Shoot from the Lip (8 page)

“I have no idea what he thinks. I’m certain the evidence will convince him of the truth—that you have nothing to hide. But count on being questioned again. Probably Shannon and Luke will be brought in, too.”

“Why? They don’t know anything.”

“The police have to make sure,” I said.

Emma returned her gaze to where the CSU officers were gathering small items impossible to identify from where we stood. “So everything they collect is important—like the bags of soil I saw them taking away. How can dirt from my yard help them learn the truth?”

“From what little I know about soil collection, the earth around the spot where they found the bones will help establish when your sister died and maybe even when the body was placed in that spot.”

Emma looked at me. “How long will that take?”

“I wish I knew.”

We again turned our attention to the yard. The ME’s assistant was carefully lifting the trash bag, supporting her bundle, ready to slide it into a body bag. What was probably left of that tiny skeleton could have fit in a giant Ziploc. But they needed that trash bag. It might hold answers. Answers Emma needed.

Emma made the sign of the cross and bowed her head.

I clasped my hands and stared down at the sidewalk in respect for the child who had died, had perhaps been buried alive under that house—a thought I would never share with Emma, but one that had been with me since that diaper and those bones had been discovered.

Then, before we could blink, the fab trio descended on us—Mayo, Burch and Crowell. My daddy always said that no matter how high or out of sight a bird was, it always came back to earth to eat. And these guys were ready to feast on Emma.

“If you could join us in the trailer, we have a few things to discuss, Ms. Lopez,” Mayo said. He turned and left for his luxury ride.

Hmmm,
I thought. She’d been “Emma” before, but now she wasn’t getting the “we love you so much” treatment. It dawned on me then that no happily-ever-after program like
Reality Check
would want anything to do with dead babies. This was about business and possible lost revenue. Maybe Emma could free herself from them after all.

“What’s this about, Mr. Crowell?” Emma asked.

“Just do what he says,” Stu said. “It’s now or later, and believe me, now is your better option.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I know the man,” he said. “The longer he stews, the nastier he’ll get.”

“You got that right,” Chelsea said with an accompanying eye roll.

The Navigator started toward us before making a screeching U turn to travel the block to the trailer.

“Go,” Stu said.

I took Emma’s arm and we started walking.

Stu Crowell stayed back, camera again on his shoulder as he filmed the coroner van’s retreat. Chelsea lagged behind on our trek to the trailer. The girl was limping. Seemed those pink-and-blue boots weren’t meant for walking.

When we arrived at the trailer, the lot had been emptied of cars aside from the Navigator. The crew had either been sent to their hotel or taken to the police station on Travis. I reached up and gave a cursory knock on the trailer door. Then we ascended the two small steps and entered. Mayo was in the living area sitting on one of two leather couches that flanked a long table. Typed papers, scribbled notes and empty soda cans littered the surface in front of him.

The scent of new leather filled the small area, and Mayo gestured at the sofa across from him. “Sit.”

I heard the door squeak open again, and Mayo yelled, “Chelsea, bring me the contract. Now.”

I sat and slid over to give Emma room.

She said, “You’re ready to let me out of the deal? Is that what this is about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grabbed the contract from Chelsea, who had come hurrying in with the document in hand. “Get all this crap off the table so we can work here.”

Chelsea gathered the papers and cans and took them to the kitchenette.

Mayo had changed back into his Ralph Lauren overpriced shirt, and I thought,
Work here? What’s this jerk got up his designer sleeve?

Mayo flipped pages in the document, and while he did this, Chelsea returned from trash duty and sat next to him. This was not the perky young woman I’d met yesterday. She was tired. We were all tired. And it was only four in the afternoon.

“Ah, here it is.” Mayo folded the document to the page he wanted, pushed it across the table and pointed to several lines midway down the page. “Cutting through the legalese, this clause states that our relationship shall continue with you in other capacities and with other possible programming options should there be unforeseen events.” He stared at Emma. “I’d say we had an unforeseen event, wouldn’t you?”

Emma’s face flushed. “What do you want from me?”

“Your full and heartfelt cooperation—or so it should appear on the air. You understand?” His throat and ear-lobes were red with anger.

Emma said nothing. She let her folded arms and stiff posture do the talking.

I, too, had about all I could stand of this guy. “Why are you being such a jerk, Mayo? No one’s having the greatest day, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Let me clarify, then. I’ve lost a nice, happy story sure to be a ratings winner. But I plan on salvaging this, minus the nice and happy part. I’ll have to turn this over to Kravitz. And believe me, that burns my ass.” He swept the contract off the table and sent it flying toward the kitchenette.

“Paul Kravitz of
Crime Time?”
Now
that
show I did catch on occasion. Kravitz. the interviewer, always came across as tough but compassionate.

Chelsea said. “Isn’t that way cool, Emma? And he’ll be here tonight.”

Mayo the Magnificent gave her a look that could wither a live oak.

Emma turned to me. “Who is this person?”

“An investigative reporter on a program that digs into past crimes,” I said. “Another show that I assume is produced by Venture?” I looked to Chelsea, who seemed a safer person to talk to, since she was in a better mood than Mayo.

But he answered anyway. “Yes. I’m an executive producer. And though I am very upset and disappointed about what happened today, Paul will do an ...
excellent
job. I’m turning Emma over to his very capable hands.”

Emma bolted upright. “You’re
disappointed?
Is that because a child died or because you lost your stupid program? But wait, no need to answer. And by the way, I’m not being turned over to anyone. I’m not your slave.”

I rested a hand on Emma’s knee and looked at her. “We need to get something to eat and talk this over.”

“If you’re thinking about ducking out on—” Mayo started.

“Shut up,” I said.

Then Emma and I hurried out of that trailer before I kissed jerk extraordinaire Mayo in his eyeteeth with my fist.

 

Emma and I left in our own cars and met up at Houston‘s, a restaurant on Westheimer. It was early enough, a little past five o’clock, that the place wasn’t crowded. We each ordered a very frosty, large margarita. Nothing better than Cuervo Gold to take the sting off a horrific day. After a few sips of her drink, I think Emma exhaled for the first time in hours.

Neither of us needed the menu. We both chose the best Caesar salads on the planet, then Emma said, “What can I expect to happen now?”

“For one thing, investigators will be crawling all over Houston. I’d be willing to bet the
Chronicle
will run a big piece in the newspaper. That means I need to research your father and your mother before they do. Is that okay?”

“My father? But he’s been dead for twenty-three years. What could—”

“That might be one of the first places the
Crime Time
investigators and even other reporters will start. Do you know how much research they did on your father for
Reality Check?”

“They knew he was a marine and died in Beirut. The researcher copied his photo and said they’d probably use it during the show’s intro, sort of give my background through old photographs.”

“That part may not change, but
Crime Time
is a who-what-why-when-where program. Rather than an entertainment approach, you’ll be subjected to a harder news angle. Ever watch
48 Hours Mystery?”

Emma nodded. “Once or twice.”

“Expect that kind of production. They dig deep, probably tape hours and hours of footage and edit extensively. You may not know until the show airs how you’ll be portrayed.”

“What does that mean?” Emma rubbed salt off the rim of her glass, licked her finger and took a drink.

“If the mystery remains unsolved, you may end up looking like a suspect. They’re real proficient at innuendo.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Emma said, eyes wide.

“Or you could be portrayed as the victim, a child left to raise three other children, a child who went through hell, only to learn the sister she’d helped bring into the world was gone before she had a chance to live.”

Emma looked left and right at the customers surrounding us before leaning close and whispering, “I’m no victim, and I’m no killer.”

“I know that. Now you have to convince Paul Kravitz.” I nodded, offering her a small, determined smile.

She exhaled, relaxed again. “I can do that. Besides, anything has to be better than dealing with Mayo. As for my father, I haven’t been completely honest with you. My father, well ... he had a family. He was ... married.”

I sat back against the leather booth. “Uh-oh. How do you know this?”

“Because I went looking for any extended family I might have about three years ago. I got as far as his obituary.”

“And a wife was listed as next of kin?”

She nodded. “Figures my mother would shack up with a married man and then feed me all those stories about how much he loved her and how much he wanted to see me and never got the chance. I wanted to believe that fairy tale, and that’s why I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry, Abby.”

“Don’t be sorry. Do you want me to talk to your father’s wife? Warn her about the TV investigators, and the possibility that reporters might come calling?”

“I think that’s the right thing to do. I wanted to contact her before the show aired, but didn’t know where to start.” She studied the fingernails on her right hand for a second. “You know what I’m most afraid of? That after the Beirut bombing, my mother slapped Xavier Lopez’s name on my birth certificate. Gave me a hero for a father when I’m probably the daughter of some dope addict she slept with one night.”

“Come on, Emma.
That’s
the fairy tale. You have a house and a small trust, right? Whose name is on the deed?”

“Mine and his.”

“You think your mother was capable of manufacturing something like that?”

“No. You’re right. It’s just that I felt like my life collapsed when that house went down and my home gave up such a terrible secret.”

“Listen, I know you feel like your luck is running muddy, but you have your father’s eyes, his smile, and I’d say you’ve got his courage, too.”

“Thanks, Abby.”

“If his wife is still alive, I’ll find her, explain what’s happening.” Hopefully before a
Crime Time
investigator dumped the truth on her first.

Emma tried for a smile and failed, then changed the subject to her brothers and sister, speaking about them like the proud parent she’d become.

We were nearly finished with our salads when my cell rang.

“Where the hell are you, Abby?” came a familiar voice.

“Hi, DeShay.” DeShay Peters, Jeff’s partner, is one of my favorite people and enjoys giving me a hard time—in a playful way, of course.

“Guess where I am, at Jeff’s request,” he said.

“Uh-oh. Emma’s property?”

“Correct, for two hundred dollars. Next category. What might piss off a police officer more than a turd who leads us on a high-speed chase all over Houston?”

“Someone who’s not where she’s expected to be?” I said.

“The girl’s a genius. Give her the million dollars. Are you coming to me, or do I have to navigate rush-hour traffic to get to wherever you are?”

“I’m on my way.” I hung up, speared the last piece of lettuce and told Emma I had to meet up with someone who might help us. She had to be drained, so I told her to head for her hotel and her family, that I’d handle this meeting alone. She didn’t argue.

I arrived back in Emma’s neighborhood about thirty minutes later and parked a block away, since the street was still inaccessible. Onlookers lingered, hoping for a glimpse of ... what? Maybe they thought this would be another case like the Dean Corll/Wayne Henley murders back in the seventies. I seriously doubted they’d find thirty bodies buried on Emma’s lot. There wasn’t enough room.

It was now after seven, and no one was working the scene. DeShay stood talking to the lone officer guarding Emma’s property. I figured DeShay was off duty, since he was wearing his favorite baggy jeans and a Houston Rockets T-shirt.

“Abby, my girl, what’s going down?” he said.

“Some nasty stuff. I take it Jeff filled you in?” I said.

“Yeah. He thought you could use some help.” DeShay gestured to his right. “This here is Officer William Evans.”

Evans nodded in greeting.

“Officer Evans tells me they’re not done with this scene. They’ll be coming back tomorrow to finish the grid.” DeShay extended his hand to the uniformed cop. “It’s been nice jawing with you, my man. You take care tonight. Don’t go fallin’ asleep on the sidewalk or nothin’.”

DeShay and I walked down the block to his car, parked in the empty lot by the trailer. He drove an ancient T-bird, but it was in mint condition.

He said, “You want to talk here? Or go somewhere else?”

“I’d like to get away from the TV trailer, in case anyone hanging around gets nosy. Can I buy you dinner?” I said.