke and Shannon will be staying at one of the best hotels in the area. A suite, all the room service they want. We also have a little surprise about Scott’s living arrangements at college, but that’s the only hint I’m giving.”

But Emma didn’t appear to be listening. She was watching a worker carefully wrap framed family pictures. She walked over to him and said, “I need this one.” She took one picture.

The man shrugged and went on with his work.

Emma returned to my side and showed me the photograph. “This was my father.”

The picture was of a handsome Hispanic man in military dress uniform.

“Did you give that to our researcher?” Chelsea asked. “I don’t have a copy.”

“Too bad.” But then Emma remembered she was supposed to be reasonable. “Talk to your researcher, because she does have a copy.”

“If she lost it, we’ll need another. Like I have time for this,” Chelsea snapped. But she lost her snippy attitude almost at once. “We’re almost done here. It wasn’t so hard, was it, Emma?”

“No.” Emma glanced around her nearly empty house. “Not for you.”

Once the movers finished, we went back outside. I was relieved to be out of that house and breathing good old polluted Houston air rather than pure mildew. As the last piece of furniture, an old sofa bed, was loaded on the truck, a black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the curb behind the moving van.

Chelsea ran over to the Lincoln and opened the back passenger door.

Hmmm. Bet the king has arrived without my having to hunt him down.

“What the hell happened, Chelsea?” the man said as he emerged from the backseat. “Why didn’t I hear about this from you first?”

He was maybe five-foot-eight, completely bald and dressed in what looked like Ralph Lauren everything. And Houston now had a new pollutant-the cologne wafting my way on the late-morning breeze.

“Didn’t the city call you, Mr. Mayo? They said they would.” Chelsea tried for both a confused and contrite expression, but as I’d seen earlier, she was a terrible actress.

Erwin Mayo ignored her, turned his attention to Emma and smiled broadly. “Miss Lopez. What a pleasure to see you again. Lovely as ever, I see.”

I whispered, “Reasonable,” which had become our go-to word, and she responded by saying, “Hello, Mr. Mayo.” She almost sounded polite, but there was still an edge to her tone.

He widened his arms and walked closer to us. “I’m so glad to see you again. Are you excited?”

“Oh, happy as a lottery winner,” she answered.

No one could miss the sarcasm.

“Are you still upset about this baby secret of yours?” Mayo said.

Emma said nothing.

“You are upset,” Mayo went on. “I told you the mention of the baby during the episode will be brief, if it even survives the edits.” He gripped both her upper arms and stared into her eyes. “We’ll work our magic, and you’ll discover that what we’re doing for you is better than winning the lottery.” He looked at me. “And who is this? A friend?”

“Abby Rose,” I said. “Yellow Rose Investigations.”

“Really? Chelsea brought you on board, then. Good. You have a wonderful face for the camera, and maybe you’ll get some airtime. This is a big story, our two-hour sweeps special.”

Not even my pinkie toe’s on board your ship, I thought. Did anyone working on this project have an ounce of sincerity? You’d think Hollywood people would be better at pretending to care.

Mayo released Emma, and I could see the relief in her face, noticed how her shoulder muscles relaxed. I wouldn’t want his hands on me either.

“I’m told the demolition is set for one o’clock,” he said. “Why don’t we do an early lunch, ladies?” He turned to Chelsea. “While we’re gone, get the crew ready to roll by twelve thirty. The city has been jacking me around, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they showed up early.”

Chelsea nodded, turned and trotted back to the trailer.

“You know a good place for lunch, Abby?” Mayo asked.

“Um… listen,” Emma said. “I don’t think-”

“I do know a place,” I said quickly. “Reasonably priced, too.” I placed a reassuring hand on Emma’s back.

But we didn’t even have time to climb into the Navigator. A City of Houston truck barreled around the corner and pulled into Emma’s narrow, cracked driveway, amber lights flashing. A public works pickup followed.

A thirty-something guy with a no-nonsense, beardstubbled face got out of the first truck, walkie-talkie held close to his mouth. He said, “Let me check out the house and get back to you before we shut off the utilities.”

The guy ignored Emma’s “What’s happening?” and started toward the house.

Mayo took off after him, calling, “Hold on. What do you think you’re doing?”

The man turned, looking perturbed. “City-ordered demolition. I don’t think your name’s Emma Lopez, so you aren’t the owner and it’s none of your business.”

Emma walked toward the men. “I’m Emma Lopez. I-I thought we had a few more hours.”

The man smiled at Emma. “We have to work with the utility people, organize the electrical, gas and water shutoffs. They could do it now before lunch, so we’re setting up.”

“Okay,” Emma said, a hitch in her voice. “Now or later. Doesn’t matter.”

Mayo bellied up to the city worker. “It matters to me. I had an agreement with the city to allow us to tape for my program. We’re not ready.”

The man said, “I heard something about your TV show. Didn’t realize it was this particular demolition. Sorry, but we go on our schedule, not yours.”

“Dammit.” Mayo flipped open his cell phone. He speed-dialed a number, identified himself and, after listening for a minute, he said, “I need the mayor now, not this afternoon.”

Meanwhile the city guy was walking down the drive to the house with Emma at his side.

Mayo flushed as he listened to more talking. Without saying another word, he closed the phone, reopened it and punched one number. “Chelsea, get everyone out here now. They’re ready to bulldoze.”

I don’t think he even waited for her reply, because he pocketed his phone, then squeezed the bridge of his nose with thumb and index finger. “Good thing I showed up. I had a feeling they’d do this. Territorial bunch, these city people.”

I decided to see how Emma was doing, but before I took two steps, she and the guy came out of the house and headed back toward me.

Mayo started for the Navigator. Where the heck was he going? Maybe he had a secure line to the White House in the trailer and planned to call in some favors to delay the demolition for an hour or two.

Emma and the worker, who, now that I checked him out, was pretty hot-tots of muscles, expressive eyes-had stopped and were deep in conversation maybe halfway down the driveway.

She smiled when I met up with them. “Andrew was explaining exactly what will happen. He said the whole process will take about an hour. You know, amazingly enough, this feels like a weight off my shoulders. The fight is over.”

Andrew spoke into the walkie-talkie. “Get the dozer down here. Utilities are set to go off in ten minutes.”

Meanwhile, the film crew had gotten their act together and were setting up in the street. Then Mayo’s Navigator came rolling back from the trailer, and he emerged wearing pressed jeans and a Reality Check T-shirt. Chelsea was with him, having changed into similar clothing. They were also wearing hard hats, and I wanted to laugh. This was all for the show. They weren’t getting anywhere near the house and didn’t need hard hats.

Emma and I stood about ten feet to the right of the TV crew until the bulldozer arrived. The dozer was soon followed by a dump truck and another piece of equipment that would scoop up the debris that had been Emma’s home. Several men-mostly Hispanics-climbed out of the truck with shovels, what looked like fence cutters, and other tools I’m sure they needed for tearing things apart. When the cleanup crew was in place, we moved closer to the curb to watch.

I held Emma’s sweaty hand when the bulldozer rumbled in. The temperature was rising, another warm afternoon before a promised cool front arrived, and everyone was sweating. It seemed so quiet, even the sound of heavy machinery was somehow lost in the humid air. Chelsea passed out cold bottled water to everyone, and I liked her for one brief second. Within minutes the small, already broken house toppled like stacked blocks.

The Reality Check people captured every moment with mounted cameras as well as handhelds, while Stu Crowell’s attention was dedicated to Emma’s reaction. She seemed not to notice or care. Tears crept down her face, and I could feel her body trembling.

The job of clearing the debris began and the crew was almost finished when their work came to an abrupt halt after a worker shouted, “Terminar… Stop… Terminar.” His voice was filled with an urgency that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

This man hurried over to on-site boss Andrew, and then Andrew jogged after him to where the back of the house once stood. A few seconds later Andrew approached Emma and me.

He said, “This isn’t a burial ground, right? I mean, we always check the plats and the city history, but something could have been overlooked.”

Emma seemed too stunned to speak, so I said, “Burial ground? You mean…?”

He looked at Emma when he answered. “Disposable diapers take about five hundred years to decompose. We find lots of them during demolitions. But this time… well, there’s bones, too. Baby bones.”