Shoot from the Lip Page 5

  Meanwhile, the film crew had gotten their act together and were setting up in the street. Then Mayo’s Navigator came rolling back from the trailer, and he emerged wearing pressed jeans and a Reality Check T-shirt. Chelsea was with him, having changed into similar clothing. They were also wearing hard hats, and I wanted to laugh. This was all for the show. They weren’t getting anywhere near the house and didn’t need hard hats.

  Emma and I stood about ten feet to the right of the TV crew until the bulldozer arrived. The dozer was soon followed by a dump truck and another piece of equipment that would scoop up the debris that had been Emma’s home. Several men—mostly Hispanics—climbed out of the truck with shovels, what looked like fence cutters, and other tools I’m sure they needed for tearing things apart. When the cleanup crew was in place, we moved closer to the curb to watch.

  I held Emma’s sweaty hand when the bulldozer rumbled in. The temperature was rising, another warm afternoon before a promised cool front arrived, and everyone was sweating. It seemed so quiet, even the sound of heavy machinery was somehow lost in the humid air. Chelsea passed out cold bottled water to everyone, and I liked her for one brief second. Within minutes the small, already broken house toppled like stacked blocks.

  The Reality Check people captured every moment with mounted cameras as well as handhelds, while Stu Crowell’s attention was dedicated to Emma’s reaction. She seemed not to notice or care. Tears crept down her face, and I could feel her body trembling.

  The job of clearing the debris began and the crew was almost finished when their work came to an abrupt halt after a worker shouted, “Terminar ... Stop ... Terminar.” His voice was filled with an urgency that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

  This man hurried over to on-site boss Andrew, and then Andrew jogged after him to where the back of the house once stood. A few seconds later Andrew approached Emma and me.

  He said, “This isn’t a burial ground, right? I mean, we always check the plats and the city history, but something could have been overlooked.”

  Emma seemed too stunned to speak, so I said, “Burial ground? You mean ... ?”

  He looked at Emma when he answered. “Disposable diapers take about five hundred years to decompose. We find lots of them during demolitions. But this time ... well, there’s bones, too. Baby bones.”

  5

  Baby bones. Could there any worse words for Emma to hear right now? Good thing I had a hold of her arm, because I felt her go limp for an instant before she regained her equilibrium. Confusion rippled across her face, but this was quickly replaced by a wave of understanding. A baby sister who disappeared fifteen years ago must have been lying dead beneath her house all along. That thought would buckle my knees, too.

  Emma said nothing, just stared over Andrew’s shoulder at the workers with their still shovels, their bowed heads. A few had their hats in their hands.

  Meanwhile I became aware of cameraman Stu moving in, his lens fixed on Emma’s face.

  “Andrew,” I said, “take care of Emma for a second.” I stepped between Stu and his camera. “Know something, Stu? I can get as mean as an alligator in a drained swamp, so I suggest you give the girl time to take this in or you may wish you never brought that beautiful expensive camera to Texas.”

  His face was hidden, but within seconds the red light went off. “You got a job to do and so do I,” he said. But I could tell by the look in his eyes that he, too, might believe that sometimes your job isn’t the most important thing in the world.

  I turned back to Emma. Her expression had turned stony, her skin pale green. I noticed Andrew had his cell phone to his ear.

  “He’s calling the police,” Emma said, her gaze still locked on the mound of debris that was once her home. “I-I ... never called the police back then, even when she’d leave us alone for a week at a time. I was too afraid. I should have called them, Abby. God, I should have.”

  “You don’t know if what they’ve found—”

  “I don’t know? Come on. You’re not stupid, and neither am 1. They found my sister.”

  “Maybe. We’ll talk to the police and—”

  “No. I need you to get me out of here before then. I don’t have time to talk to the police. They’ll want to know things, and it could take hours. I have to pick up Shannon from school. She needs braces, and this was supposed to be her first appointment with the orthodontist. And Luke has football practice, and—”

  I put a finger to her lips. “Stop and think what you’re saying. You know this is a different kind of ... interruption in your routine. This is serious business.”

  Eyes bright with tears, she took a deep breath and finally her wobbly legs gave out. She fell to her knees, made the sign of the cross and started praying. “Holy Mary, Mother of God ...”

  The rosary prayer, the one Catholics do penance with after a confession. Why should she have anything to feel guilty about? This wasn’t her fault.

  “Why aren’t you rolling on this?” Chelsea said, poking Stu in the arm.

  Where the hell had she come from?

  Stu got in her face. “Don’t you ever touch me again.” But he did lift his camera and resume taping.

  Chelsea took a deep breath and knelt beside Emma, putting an arm around her.

  You phony bitch, I wanted to say, but instead I backed off. Jeez. I felt like I had my foot stuck in the stirrup of a runaway horse. Things were totally out of my control here. Maybe when the police arrived, it would feel less chaotic.

  The police came pretty fast, but not before another Reality Check cameraman walked right onto the property to videotape what looked like a black garbage bag—I could see the torn pieces blowing in the afternoon breeze. He ignored the admonitions of the workers standing near what I assumed were the remains. But then Andrew intervened, and he and the cameraman got into a shoving match. Thank goodness a uniformed cop arrived in time to escort the photographer off the property.

  Mayo had disappeared after the discovery, but he’d apparently been inside his Lincoln the whole time. When the cops showed up, he emerged from the backseat, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Something was up. I could tell by the hardness in his gray eyes. He stayed by the car, talking, looking like he was ready for Halloween in his hard hat and designer jeans.

  With arrival of the police, more onlookers appeared. There had been a few curious neighbors watching the demolition, but sirens summon a crowd, and that crowd was quickly growing across the street.

  I watched one officer set up a perimeter with crime scene tape, and another herd all the city workers off the property. They piled into Andrew’s extended-cab truck and he tossed them the keys to turn on the air-conditioning.

  Meanwhile, Stu kept taping until an officer who seemed to be in charge came over to us.

  He said, “Sir, I have to ask you to stop filming until we determine what’s gone on here.”

  “But we have an agreement with the city,” Chelsea said. “A contract with the homeowner giving us the right to film. We have—”

  “Ma’am. We know all that. The Chronicle ran an article about your little production visit to town this morning. No matter what deal you had with who, you’re turning the camera off or I will confiscate it as evidence. Might do that anyway.”

  Chelsea’s artificially bronzed face paled. “No way this was in the newspaper. You’re lying.”

  The cop stared down at her, smirking and shaking his head.

  “Okay, you’re not lying,” she finally said. “Syndicated or local piece?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care, ma’am. Now, this is your last chance. I want all your people to wait in the street. We’ll be barricading this block so they won’t have to worry about being in the way of traffic.”

  I liked this guy. Calm. Tall. And very much in charge.

  “Oh, whatever.” Chelsea tugged at Stu’s sleeve despite his earlier warning not to touch him. He pulled his arm free and stomped away toward the other crew members.

 
; Chelsea started to follow but stopped and turned back to me. She was hot, and not hot like her little boots. “You did this, didn’t you?”

  “Did what?”

  “Called the newspaper. I know it wasn’t Emma, because she was told not to talk to the local media. It had to be you.”

  “I didn’t tell any reporter anything.”

  “Don’t deny it, you little hick bitch. Don’t you see? Now that this ... this ... grave has been discovered, every reporter in town will be digging around for information. And Mayo will blame me.” She whirled and ran off in Stu’s direction.

  I smiled to myself, almost wishing I had called the Chronicle.

  Meanwhile, Emma was sitting on the ground, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. Her face was buried in her drawn-up legs. I squatted beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. “Emma? Are you okay?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  The police officer cleared his throat, and I stood up. The name badge on his bright blue shirt read CLARK.

  “Is this the homeowner, Emma Lopez?” he said.

  I nodded.

  She looked up then, her cheeks smudged with eye makeup, her eyes tired and red-rimmed.

  “The city crew chief, Andrew McDonald, pointed you out.” Clark looked to his left at Andrew, who was talking to a female officer holding a notebook and pen. “He said you’ve been pretty upset, that you’ve asked for delays on this demolition.”

  “He told you that?” Emma said. “Seems everyone knows my business.”

  “Officer Clark, do you have to do this now?” I said.

  He turned his attention to me. “Your name, ma’am?”

  “Abby Rose—Yellow Rose Investigations.”

  He looked puzzled. “Do I know you?”

  “No, but you may know a friend of mine—Sergeant Jeff Kline. Homicide.”

  He nodded. “That’s it. I’ve seen you downtown. Your Jeffs—” He caught himself, refocused on Emma. “I think you’ll both need to talk to the homicide investigators, so I’ll give you guys a break until they get here. Meanwhile, guess I need to deal with them.” He nodded at the Venture crew, all standing in the street, listening to a Mayo lecture. Most of them looked hot, tired and disinterested in whatever he was saying.

  “Yup,” said Officer Clark, “my lucky day. You two stay right here until homicide shows up.”

  He strode toward the television people.

  “Homicide?” Emma said. “Can they tell that she was ... you know ... ?”

  “It’s all routine, Emma. Any suspicious death belongs to homicide.”

  She offered an “Oh,” then fell silent, staring at where her house had stood only hours ago.

  The investigators who arrived minutes later identified themselves as Sergeant Don White and Sergeant Ed Benson. They looked close to retirement age and vaguely familiar—perhaps just as I had looked familiar to Clark. We’d probably passed each other on the homicide floor at Travis Center when I visited Jeff while he was working.

  White grinned at me. “Your pretty-boy cop goes on vacation and where do we find you? At the site of a possible homicide. What’s Jeff gonna say about that?”

  He did recognize me. I extended my hand. “Abby Rose. I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced.”

  “Hey. Don’t get all formal on me,” he said. “I’m just giving you a hard time. Jeff has nothing but good things to say about you, and believe me, he’s the man. Guy knows what he’s talking about.”

  Benson spoke up. “Uh, Don, how about apologizing for giving me a hard time for the last ten years?”

  “Shut up, Bennie.” White smiled again. “What are you doing here, Abby?”

  I explained—and the explanation was long and detailed. Emma remained wrapped up like a ball at my feet, her shoes beside her. I wasn’t sure she was even hearing what I was saying. Benson, meanwhile, had snapped on gloves and left with Andrew, the two stepping over the crime scene tape and heading toward the spot where the bones had been found.

  White turned his attention to Emma. He knelt in front of her and in a quiet voice said, “Miss Lopez? Can we talk?”

  He was a huge man with hands like spatulas, and he held one out to her to help her up, treating her like the frightened child she had become. My guess was that her mind had taken her back in time, maybe to the kitchen of that now-demolished house. Maybe she saw herself standing on that throw rug over the crawl space door and blaming herself for the death of her sister.

  Emma ignored White’s offer of assistance and instead drank from her water bottle, closed her eyes for a second, then said, “Yes, we can talk. But I want to see her. Can I see her?”

  “We’ll gather her remains, and the ME’s office will take them to the morgue. I think that’s a better place for you to ... see her.”

  “No,” Emma said, her voice rising. “I want to see my sister.”

  White used his church voice again. “We don’t even know if that is your sister. The ME will figure all that out. For now, why don’t you talk to me? I could use all the help I can get.”

  Emma’s lower lip trembled. “Help you? What makes you think I can help you? I couldn’t help her.” Her gaze was fixed on the men looking down at that black garbage bag.

  “Let’s go to my car,” White said. “We can talk there.”

  “I’ve already told you everything,” I said. “Can’t you see how upset she is?”

  “I do see,” White said. “And I understand. But I need the story directly from Ms. Lopez.” He bent and cupped Emma’s elbow, helping her up.

  “Can Abby come with me?” she said.

  White’s tone was less pleasant when he said, “We can do this alone, can’t we? I mean, I want to help you and—”

  “But I need her with me.” She stared at White with those intense eyes.

  His shoulders finally sagged in agreement. “Sure, why not?”

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  They started down the sidewalk while I picked up her forgotten shoes.

  A minute later, the three of us were enjoying the air-conditioned comfort of White’s unmarked car. Even the hum of the engine felt normal and nice, despite the presence of crime scene tape, hovering TV news choppers and the ever-growing crowd across the street.

  Emma sat in front with White, and I was hunched forward in the backseat, my face inserted in the space between them.

  “Can I call you Emma?” White asked.

  “Please,” she said, her water bottle held tight between both hands.

  “Emma, you got any clue how this little body got under your house?”

  “A clue? I can tell you exactly what happened. My mother put the baby there.”

  “You saw her do this?” White asked.

  “No. But I’m sure that’s what happened. Since you’re a detective and Abby’s told you everything about me, you should have figured that out.”

  Emma’s anger had resurfaced, and I could only imagine what was going through her head. Nothing reasonable, that was for certain.

  I reached around and put my hand on hers, noting that the water bottle was as hot as the air outside. That was when I saw Stu and his camera through the tinted glass of the front passenger window.

  “Can you make him go away, Don? I think that would make Emma more comfortable.” If I was Abby to him, he was Don to me.

  “They won’t get nothin’.” White loosened his gold paisley tie. “This glass protects against bullets as well as other penetrations, if you know what I mean. Now, Emma, tell me again what year your mother had the baby and everything that happened afterward.”

  It was her turn to go through the whole story, reiterating everything he’d heard from me already. This time, though, he had a laptop sitting on his bulky legs and took notes.

  “And you haven’t heard from your mother for ten years? Not even a phone call?” White asked.

  “No. She’s probably drinking herself to death somewhere,” Emma said.

  “Yo
u had the city delay the demolition once,” White went on. “Tell me again why you asked for that.”

  “Venture would take over my life once the house was torn down. I thought that if I delayed the demolition, I’d have time to get out of the contract,” Emma said.

  “Not that I watch the show all that much, but they’re giving you a new house and a bunch of cash and gifts, right?” He feigned surprise. “Who in their right mind would give up major freebies?”

  Emma sighed. “When I signed the contract, I had no idea they knew about my missing sister. The world doesn’t need to know every detail of my mother’s sorry life. I mean, what if my sister watched that show? Found out about her mother that way?” She drummed her fingers on the bottle and looked out the window.

  “See, that’s where I’m confused,” White said. “Venture may have known plenty, but why would they want to air much about your mother? From what I know—through the wife, of course—this is a touchy-feely show about making people smile.”

  “I got the impression during my last meeting with Mr. Mayo that my sister’s disappearance would up the sympathy factor when the show aired, and her disappearance would be mentioned,” Emma said. “Erwin Mayo put on a good show before I signed on, but he got downright spiteful when I asked him not to air anything about my missing sister.”

  “But they never said for sure they’d use this information?”

  “I’ve only seen the show for the first time recently, but anything they can use to make the life-makeover candidates appear pitiful is apparently standard operating procedure,” Emma said.

  “What about your mother? This Mayo guy indicated he’d be checking into her disappearance?” White was typing away as he asked the question.

  “I don’t think so. She abandoned her kids, made a baby go away, and that was enough. He seemed far more interested in the missing baby.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Maybe he wanted you guys to be reunited on TV.”

  Emma turned quickly and stared at me. “Oh, my God. That’s why he was so evasive.”