Shoot from the Lip Page 3

  While I ate I called Jeff, and he answered right away—something that never happens when he’s in town and working cases.

  After our initial hellos, I said, “I miss you so much.”

  “I miss you, too,” he answered.

  I wanted to ask him what the hell he was doing so far away—he’d actually taken vacation time—but I decided to stick to my plan and not question him. We ended up talking about my new case.

  When I was finished summing up, he said, “No murder victim?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I was pacing in the kitchen, Webster shadowing me.

  “You seem to attract those kinds of cases. PIs don’t have to be involved in murder on every job, hon.”

  I smiled. He’d started calling me “hon” about a month ago and I loved it. My ex had always called me “babe,” and I thought I’d never be a fan of sweet nothings again. “Jeff, I’ve done plenty of reunions without murder involved. And maybe you haven’t noticed, but I pick my cases because they’re challenging. Murder is pretty damn challenging—or at least you seem to think so.”

  “True. Guess I worry about being way up here if you run into trouble.”

  “I can get your advice on the phone, and believe me, I will.”

  “It’s not the same,” he answered.

  He sounded down, and I was proud when I chose not to say, Then get back here and help me! Still, restraint was uncomfortable territory. Maybe I could learn from this experience. “Needing help doesn’t always have to do with cases. You might have to talk me to sleep while I snuggle with Diva. She is a poor substitute for you, as much as I love her.”

  “I would very much enjoy talking to you while we’re both in bed, if you know what I mean.”

  I could picture him with one of his rare grins, and I laughed. “Oh, I know what you mean. Glad we have a plan.”

  We talked for a long time, moving on to Kate’s breakup with Terry. Jeff was no more surprised than I was. The man’s an ace detective who can read people in a minute. Apparently he’d assessed and formed an opinion about their relationship even earlier than I had.

  I said, “There’s some book called He’s Just Not That into You, and I think the title should have included both sexes. No matter how many times Kate said she loved Terry—and I think she tried hard to make those feelings real—maybe she was never that into him. I had sensed resistance building in their relationship, this tiny hint of tension between them.”

  “I remember you telling me she didn’t want to move in with Terry in the first place, but he kept bugging her, and she, being compassionate and sweet, gave in,” Jeff said. “Yup, not that into him.”

  “I am very into you, by the way. Call me tonight?”

  “Will do.”

  After we disconnected, I went to my office and called Mark Whitley at home. Without hesitation he told me to e-mail him the contract and promised to get someone on it. Mark is the go-to man for getting things done in a hurry. The lawyers at CompuCan, the company Kate and I inherited from Daddy, probably knew plenty about contracts, but if I gave them the job, I could join Jeff in Seattle for two weeks before I’d hear a word—and then the word would be a question and not the answers I needed.

  After I hung up, attached the contract Emma had e-mailed me and hit the send button to Mark, I began researching Venture Productions and the two names that might help me learn more about the company—Chelsea Burch and Erwin Mayo.

  Burch, I learned, had once been an evening anchor at a San Diego TV station, but there was precious little else on the Net about her life or career. Erwin Mayo’s Google results turned into a resume of all the shows he’d produced. I figured he probably owned a giant share of Coyote TV, the station that aired Reality Check. When my eyes grew tired of clicking from one Web page to the next, I quit. The man was obviously a seasoned veteran, probably knew every word in that contract Emma had signed. There would be no loopholes.

  But that wouldn’t stop me from working for Emma. A missing baby? A missing mother? Those problems were right up my alley, and I wanted to know more, wanted to help her.. Every new case was unique, often filled with surprises, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

  Emma, her sister, Shannon O‘Meara, and her brother Luke O’Meara arrived at seven o‘clock that night. Emma brought a folder with more family pictures and her copy of the Venture contract. We all sat in the living room rather than cram into my office. Thank goodness no one was allergic to or afraid of animals, because Webster chose the eighteen-year-old, fair-skinned and blond Luke as his new best friend. Not to be outdone, Diva settled into Shannon O’Meara’s lap. She was sixteen, freckled and red-haired. What a difference a father’s genes could make. She was Emma’s opposite. Scott O’Meara, the nineteen-year-old, was supposed to call in from college.

  After all the introductions were done and everyone had a soft drink in hand, we’d visited for a while and Kate and I made sure all three had our cards with our cell numbers. Kate began the interview, starting with Emma.

  “Your brother and sister seem like great kids,” Kate said. “They’re polite, sound like they take school seriously, and they have the clear eyes of sober adolescents. Seems like you’ve done a fine job raising them.”

  Emma had shed her business suit and was wearing khaki capris and a peach T-shirt, but she looked just as exotically gorgeous in casual clothes and with little makeup. “These kids made it easy. They’re smart, they help me, they’re ...” Her voice cracked, and Luke, who was next to her on the couch, put an arm around her.

  “Emma’s way cool, too,” he said.

  Kate glanced at her watch. “It’s a little past seven thirty. Can we get your brother Scott on the line, since he hasn’t called us?”

  But though Emma tried several numbers, she couldn’t find Scott.

  “He’s probably mad,” said Shannon, staring down at the cat. “He stays that way.”

  “Mad about what?” Kate scribbled something on the legal pad on her lap.

  “How about everything?” Luke stroked Webster’s head. The dog sighed and settled on the floor, his head on Luke’s feet.

  “He’s had his problems,” Emma said. “If he won’t participate, does that mean we can’t go on with this?”

  Kate smiled. “Anger is a normal reaction to what you and your family have been through. He’s been living away from the family for how long?”

  “This is his second year at Texas A&M,” Emma answered.

  “That’s a long time,” Kate said. “Maybe anger is his way of separating, of being his own man. But don’t worry. His reluctance to participate won’t affect how Abby and I work with you.”

  Emma slowly nodded. “Being his own man. Yes. That makes sense.”

  “Okay, then,” Kate said. “What we need now is a family history. What happened when. Before I make any psychological assessments, I think Abby can ask those questions. Then I’ll get your feelings about possibly reuniting with a sister you never knew—that is, if we can find her.”

  “Can I ask something first?” Emma was looking at me. “What about the contract?”

  I told her I hoped to hear something from Mark soon, then redirected the conversation. I was sure what Mark would tell me, and Emma didn’t need to hear that now. “Emma, can you start with your father? Did you know him?”

  “No. I wasn’t even born when he went away. He was a soldier, died in Beirut in late 1983—the marine barracks bombing. His name was Xavier Lopez, and he bought the house we still live in. He left me the house along with a small trust to cover the taxes and insurance. My mother was so angry that he’d given her nothing, she made sure Scott, Luke and Shannon only had her last name, O’Meara, on their birth certificates. They don’t know who their fathers are—but that’s another issue, maybe for another time.”

  Hmm, I thought. More missing information.

  “Scott is half black, we think,” Emma said, “but as you can see, I’m half Hispanic, and Luke and Shannon are white through and th
rough. Shannon looks a lot like Mom.”

  “Don’t say that.” Shannon said this loud enough to send Diva scurrying off her lap and out of the room. “I’m not her.”

  Kate jotted something on her pad while Emma said, “I’m sorry. You’re nothing like her on the inside, Shannon. Nothing. She was selfish and mean and a drunken idiot.”

  “An alcoholic?” I asked, writing for the first time in my own notebook.

  “Raging,” Emma said. “A binger. She’d leave us alone for days at a time, then come back and sleep for hours and hours.”

  “How long had this been going on?” I asked.

  “As far back as I can remember, but before the baby was bom—the one who’s gone—she cut back on the booze. But she still left us alone quite a bit, probably because she was working more. She kept saying how expensive kids were.”

  “Did you ever see this child? Or did your mother come home from the hospital empty-handed?” I asked.

  “She never went to any hospital. I helped her birth the baby at home.” Emma looked down at her hands, her long brown fingers intertwined tightly.

  I tried to hide my shock. “She had her at home? How old were you?”

  “About eight, I think. She had the baby in the bathtub. But the next day when I returned from school, she and the baby were gone. She’d left Shannon and Luke with the neighbor lady who had a home day care—they were just babies themselves. Mom came back that night—alone.”

  “Alone?” I said. “But—”

  “I didn’t ask any questions, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Emma said. “I knew better.”

  “Knew better?” Kate said. “Help me understand what you mean.”

  Emma didn’t make eye contact with Kate or me. “I could tell she was super drunk—probably to dull the pain from the baby coming—and when she was like that, well ... she did things.”

  “Violent things?” Kate asked.

  Emma nodded, and Luke squeezed her closer.

  “And you ... what were you? A third grader? You took care of your sister and brothers while she was gone?” Kate asked.

  “I took care of them even when she was around, so it wasn’t that hard.” Emma had regrouped. She was in control of her emotions again.

  Kate blinked several times, shook her head. “But you were eight, Emma.”

  “I was never really eight.” Her voice was a near whisper. “When you have an alcoholic mother, you’re never a kid and you never really have a mom.”

  “How true. If there’s an upside to this, you’ve gained plenty of insight,” Kate said. “I hope we can talk more in the future about these issues—that is, if you want to.”

  “That might be good. To talk. You both seem like you might actually care—unlike those television people.”

  “We’ll get to them later.” I looked back and forth between Luke and Shannon. “Do either of you remember the baby?”

  They both shook their heads no. Not surprising, since they would have been very young at the time.

  Kate said, “How do you feel about your baby sister’s disappearance?”

  “Sad. I want to meet her,” said Shannon, “Hug her. Find out everything about her.”

  “And you, Luke?” Kate asked.

  “Same thing. I sure hope she has decent parents. That would mean Mom did something good for once. You get what I’m saying?”

  “You mean you hope your sister was adopted,” Kate said. “But we may learn that’s not what happened.”

  “You think I don’t know how messed up this world is?” Luke shot back. “What scuzzes people can be?”

  “Sorry, Luke. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.” Kate’s tone was soothing, sincere.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said quietly.

  I focused on Emma. “Did your mother ever talk about what happened to the baby?”

  Emma rested her hand on Luke’s knee and settled back against the sofa cushions. “When she sobered up about a month later, she had a story. She figured I hadn’t forgotten, even though I never said anything. She told me that Child Protective Services came once I’d left for school the morning after the baby was born. See, Luke had marks on his legs—from the switch Mom used to hit us with. She told me someone notified CPS.”

  “Who might have called them?” I asked.

  “I didn’t ask questions. Maybe the day care lady in the neighborhood. Anyway, Mom said that when the caseworker heard the baby crying, the worker took Mom and the baby to Chimney Rock Center—where the CPS headquarters are. She and the caseworker made a deal. If Mom gave up the baby and no more reports came in about abuse, they’d close the file on Luke’s bruises.”

  “And the child was never returned to the family?” I said. “You three were never interviewed?”

  They nodded.

  Right then I knew this whole CPS story Emma had been fed was nothing more than a corral full of bullshit. This was not how CPS did things. All the children would have been taken to Chimney Rock, and Emma would have been interviewed. But then, this story was from childhood recollections. She may have forgotten facts or not been told the whole truth. Emma’s mother, Christine O’Meara, could have simply given up her baby for adoption.

  “You never mentioned this baby again?” I asked Emma.

  “My mother told me that if I even hinted about her to anyone, CPS would take us all away. I’d be separated from Scott, Luke and Shannon. So I kept my mouth shut. And this may sound awful, but for a while, I thought I’d dreamed the whole thing.”

  Kate said, “Children often protect themselves from emotional trauma by blocking out events.”

  “But I felt terrible for forgetting.” Emma bit her lip, looked down. “I had a CPS caseworker of my own when I turned thirteen, and she helped me understand that Mom probably sold the baby. Turns out there was no previous file on any of us. Luke’s bruises had never been reported. It seemed too late to do anything after five years, and with Mom gone—”

  “She’d left again?” I asked.

  “Right. That’s why CPS took custody of us. I tried to hold things together at home for more than a month when she split that last time, but Shannon missed a week of school with the chicken pox, and I missed the same week to take care of her. The truant officer came, quickly followed by CPS. Mrs. Henderson, my caseworker, was awesome, though. She got a placement for all of us in the same foster home, and that lasted about three years.”

  “How did that go?” Kate asked.

  “Lots of kids coming and going, and our foster parents were pretty cold people. Mrs. Henderson suggested I become an emancipated minor at sixteen. I still owned the house, and we were able to move back in. She’d made sure I didn’t lose it by helping me keep up the insurance and tax payments from the trust.”

  Kate said, “Mrs. Henderson sounds like a great person.”

  “She was the best,” Emma said.

  “Was?” Kate asked.

  “She retired. Moved away.”

  “Bet you miss her,” Kate said.

  “Sort of,” Emma said. “But foster care teaches you to never get too close. We saw about twenty kids come and go. Good-byes can be hard, so you get hard.”

  Kate nodded, and I saw her eyes fill as she looked down at her tablet. She’d had a rough day and was probably ripe for a crying session even without hearing this story.

  I looked at Luke and Shannon. “I hear from Emma the baby part is new information for you guys.”

  Luke said, “When Emma found out that Mr. Mayo knew, she told us.”

  “But someone outside the family obviously was aware of the missing baby,” I said. “The person who wrote that letter to the Reality Check staff. Could it have been the day care lady, as you called her?”

  “Not her. She was almost as nasty as my mother,” Emma said.

  “Then who?” I asked.

  Emma said, “I have no idea.”

  “Finding that person is important, because whoever it is may know what your mother did with the
child,” I said.

  “I agree,” Emma replied. “But I’d like to find out if there’s any way I can get out of the contract first. Since the demolition is set for the day after tomorrow, I realize that’s asking a lot.”

  “Day after tomorrow? I had no idea,” I said. “The way I read that contract, once the city tears the house down, Venture sends their builder in immediately. Any chance we can delay the demolition to give Mark, my lawyer friend, more time? Meanwhile, I could start hunting for the person who wrote the letter.”

  Emma shook her head, looking discouraged. “Right after I found out Mr. Mayo knew about my baby sister, I asked for a delay from the city.”

  “The city?” Kate said.

  “Yes,” Emma said. “They’ll be tearing the house down. They gave me one delay but said that was it. The house is a hazard—very old and structurally unsound. No cement foundation.” Emma closed her eyes and looked down at her clenched hands again. “How I wish I’d taken the deal the city offered.”

  Luke said, “Emma’s all stressed because of those TV assholes. They made their deal sound so sweet. On Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, you can tell they care. Those guys are decent.”

  Emma smiled at Luke. “I know you’re upset, but please watch the language, okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure,” he mumbled, reaching for the dog again.

  “Guess I should have a chat with Chelsea’s boss first,” I said. “Maybe I could convince him to give you more time, even if the house has to go down as planned.”

  “Don’t count on him,” Shannon said. “He’s like a human ice cube and smells like the Dillard’s cologne counter.”