Shoot from the Lip (16 page)

I made the drive to Emma’s hotel in less than fifteen minutes, but not soon enough. When she let me into her suite, White and DeShay were there. Room service coffee and a plate of fruit and croissants sat on the glass coffee table. White was holding a jam-loaded roll in one hand and a mug in the other. DeShay stood as I came around the sofa to sit next to Emma. White took a giant mouthful of croissant and nodded at me in greeting.

“I asked them to wait until you got here.” Emma took my hand and squeezed. “Go ahead, Sergeant White. I’m ready now.”

White had a mouthful of food, so DeShay started to speak.

“Hold on, Peters. Let me handle this,” White mumbled.

DeShay was seated directly across from me and rolled his eyes. “Sure, Sergeant.” Then he mouthed the word Sorry to me.

White swallowed, gulped coffee and picked up a napkin from the coffee table. He slowly wiped every millimeter of skin around his mouth. I decided this was his way of saying,
You make me wait for this bimbo PI to show up, I’ll make you wait, too.

He gripped his lapels and straightened his one-size-too-small sports jacket. “According to the DNA comparison between Ms. Lopez and the female infant found on your property after the demolition, you and this child are not related.”

Emma seemed too stunned to speak.
I
was too stunned to speak. We leaned back against the sofa cushions simultaneously.

Finally I managed, “That sure tears a plank off the wall.”

“Yeah, it does,” DeShay said. “We need to take a formal statement, Ms. Lopez, and since you’ve been a little banged up by your accident, we can do it here.” DeShay picked up a laptop case from under the coffee table and took out a computer and a small tape recorder. “Sergeant White will ask the questions; I’ll take notes. We’ll also make an audio recording.”

“I-I don’t get it,” I said. “Emma saw her mother give birth.”

White said, “You’re here only because Ms. Lopez asked for a favor. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay out of this.” White looked at Emma. “I understand from Sergeant Peters that an unidentified woman found deceased in 1997 has tentatively been identified as—”

“Hold on,” I said. “Does Emma need a lawyer?” White and I traded angry stares.

“For crying out loud, this is only a witness statement,” White said. “But if you want to hold up the investigation, go right ahead and call up a suit.” He started to get up, but DeShay put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Hang on,” DeShay said. He looked at Emma and me. “We know from the forensic report that this infant was buried under the house about fifteen years ago. That would have made you around eight, Ms. Lopez. We don’t consider you a suspect. We just want to find out what happened.”

“Thanks for the clarification.” I looked at Emma. “You okay with this?”

“I’ll help any way I can,” she said.

White was sitting again, but I could tell by his body language that he was mad enough to eat nails and spit rivets. He addressed Emma. “Since you’ve hired Abby, you had every right to invite her here today, but you need to know that HPD can handle this case, get to the truth.”

“Like they handled the identification of my mother’s body? Let’s see ... that only took ten years.” Emma was having none of White’s attitude, and I wanted to smile.

White’s ears reddened. “I understand your, um, unhappiness. I can assure you the ME’s office is comparing this dead woman’s DNA to yours maybe right this minute. Isn’t that right, Sergeant Peters?”

“Yes,” DeShay said. “We hope to have a positive ID as soon as possible. And we’re very sorry it’s taken so long.”

“I didn’t mean to sound critical, because I’m very grateful to the police,” Emma said. “But Abby’s the one who went to the morgue. She’s the one who showed me the reconstructed face of my mother. She’s helped me in other ways, too, and I want her to have access to everything you learn. Is that possible?”

White sighed. “Yeah. I guess that’s possible.”

Emma smiled. “Good. Now, what do you need from me today?”

“We’d like you to tell us again about the home birth. Tell us everything you recollect from the events that followed,” White said. “We need to figure out what’s real and what’s not—decide, if we can, whose baby this was.”

DeShay rolled his eyes again. White sounded condescending, but Emma had already shown she could hold her own with him.

“Decide what’s
real?”
she said. “I’m not delusional.”

“Sorry,” White said. “I’m sure you don’t doubt what you saw, but, well, the forensics say that baby was not your sister.”

I said, “But Emma saw her mother give birth. If the baby under the house was the child born in the tub, doesn’t that bring into question whether Christine O’Meara was Emma’s biological mother?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I shouldn’t have said them. Not yet, anyway.

Emma said, “Oh, my God. She’s right.”

DeShay shot me a look, gave a slight shake of the head to shut me up. He looked at Emma. “We won’t know until that other DNA comparison between you and the woman in the morgue is complete. For now, can you tell us what you remember about the time period surrounding the baby’s birth?”

“I don’t know anything more than I’ve already told you,” she said.

“Tell us again for the tape recorder,” White said.

Emma told her story once more, while I tried to make sense of this unexpected information. If the baby wasn’t related to Emma, was she related to Shannon and Luke? That question would have to wait, too. Or perhaps the police didn’t care. But Emma would. She did resemble Xavier Lopez—same eyes, same smile. Could she have been born outside Lopez’s marriage and he placed her with Christine to hide her existence from his wife?

Wait.
No. Christine was supposedly pregnant with Emma when Lopez died. Or so Emma’s date of birth indicated. But no one knew better than I did that birth certificates can be changed or forged or outright manufactured. I’d already seen it happen with previous clients. DeShay was right. Until the DNA comparison came in, we couldn’t assume anything.

White was saying, “You’re sure the baby was gone the next day? That you didn’t see CPS come and take her away?”

“All I know is that if the baby had been in our house for any length of time, even one day, I would have held her, I would have fed her, I would have changed her diapers, like I did with Shannon and Luke. None of those things happened.”

“You did all that when you were only eight?” White’s voice was generously laced with skepticism.

“Emma raised her brothers and her sister,” I said. “She’s been their legal guardian since she was sixteen. I think she’d remember if there was another baby for her to care for.”

White was apparently still simmering, and every time I opened my mouth he almost boiled over. Ignoring me, he said, “Most of those old houses have a trapdoor that leads to the crawl space under the house. Was there one in your place and did you ever open it?”

“The door was nailed shut,” Emma said. “I never had any reason to remove those nails. I didn’t want to know what kind of bugs and rodents were crawling around under there.”

“Nailed shut, huh? Now you’re telling me something. Seems your mother didn’t want you kids snooping around. She had something to hide.”

DeShay said, “I’m not sure we can draw that conclusion yet. A trapdoor to the outside wouldn’t be safe for a houseful of little kids. Maybe Ms. O’Meara—”

“Yeah, right, Peters. Thanks for pointing that out. Why don’t you do something useful, like call up your friend at the ME’s office?”

“But Julie said the DNA results—”

“Call her,” White said. “Put some pressure on those people.”

“Can I talk to you, Sergeant?” DeShay put the laptop on the coffee table, stood and walked to the window.

“Excuse me, ladies.” White followed, again adjusting his sport coat.

Though they’d stepped away, I could hear every word. It wasn’t like they were behind a closed door.

“I am not your slave,” DeShay said in an angry stage whisper. “You treat me with respect, because for now, I’m the only partner you’ve got.”

“Didn’t mean to rub you the wrong way. I’ll be more sensitive to your needs in our
partnership.
Sounds to me like you’d rather be partners with your little detective friend.”

A tense silence followed. Then I heard DeShay say, “We’ve got a job to finish.” He came back, reclaimed his chair and picked up the laptop. “Sorry about that.”

White resumed his questions, and the answers hadn’t changed from the last time he’d interviewed Emma and me. They left fifteen minutes later, and DeShay said they’d be in touch with any developments.

“I don’t understand, Abby,” Emma said. “How could my mother not really be my mother?”

“You were her oldest child. Maybe someone left you with her.”

“Who? My father?”

“Listen, I know you’ve had several big surprises today. Let’s wait on the DNA. Then we’ll know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“Guess you’re right. I’ll know the truth soon enough,” she said quietly.

I could tell this had hit her like a heavyweight’s punch. What else could happen? We talked a few minutes longer; then I took off and returned home to research Emma’s neighborhood, hoping to use the ideas Jeff had suggested to find anyone who might have known Christine O’Meara back in the nineties.

Diva was happy to have me at the computer, and once we were both comfortable, I tried the Houston City-search Web site, used all sorts of query combinations using
Dogpile.com
, one of my favorite search engines, and combed the online yellow pages for bars and liquor stores in Emma’s neighborhood. There were plenty of stores and bars, but after a dozen calls I learned that most places had turned over ownership time and time again. No one would remember a woman from ten years ago. I did come away with the names of two places that had kept the same ownership for longer than ten years, one bar and one liquor store. But a short list was better than no list at all. Time to hit the streets.

The liquor store was on Cavalcade, a good distance away from Emma’s house. I decided to try Pedro’s Beer Garden first.
Interesting name. Maybe I’ll find Wolfgang’s Cantina around the corner,
I thought, as I pulled into the empty lot next door to the bar. There was no parking lot.

Tejano music blared from speakers at the back of the building, where I could see a few rusty wrought-iron tables on a patio. The bar was a run-down shack made of metal sheeting. I noted only a few cars besides my own, or should I say pickup trucks, not cars. Three of them.

Since I was alone in an unfamiliar part of town, I considered sticking my gun in my bag—but bringing a firearm into an establishment that sells liquor is a big no-no, and I do want to keep my PI license. I put on a confident smile and walked through the screen door.

The sunlight was so intense that when I entered the dark interior, I had to pause while my eyes adjusted. The music was even louder inside, but the wonderful smell of cilantro, hot peppers and retried beans more than compensated. It was past one o’clock and I’d skipped lunch. My stomach knew it.

The place had a few mismatched tables and chairs as well as a bar with five stools. I could make out the silhouettes of two men seated there wearing cowboy hats. Both of them were eating, and as I got closer I saw they were also drinking longneck bottles of Dos Equis.

The bartender looked about forty, with dark hair slicked back in a ponytail. He wore a grungy once-white canvas apron. “You lost,
señorita?”
he said.

I practically had to shout over the music. “No. I’m hoping you can help me.”

The two men who’d been eating lunch switched their attention to me and offered raised eyebrows and smarmy smiles to the bartender. To his credit, he ignored them and offered a welcoming expression.

I had a business card ready and handed it to him. “My name is Abby Rose. I’m investigating the death of a woman who lived in this area in the mid-nineties. She disappeared in 1997 and I’ve learned she was murdered.”

The bartender stepped back. “I don’t know nothing about no murder. I’m a Christian man and run a good place. And I keep it good. No fights. No gangs. No killings.”

I swallowed, a little scared at his sudden switch in temperament. “I’m only trying to find anyone who knew this woman, saw her—anything.” I mustered as much sweetness as I could, still feeling the stares of the two customers. “Can I please show you her picture? Her name was Christine O’Meara.”

The man stared at my card and then back at me. “You’re not no cop? They come in here with the wrong idea every time a new one gets this beat. Who knows? Maybe they’re sending women now.”

“Do I look like a cop?” I set my purse on an empty bar stool, held out my arms and twirled. I was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt. “I’m not carrying, as you can see.”

That brought a laugh from all three, and the customer with a tattoo of a Bible verse on his bicep said, “Oh, you’re carrying. Just not no weapons.”

I held out my bag. “You want to look inside? You can check my ID. I promise the most dangerous thing in my purse is a Snickers bar.”

More laughter, and the bartender yelled over the music, “Show me this picture.”

While the bartender examined the photo, I decided I might need an eardrum transplant if I stayed in here much longer.

He placed the picture on the bar in front of the customers, shaking his head. “I been here fifteen years and I can count on my fingers how many white women come in here, and that’s with counting you. This lady in the picture, I don’t know her. I never seen her.”

The two customers shook their heads no, too, and returned to their nearly finished lunches of tamales, beans and rice.

“If you’ve been here fifteen years, then you know the area.” I sat at the bar. “Is there anywhere else a woman who, well, enjoyed her liquor might go to spend time around here?”