Shoot from the Lip (19 page)

I would need access to one or more of my person-locator databases now that I had Billings’s social security number from the arrest sheet. I wanted to find out where he was—and I sure hoped he was a local—but I wanted to tell Emma about the latest round of DNA results before anyone else did.

I sat at a tiny table with my extra-large latte, double shot of espresso, and called her hotel. No one picked up in her room. I then tried her cell. When she answered, I was surprised to learn she was at work.

“You drove?” I said.

“Yup. The rental car company delivered a Cadillac, Abby. I couldn’t believe it. I have to thank Kate for doing that. I’ve never even
sat
in a Cadillac before. It will be so nice for taking clients to properties.”

“What about your shoulder?”

“Doesn’t hurt much. But the reporters? Now, those people are harder to deal with than a cracked collarbone. They followed me. I told them if they came inside my office I was calling the cops. But then the cops called me instead. Sergeant White.”

“Why did he phone you?” I asked.

“They got the new DNA report. Neither my mother—and she is my biological parent—nor I is related to that baby. I’m supposed to keep those results to myself. But I told him I was telling you. He didn’t like that much. He’s worried the whole world will find out.”

“DeShay already gave me the news. That’s why I was calling. I’m sorry you had to hear that over the phone from White. He’s not the most sensitive man I’ve ever met.”

“It’s okay. Really. This means my sister could be alive. We’re back to the beginning, back to why you agreed to help me in the first place—with one added problem.”

“What’s that?”

“The other baby. She belonged to someone, Abby. She didn’t deserve to be buried under a house, left in a hole like trash.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “That’s the part that’s given me a lump in my throat. I want to find out who she was and why this happened.”

“Me, too,” she said quietly.

“This means that learning everything about your mother is more important than ever. A dead baby about the same age as your sister is no coincidence. I—”

“Don’t say it. My mother had something to do with this. She would have given up anything for money to keep her drug of choice in plentiful supply—even her own child. She’d certainly given up the rest of us for alcohol, though in a different way.”

We talked for another minute, mostly about Emma’s schedule and how she was supposed to do her job with people following her all the time. After I hung up, I turned to my BlackBerry and the matter of Jerry Joe Billings. Wherever he was, I would find him.

First I checked his driver’s license photo and decided Billings must have fallen from the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. All DPS photos are gruesome, but Billings had wild hair, half-open eyes, a day’s growth of beard and a mouth that made me think he might have left his teeth in a jelly jar by the bed. He couldn’t possibly look like this every day, and I worried the photo might be worthless. Would I recognize him if I saw him in person? Then I noted he was an organ donor. I hoped he had decent corneas, because his liver was probably pickled.

I checked the arrest record. The last offense had been in 1998, which could mean he was either dead or he’d gotten sober. If sober, he probably had a job. I hit a few keys with my computer pen and opened a person-locator database, a very expensive but trustworthy tool. I entered Billings’s social security number, and within a minute I knew where to find him.

 

The man who answered the phone at the warehouse discount store in the NASA area where Billings worked was happy to tell me he’d return my call after he finished mounting a set of tires. I didn’t bother to leave a number, just packed up and left the coffeehouse to find him. Trouble was, when I arrived I was told that since I didn’t belong to the club store, I’d need a membership to enter. When you live alone—except for frequent and wonderful Jeff sleepovers and extended visits from sisters who’ve dumped their boyfriend—you don’t need a hundred of anything. Besides, where would I store that many rolls of toilet paper?

Once I’d filled out the application and been approved, it was my turn to have a truly awful photograph saved for posterity on my brand-new plastic member card—my ticket to overconsumption on a massive scale. I had to admit, however, that the places I shopped could take a lesson from the bare cement floors and unfinished ceilings. Might bring the price of a little black dress down to within reason.

Getting around to the tire section took me about a week, or so it seemed. But if I thought I wouldn’t recognize Billings, I was wrong. I spotted him leaving through a back door that led out to the garage area, where I assumed tires were changed. No one could miss that hair. His considerable long fuzz was sticking out from his cap like a clown wig.

Okay. There had to be an entrance for the cars somewhere around the building, and I hurried back the way I came, unswayed by the lure of hot pretzels, pizza or fresh popcorn. In my rush, I practically knocked over a poor woman who must have been seventy years old who was trying to offer me a mini sample of peach cobbler.

Another senior citizen was standing guard at the exit, checking people’s purchases. I didn’t know if I had to show my card to get out of this place, so I held it up like it was an EZ Tag as I rushed through the automatic doors. When no alarms went off, I figured I was okay.

I briefly considered walking around to the back of the building, but decided that might seem odd. No one bought tires on foot. Better to look like a customer. I jogged to my car—another long trek, since I’d had to park about a mile away.
At least I got my exercise for today,
I thought as I slid behind the wheel.

I’d just made it around the building when I spotted Billings climbing into a battered navy Pontiac. I pulled my car behind his, blocking his way. I didn’t want to chase him on the freeways. If he was going home, no problem, since I’d also learned where he lived, but if he headed anywhere else I could easily lose him.

I got out, calling, “Mr. Billings?”

He went from looking pissed off to looking confused. The DPS photo might have actually been complimentary, now that I saw him up close.

“Do I know you?” he said.

“My name is Abby Rose, and I’d like to talk to you.”

“Not on my lunch break. Get your car out of my way.”

“I only need a few minutes of your time.”

“Are you some nut wantin’ to convert me to your crap religion? ’Cause the bosses here don’t let none of you people on the—”

“I’m a private investigator, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

He almost smiled. Now I was speaking his language. “I only get thirty minutes.”

“Fifty dollars,” I said. “And I’ll buy you lunch.”

He squinted at me, fighting the late-morning sun. “You got yourself a deal.” He climbed in beside me and directed me to the Sonic Drive-In on the other side of the huge lot.

A moment later I pulled into an angled parking spot. Billings shouted his order into the speaker and had to lean close to me to do this. Though I smelled no alcohol on his breath, it might have been better than his halitosis. Didn’t he know they sold mouthwash by the gallon right where he worked?

I checked out the menu and skipped the Tater Tots smothered in processed nacho cheese that I so wanted and settled for a cherry limeade.

Then I handed Billings my business card. “As I said, I’m a private investigator.”

He stared at it and said, “What’s this about?”

“You tipped the police back in 1997, said that you recognized a woman whose picture appeared in the paper—an artist’s reconstruction of a murder victim’s face.”

“You’re here about
that?
I didn’t get a penny, if you’re coming to take it back—but wait ... that don’t make sense, since you said I’d get fifty bucks. Were you lying about the money?”

I removed two twenties and a ten from my wallet, but held on to the cash. “You knew that woman, didn’t you?”

“What if I did?” he said.

A teenager roller-skated up to the car window with Billings’s order and my drink. I paid and tipped her generously. Anyone who could skate and hold a tray of food at the same time deserved a few extra bucks.

Billings picked up his foot-long chili dog with both grimy hands.

“Tell me who you thought she was or you only get the free lunch,” I said.

“Christy O’Meara,” he mumbled around his mouthful of food.

I wanted to smile. He
did
know her. “Why’d you back off on the identification, Mr. Billings?”

“It was her, wasn’t it?” He jammed three onion rings into his mouth.

“Why didn’t you tell the police you recognized her?”

It seemed to take an eternity for him to suck down half of his Brownie Blast milk shake. “When you’re drinking as much cheap wine as I was back then, hard to tell if seeing is believing.”

“I’m not buying that, Mr. Billings. I compared a photo of her to the picture that appeared in the
Chronicle.
The resemblance was remarkable.”

He eyed the money in my hand, maybe worried I wouldn’t pay up if he didn’t come clean. “So?”

“Then why not claim the reward?”

He crammed more onion rings into his mouth and chewed for several seconds. “My stupid ex, that’s why.”

“Your ex-wife told you to keep quiet? Why would she do that?”

“You don’t get it. She wasn’t getting anything from me. Not then, not now. But I had my dumb-ass kid for the weekend and he heard me talking about the reward, so he calls and tells her. Then she turns around and tells me she’s taking every cent for back child support. Said the police would be happy to turn the money straight over to her.” He sucked on his straw, then added, “Bitch.”

“You allowed a dead woman to remain unidentified rather than let your ex have a few dollars you owed her anyway?” I couldn’t hide my distaste for Jerry Joe Billings.

He dropped his half-eaten hot dog into its paper boat swimming with chili. Some splashed onto me, onto him and onto my car upholstery. His sallow skin had flushed with anger. “Christy was dead, wasn’t she? Nothing I said was gonna raise her up. Now take me back to work. I got nothing more to say.”

I’d let my feelings about Billings contaminate the interview. Big mistake. Time for damage control. I calmly said, “A hundred dollars more if you’ll tell me everything you knew about Christine O’Meara.”

He wiped mustard off his chin with a knuckle—made me wait. But I could tell he was hungry for more than fast food. His gaze never wavered from the fifty dollars in my hand. “You mean tell you more than she was a drunk like me?”

“You two hung out, right? You were friends?”

“Yeah, you could say that. We were both down on our luck, you know? World don’t give you no fair shake when you got a problem. They just throw you in jail every chance they get.”

“She talked to you about her problems?”

“Maybe.” He checked his watch. “I need some time to think about it.”

“You mean time to fabricate a hundred dollars’ worth of information? I prefer we finish this conversation now.”

“That’s a risk you gotta take. I’m in the program, and lying ain’t my thing no more. Right now I have to get back to the job, ’cause I can’t afford to get fired. And you know what? I’m thinking a hundred isn’t enough. I got debts to pay off. I say five is more like it.”

“Sorry, that’s a little much for someone with a faulty memory. I can do two-fifty—but only for something I can use to help me find out what happened to Christine.”

“What about the baby? You want to find out what happened to the kid? Is that what this is about?”

He had me now. I held out the fifty. “Tell me.”

Billings took the money and stuffed the bills in his overalls pocket. “Show me the rest of the money.”

I didn’t have that much cash, and I was sure he didn’t take MasterCard or Visa. “There’s an ATM in your store. I can—”

He licked his lips, glanced across the parking lot. “I’ll get my ass fired if I don’t get working again, and I can’t afford to lose another job. You bring me four hundred dollars later and you get everything I know.”

“You say where and when.”

“My place. Gotta meeting tonight, so it will have to be around ten.”

“Give me your address.” I didn’t want him knowing that I knew where he lived.

He recited the street and apartment number that matched what I already had.

I drove him back to the store and he got out, patting his overalls pocket and smiling. I dumped his trash at the adjacent gas station, then used a sample bottle of Clinique makeup remover I found in my purse to clean chili off my upholstery and my shirtsleeve. Then I took off for my next stop, Murray Motorcycles on Houston’s north side. I checked for a tail often, but freeways are tough. Every car looks almost the same at sixty miles per hour.

On my way there, I called DeShay and told him about Billings.

“I don’t like this, Abby,” he said.

“I don’t either. That’s why I hope you’ll come with me tonight. But not with your badge on your belt or your gun bulging. I get the feeling he won’t say anything if he knows you’re a cop.”

“I’m your boyfriend then, or I’m your brother—no, that won’t work, will it?”

We both laughed, and I said, “Not unless I spend the rest of the day at a tanning bed. But seriously, can you wait outside?”

“Only if you’re wired, and that would take some paperwork and the agreement of one irritable, temporary partner named White.”

I sighed. “Okay, you’re my boyfriend, but you’d better be good at playacting. I mean, Billings tells me you cops threw the poor man in jail time after time when all he needed was a little love to get over his problem.”

DeShay said, “Then please give me a chance to apologize for the entire department and the city of Houston after he spills what he knows about Christine.”