Shoot from the Lip Page 11

  “I don’t blame him,” I said.

  “Added to that, they landed a fresh case right when I was leaving Travis. They’ll be plenty busy today.”

  “Julie Rappaport, huh? You’re sure she’ll talk to me, even though I’m not a cop?”

  He nodded. “Yup. She’s waiting for your call. Nice little lady. Smart as hell.”

  “You could go with me,” I said sweetly.

  “I have a witness interview in about twenty minutes,” he said.

  “I have to go back to that place alone?” I said.

  “I got one word for you. Vicks.”

  “What?”

  He rubbed under his nose. “Right here. Vicks. Before you go in the building.”

  “Ah. Gotcha,” I said.

  I called Julie Rappaport right after I left DeShay and she told me to come to the ME’s office straightaway. Turned out Julie was a skeletal remains and cold-case expert, the HCME investigator who’d worked on Emma’s property when the bones were found. Not only was she the person who could help me learn whether Christine O’Meara was one of the unidentified corpses from 1997; she was working the baby case as well.

  The receptionist behind the glass at the front desk remembered me from when I’d signed in earlier. Rappaport must have let her know I was coming, because she picked up the phone and made a call.

  Julie came out and got me. Can’t say I recognized her from the other day, maybe because she wasn’t wearing fatigues. She was small—looked like a kid—and wore a black baseball cap with FORENSICS in white letters on the front and a denim jacket that had seen better days. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and brought out through the back of the cap. She smelled like bleach. I’d bet bleach was the chemical of choice in this place.

  Once we were seated in her cubicle, I said, “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to talk to me on such short notice.” I hadn’t had time to pick up Vicks, so I’d slathered Burt’s Bees raspberry lip balm under my nose. It wasn’t working. Even though this part of the building was shut off from the morgue, the smell of death hung in the air.

  “No need to thank me,” she said. “I got excited when you called. Any chance I can put a cold case to rest is a great day for me. We get PIs in here on occasion, but none so highly recommended. DeShay thinks a lot of you.”

  “That goes both ways. What have you got for me?”

  “I pulled the tracking sheets on the two unidentifieds DeShay mentioned,” she said.

  “What are tracking sheets?”

  “They tell us what’s been done so far on a cold case to identify the remains, what avenues we’ve pursued, any subsequent evidence that was unearthed. In addition, since DNA from all unidentified bodies is entered into CODIS, we document when the DNA profile was done and submitted. What’s great is that today your client, Ms. Lopez, gave us DNA for the infant bones. But we can also match her DNA against these two cold cases, see if she’s related to either woman.”

  I nodded. “You mentioned CODIS. That’s a police database, right?”

  “Yes. Used all over the country. The Combined DNA Index System.”

  “How long will it take to see if there’s a match to Emma in either case?”

  “If this were a TV show, five minutes. In reality, cold cases aren’t a priority when you’ve got fresh homicides piling up.”

  “Even the infant bones won’t be a priority?”

  “Oh, yes. We’re already feeling the publicity heat on that one. The police need a positive ID to pursue leads, so we’ll run a mitochondrial DNA comparison against Emma Lopez pretty quickly. Fortunately, our facility is one of very few in the U.S. that does mitochondrial. I extracted the DNA from the baby’s femur myself, and we should have the results tomorrow.”

  “I take it that’s a super-special DNA process?”

  “That’s right. It works only through maternal lineage.”

  “If the baby is Emma’s sister, would that hurry up the testing on the unidentified corpses?”

  “Maybe, if there was enough pressure on us and on the police, but not necessarily. Every detective, constable, Texas Ranger or DEA agent wants their DNA case to be high priority. We can’t always do that. But wait.” She fingered the silver wolf pendant she wore. “We would have done facial reconstructions on both of the unidentifieds.” She looked down, scanned her tracking sheets. “Yes, we did. I don’t know how old Emma was when her mother disappeared. Does she remember her?”

  “Oh, she remembers.”

  “Good. Then she could look at the photos we took of those two reconstructed skulls. You have no idea how much I love a well-preserved skull. A good reconstructionist can work miracles—bring the dead to life. I see on the tracking sheet that one of the victims was murdered, shot in the back of the head, but we still had a decent specimen.”

  I opened my bag and took out my photo of Christine O’Meara. “Can we compare the reconstruction to this photo of Emma’s mother?”

  She smiled as wide as the skulls she loved so much and accepted the photo as if it were a holy artifact. “This is great. But I’ll have to dig around and find the original files—and that won’t happen until the end of the day, if I’m lucky.”

  I glanced at the wall of filing cabinets across the aisle from Julie’s cubicle. “Looks like you have a slew of records.”

  “We keep everything on the cold cases and save all unidentified remains. Most people are unaware that HPD has no cold-case squad. Those men and women on the force are amazing and do what they can to solve every case, but this is a huge city with a lot of homicides. Sometimes they have to let PIs like you help. I really thank you for coming.”

  I hadn’t expected a thank-you. In fact, I was used to resistance during my investigations, especially from government or police people. But Julie wasn’t territorial or controlling or withholding. She seemed to want answers for those left behind as badly as I did.

  She went on, saying, “Heck, I just thought of something, Abby.”

  “What?”

  “Photos of the reconstructions went to the newspaper. The police send them to the press and to other local police agencies. If you go to the downtown library annex, you could research the 1997 Houston Chronicles. You know the regular library is closed for remodeling?”

  “Right. Can you help me narrow my search with the dates of those deaths?”

  “Sure. The tracking sheets indicate that one of these women was found in May, the other in September. Apparently the location of the head wound on that one woman was never released to the press. Check the Crime Stopper columns for exactly what was printed. Searching the newspapers yourself will really speed things up.”

  I stood. “I’m on my way.”

  “If you think your picture matches one of the reconstructions, call me right away and I’ll send this back to HPD as a new lead in a cold case after I take a look myself. With the TV show in town, identifying one of these women as Emma Lopez’s mother could move the case up on that priority list.”

  Geeky little Julie Rappaport was a gem. No wonder DeShay sent me here. I wondered if folks had a clue what forensic investigators were really like. She wasn’t showing off maximum cleavage like they do on TV, and her battered ID hung around her neck rather than her having a shiny badge clipped to low-riding jeans. But her heart was where it should be. At least they got something right on CSI. Yeah. I liked Julie. A lot.

  I left and drove straight to the library, parked and went to the research area, my jeans pocket packed with quarters for the copier. Though the Houston Chronicle is archived and easily accessible online, any accompanying photos are available only here. I felt my heart skip a beat when I finally found what I came looking for.

  The photo I held next to the newspaper picture left little room for doubt. There she was—Christine O’Meara—the woman who’d been shot in the head in September of 1997. I was amazed at what the artist had done. I didn’t know whether to feel happy or sad for Emma—happy because she would know where her mothe
r was or sad because on top of everything else, Emma might have to arrange a burial or cremation now. I swear, if that girl started selling lightbulbs, the sun would stop setting.

  I sent the Crime Stopper article to the printer, still shaking my head at all this bad luck. Several minutes later, as I headed to the library parking lot, several copies of the Crime Stopper article in hand, I called Julie Rappaport.

  The receptionist put me through, and I said, “Julie, it’s Abby. One unidentified corpse has a name. The gunshot victim who died in September.”

  “That’s great. Now we’ll need a CODIS comparison to Emma Lopez for a positive ID—which I’m certain the police will want right away. I’ll call Sergeant White, since he’s the lead investigtor,” she said. “Thanks so much, Abby. I would have done this myself but—”

  “Don’t apologize. You people have to be swamped in a county this heavily populated.” After I disconnected, I decided to drop by Kate’s office and once again recruit her to help me break this news to Emma, Shannon and Luke. How much more could those kids take?

  The drive to the medical center took about twice as long as it should have, thanks to early rush hour. But when I found a parking spot in the lot next to Kate’s building I forgave all the buses, the broken-down cars and the jerks who had to be from somewhere other than Texas because they loved to lay on their horns.

  Minutes later, I walked into Kate’s comfy waiting area and found Clinton Roark chatting up Kate’s receptionist.

  What the heck was going on? I never thought I’d weigh in on Aunt Caroline’s side, but Kate needed time to get over Terry, and a new man in her life didn’t seem like the best way to do that.

  “Hi, Abby,” Kate’s receptionist said. She’d been here only a couple weeks. What was her name? April or May or June?

  Roark turned and smiled at me. “We meet again. Good to see you.”

  I pointed at him. “Back at ya.” Then I addressed springtime girl. “Is Kate still in a session?”

  “She’ll be out in five minutes,” she answered.

  I took a seat on the mauve sofa—Kate’s latest icky color choice. She tells me pastels are soothing for her clients, but I could only think of Easter eggs when I walked in here, and I’m not a fan of the hard-boiled egg unless it’s deviled with plenty of mayo.

  I was tempted to pick up a magazine and pretend Roark wasn’t there, but of course that wouldn’t work, so I said, “Does Kate know you’re here?”

  He walked over and sat on a chair adjacent to the couch. “No. Thought I’d surprise her. I heard about this vegetarian Chinese restaurant on Westheimer and was hoping we could try it out. She’s helping me convert.” He patted his chest. “Heart disease runs in the family.”

  “She’s helping you with your diet? Last I heard Kate was a shrink, not a dietician.”

  He laughed. “True, but I came in here yesterday by mistake—I was supposed to deliver pill samples to a doctor named Ruston. But on the board in the lobby, I saw the name Rose first, and my brain decided that’s who I was supposed to see.”

  “Kate doesn’t prescribe drugs. She’s a clinical psychologist.”

  “I learned my mistake soon enough. Kate was out here with April and we got to talking. When I heard April was heading to some vegan place to pick up their lunch, I told Kate how interested I was in getting healthier. She offered to help me.”

  I nodded. “Ah, so my sister’s a regular Pied Piper when it comes to luring wannabe vegetarians over to the dark side. Learn something every day.” But I wasn’t exactly sure who the Pied Piper was in all this—Kate or Clinton Roark.

  He said, “She told me you’d be skeptical about us making this connection right after her breakup with Terry. But we’re just friends, Abby.”

  Yeah. Friends. That was why Kate wouldn’t even face me this morning. “Hey, you don’t have to explain anything to me.” This conversation was making me uncomfortable. I walked over to April, who was busy behind the glassed-in counter. “Tell Kate I’ll talk to her later.”

  I started for the door, but Roark blocked my path. “Are you leaving because of me? Please don’t. I can catch up with Kate another day.”

  “Thanks, but I have something important to do, and she seems to be running over with her client.” I maneuvered around him, the scent of his cologne still with me as went to the elevator and punched the down button.

  He did smell damn good, seemed nice enough. Now that I thought about it, if I got all negative about Roark to Kate, that put me squarely in Aunt Caroline’s court. I shivered at the thought. If Kate liked this guy, more power to her.

  The elevator dinged and the doors opened. The compartment was almost full, and I hesitated.

  “You coming or what?” a woman asked.

  “Go on without me.” Dammit, I didn’t want tension between Kate and me. Besides, I needed my sister today, needed her beside me to offer comfort to Emma and her family.

  I turned around, went back to her office and found her talking with Clinton in the waiting area.

  “You’re back,” Kate said. “Clint and April said—”

  “Listen, I don’t want to interfere in your social life, but I need your help tonight. I’ve discovered Christine O’Meara was murdered in 1997. I don’t want to take this news to her family alone.”

  “That’s awful.” Kate looked up at Roark. “Do you mind if I take a rain check?”

  “Of course not.” Roark looked at me. “Glad you changed your mind and came back.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes I’m as dumb as an unplugged computer. A cold case warmed up, and I need my sister’s help before this makes the late news.”

  “I’ll get my purse, Abby.” She looked at Roark. “Call me?”

  “I will.” He strode across the waiting room and out the door. Kate didn’t take her eyes off him until he was gone, reminding me that I never take my eyes off Jeff’s backside, either. Maybe there is such a thing as love in two days—even for shrinks who should know better.

  12

  “Mom’s dead?” Emma sat in the center of the couch at the hotel, flanked by Shannon and Luke. Luke was looking at the article copy I’d handed to Emma with the photo of their mother’s reconstructed face. Kate and I sat across from them.

  “Yes. She was shot,” I said.

  “Did she do it to herself?” Shannon said. “Because if she was drunk she could have—”

  “No,” Kate interrupted gently. “Abby tells me the ME’s office determined from the wound location that she couldn’t have killed herself.”

  “That’s a detail they left out of the paper,” I said. “Probably on purpose. They’ll compare Emma’s DNA to the DNA they took from your mother when her body was brought to the morgue in 1997. But as you can see, the woman in the newspaper looks exactly like her.”

  “I’m glad she’s dead.” Luke’s gaze remained on the photocopy.

  “Why’s that?” Kate had moved the coffee table aside to be closer to them, and her knees nearly touched Emma’s.

  “I’m glad because she can’t come back,” he said. “Emma doesn’t have to be afraid of that happening anymore.”

  “I was never afraid for myself, Luke,” Emma said. “I was afraid for you, Shannon and Scott.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he said with a shrug. He switched his stare to the Dr Pepper can held between his knees.

  Kate leaned forward. “You’re looking out for your sister and I think that’s really cool, but how do you feel about your mother dying in such a violent way?”

  His head snapped up. “You want me to cry? ’Cause that’s not gonna happen.”

  “I only want you to know that I care, that I’m here for you. Anytime. No one should have to deal with what’s been dumped on you your entire life.”

  Shannon said, “Emma always says that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. We’re pretty tough, Dr. Rose.”

  Kate smiled. “Oh, yes. Tough and great and three of my new favorite people.”

  “I h
ave homework,” Shannon said. “Is it okay if I go?”

  “Sure,” Emma said. “How about you, Luke? You want to stay?”

  “No.” He jumped up and hurried to his room.

  When they were gone, Emma said, “What happens next?”

  “Your mother’s death will become an active homicide investigation again once a positive DNA ID is made. When the ME’s office is finished with her remains, you’ll have to decide what to do with her.”

  Emma seemed to draw herself in. “I can’t afford a casket or—”

  “What about cremation?” I asked.

  Emma didn’t speak for a few moments. “The church allows it, as long as I don’t deny that she’ll be resurrected. That’s hard to think about—her being resurrected.”

  Kate said, “You don’t have to decide tonight.”

  “Mr. Kravitz and Mr. Mayo will find out about this tomorrow, won’t they?” Emma said.

  I nodded. “I don’t know how they learn about things like this. But they’ll know.”

  “I’m not sure I want to find out who killed her.” She looked at Kate. “Does that sound crazy?”

  “Not at all,” Kate said. “Learning details about her murder will bring back more unpleasant memories—and you’ve had enough of those for a lifetime.”

  “I’m not afraid of the memories.” Emma fell silent for a moment, her forehead creased in thought. “She must have made someone very angry.”

  I nodded. “Or scared them.”

  Emma took a moment to think before she said, “You know something? Every time I think of her I’ll always have questions. I want to put an end to that for good. Abby, will you help me find out what happened?”

  My reply was interrupted by my cell phone. I looked at the caller ID and saw it was DeShay. “You mind if I take this?”

  “Go ahead,” Emma said.

  I answered the phone with, “Hey,” and walked into the kitchenette. “I planned to call you after I left Emma’s hotel. I met with Julie and—”