Shoot from the Lip (28 page)

After the maids finished and went on their way, I got busy. Since I didn’t know Mancuso’s schedule, I couldn’t risk waiting until later in the day to show up at Purity. Though it was unlikely, she could be working a short shift. Besides, I was too antsy to wait around. We were having a real fall day after yesterday’s rain, so I changed into cotton drawstrings and a long-sleeved T-shirt, packed up a few Diet Cokes in a small cooler and took along a package of potato chips. I remembered how Jeff said stakeouts were boring as hell ninety-nine percent of the time while you waited for something to happen. I almost forgot the binoculars and had to go back for them. What was a stakeout without binoculars?

The agency office was north, off Shepherd Drive, and I soon realized there was more to a stakeout than I planned. You had to find a place to park.
Duh.
Stakeout equals parking. I finally chose a busy Mexican restaurant, but my first spot did not offer a view of Purity’s fenced-in lot, where several minivans sat. This made me anxious. I might miss Loreen coming and going. But I shouldn’t have worried. I found a parking place facing the street fifteen minutes later—a good five hours before I needed to.

By the time Purity vans started arriving to end their day, I’d used the restaurant bathroom twice, and both times felt obligated to buy takeout, waiting and watching outside while it was prepared.

Tex-Mex is not user friendly, and I figured this stakeout had cost me about two thousand calories by the time I picked up my binoculars to watch as each van drove into the lot. I was tired after doing nothing for hours. Even the excitement of finally seeing action seemed dulled by the day’s inactivity and the fatty food I’d eaten.

If I’d had to rely on the mug shot alone at this distance for an ID, I would have been out of luck, but Emma’s description of the bad dye job paid off. I spotted the raven-haired Mancuso leaving the passenger side of a van about five thirty. Emma mentioned she was small, but I’d say
gaunt
was a better adjective.

She went into the office with her partner and soon came out alone, purse slung over her shoulder. She lit a cigarette and started walking, probably toward the bus stop I’d noticed when I arrived, just beyond the Shepherd intersection.
Damn.
I
knew
she rode buses. Why hadn’t I anticipated that she would today? Now I had a problem: I couldn’t see the bus stop from where I was parked. The best solution was to follow her on foot and get on the bus with her before she disappeared.

But then I’d have to leave my car, and it might be towed by the time I got back. I pulled out of the lot and idled on the side of the road, watching up ahead for a bus to pass through the intersection. I waited ten minutes for this to happen, and when it did, I quickly put the Camry in drive and pulled out in front of a driver who made sure I knew I’d pissed him off.

The light favored me, and I made a right onto Shepherd just as the bus lumbered away from the stop. Mancuso was not sitting on the bench, and I could only hope she was on that bus and hadn’t decided to do a little shopping at the gas station/convenience store on the corner. Following Metro would be a new challenge—especially for an impatient person like me. But if I had no luck today, I could always come back tomorrow—and I’d wait on Shepherd to make sure she climbed onto the bus.

The bus couldn’t have traveled more than two miles before Mancuso got off. This surprised me. I had it in my mind that she lived in Emma’s neighborhood because of the bus stop visits, but we were more than ten miles away. I followed the bus through the next intersection and merged into the left lane, but I kept her in sight in my rearview, thinking maybe she might wait for another bus.

But no. She’d lit another cigarette and was waiting for the light to cross the street. I made a U-turn as soon as possible. She had already disappeared when I made it back. I turned right and saw her walking down the sidewalk, cigarette smoke in her wake. I drove past her, thinking how Houston can switch from commercial to residential in the blink of an eye. We were in an older neighborhood, the houses small and close together. I parked near the next corner and fumbled in my purse for a mirror and lipstick. As she walked by me, I pretended to be engrossed in applying color to my lips. She didn’t seem to notice.

I watched her walk another two blocks and then turn left at a stop sign. I followed, and when I reached the sign, I looked in the direction she’d gone and saw her standing at the door of a gray house halfway down the block. She took one more drag on her cigarette before putting it out and unlocking the front door.
Wow.
She’d gone out of her way to make the bus stop visits to Emma if she lived here.

A few seconds later I pulled up to the house, noting the number painted on the curb by the driveway. I slid from behind the wheel, then felt a tiny surge of adrenaline as I walked up the short cement path.

I rapped on the door, reminding myself that this woman wanted anonymity. She would need reassurance, and I hoped I could deliver—if she agreed to talk to me at all.

She didn’t open the door, just called out, “What do you want?”

“I need your help, Loreen,” I said.

A short silence followed; then she said, “Do I know you?”

“We have a mutual friend who sent me here—Angela.” Mentioning Emma’s name first might be the wrong thing to do.

I heard the dead bolt turn and she opened the door a crack. “Angela sent you?”

“Yes.”

“I hardly know her. What’s this about?” Her door was open a little more now.

“My name is Abby. Can I come in and explain?”

“Not until you tell me how you know Angela.”

“She cleaned my house, said you were one of the best employees at Purity.”

“You need my help cleaning? ’Cause we’re not allowed to do private jobs. We had to sign a paper that we wouldn’t.”

Even though she hadn’t shut the door on me, I could tell this wasn’t working.

“Okay, here’s the straight scoop. I work for Emma Lopez, and I think you know her, even if she doesn’t know who you really are. She needs your help.”

Loreen slammed the door so hard I think the house shook. I heard the dead bolt turn.

But I had another idea on how to get her attention, even though I wouldn’t enjoy using this tactic. “Fiona,” I said loud enough for her to hear—and maybe loud enough for the neighbors, too. “I know you don’t want me talking out here about your past for everyone in the neighborhood to hear.”

A few seconds passed; then she opened the door. “Get inside,” she whispered harshly.

I stepped into a tiny foyer, shutting the door behind me. “Sorry I had to do that, but there are things you need to know and things I hope you can help us with.”

“What’d you say your name was?” She crossed thin arms over an ample chest that didn’t match her tiny physique. Were those implants a gift from James the pimp?

“Abby Rose. I’m a private detective, and I know you wrote a letter to a television show about Emma Lopez. I work for her.”

She cocked her head, staring at me. “Work for her how?”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to the baby under the house—you’ve heard about that, right?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“You wrote that letter to
Reality Check
to help your friend Christine’s children.”

She said, “That’s a lie.” But she was about as convincing as a FEMA official.

“Listen, can we sit down and talk? You’re justifiably concerned about publicity, but I’m helping Emma just like you wanted to help her.”

“Lotta good I did. Her baby sister’s dead.”

“But you did help. The show is building them a new house. I saw it myself.” I wasn’t ready to tell her that the baby in the news wasn’t Emma’s sister. She still seemed on her guard and might not believe me.

“A new house can’t bring back a dead baby,” Loreen said. “I’m done helping.”

“Even if I promise to keep your name out of this?”

“How can you do that when there’s a stupid TV show in town? If they find out who I am, I’ll lose everything. My job, my house ... everything.”

I took a risk and approached her, resting my hand on her shoulder. “I
won’t
let that happen.”

I felt her tremble under my touch. She said nothing.

“You were very brave to do what you did for Christine’s children, but there are things you need to know.”

“Like what?”

“Like what happened to your friend.”

“She split. That’s what happened. Left those kids to fend for themselves. I was so pissed at that stupid woman I promised one day I’d make things right.” She paused. “And now I’ve screwed that up, too.”

“You’ve got it wrong, Loreen. Let me tell you what I’ve learned, okay?”

“So I can feel more guilty? Okay. Bring it on, ’cause I’m an expert at guilt.”

She turned and walked down the hall. I followed, thinking how she’d escaped a miserable existence and now had this little house and a steady job where no knew about her former profession. Heck, she might even have a husband or a boyfriend. My showing up probably felt no different to her than if I’d broken in like a kick burglar holding a gun.

She led me into a living room with old-fashioned dark paneling. Between the paneling and the double window covered by heavy drapes, I felt claustrophobic. But the carpet seemed new and freshly vacuumed, and if there was a speck of dust anywhere, I couldn’t have found it. The house didn’t smell of tobacco, so she probably smoked only outside.

I chose an armchair with a clean towel tucked carefully over the floral cushion, and she sat on the edge of a mismatched plaid sofa, her hands clenched in her lap.

“There’s no easy way to tell you, so I’ll start with what you thought you knew. Christine didn’t leave town. She was murdered.”

Loreen gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “She ... she’s dead?”

“They found her body in 1997, but she remained unidentified until the TV show came to Houston and Emma asked me to investigate what happened to her baby sister and her mother. I discovered a cold-case death, and the victim turned out to be Christine.”

“I didn’t hear nothing about that on the news,” Loreen said.

“You will soon enough. Anyway, I’m hoping you can help me learn why she was murdered. I’m not sure if it’s connected to the baby’s death, but I suspect so. And here’s another important piece of information that hasn’t been reported in the press. That baby they found last week wasn’t Christine’s.”

Loreen shook her head vigorously. “You’re talking crazy now. I went through all nine months with her. Even knew the guy she was sleeping with when she got pregnant.”

“Who was the father?”

“A teenager who lived across the street from her—kid who had to be ten years younger. He liked to drink, and she was happy to supply the booze and drink with him. One night he drove drunk smack into a hill full of bluebonnets off Highway 6. Christy and me went there and left flowers by this white cross his parents put where he died. I was the one who cried. She didn’t.”

I swallowed. I already knew Christine O’Meara had led a life filled with mistakes and tragedy, and here was more of the same. “Emma was present when her mother gave birth, but the infant found under the house belonged to someone else. That’s what I need help with.”

“Maybe it was there when Christy moved in. Maybe it’s just chance that—”

“There are no coincidences when it comes to murder, Loreen. Somehow Christine’s baby was switched for the one found under the house. I truly believe that’s why Christine was killed—because she made a deal with someone. Could she have been in contact with a trafficker in black-market babies?”

“I don’t know. She told me she gave the baby to CPS, and that’s why I mentioned the kid in the letter. I thought Emma should know she had a sister out there somewhere.”

“She never mentioned a baby broker, and she didn’t give you the story about the husband who beat her and ran off with the child?”

“That?” Loreen laughed scornfully. “The beating story was only for the people we hung with at the bar we used to go to. She wanted everyone to feel sorry for her ’cause then they’d buy her drinks. But us two were close, and I thought she was telling me this big secret about CPS because we were friends. That’s what friends do, right? Tell each other important shit?”

I nodded, thinking,
But friends do not share that they have buried a baby under their house.

Loreen went on, saying, “Christy talked all the time about not wanting the kid, how she couldn’t handle the ones she already had, how they got in the way and how Emma always needed money for some crap at school. Those were her words, ‘some crap at school.’ But she never said she’d sell the baby. That’s what you’re saying, right? She sold her?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. But you stayed friends with Christine for years afterward?”

Loreen hung her head, twisting a silver ring on her pinkie finger. “I was only seventeen when we met, and she let me work with her cleaning houses. I was trying to save enough money to get by without Jimmy selling me every night to whatever slobbering jerk walked down the street. Course, I never got away from him until he went to jail.”

“Bet that was a relief.” She’d been abused, treated like a slave, probably most of her life.

“Yeah, but this isn’t about me. I still don’t understand why you think Christy was killed because of the baby thing,” Loreen said. “She disappeared five years after the baby came and went.”

“That bothers me, too. Did she have extra cash after the baby was born? Or a new TV? New clothes? Anything?”

Loreen sat in thought for probably a full minute. “A few times Christy had money to throw around—nothing big, a couple hundred bucks, maybe. Once when I asked where she got it, she said Emma’s family. But the father was supposed to be dead, so I didn’t get it, you know? Did she lie about him, too? Is he still around?”