“Get out,” Jeff said, his voice as hard as Superman’s kneecap. “She’ll talk when she’s got a suit sitting next to her.”
“Fine,” Fielder said, but then pointed a finger at me. “You go anywhere, you tell me.”
But before I could even nod, she whirled and left.
“I could have handled her, Jeff,” I said quietly. This wasn’t my rational, calm cop. Not that a little fire in support of me wasn’t very much appreciated.
Jeff let out a huge sigh. “Jeez, I’m such a fool. See what you do to me?”
“The word for fool is bobo in Jamaican,” I said. “And being a bobo isn’t all bad. Now would you find Kate and please get me out of here?”
He grinned, chomping away on his gum. “Good idea.” He turned and started out the door, but stopped and looked back at me. “Bobo, huh?”
“Yeah, mon. You be some bobo.”
15
The next morning, while I was still trying to wake up, Jeff brought me a fresh ice pack. He was on his way to work and kissed me good-bye after telling me he’d written down the name of the man he considered the only decent criminal defense attorney in Houston. Then he pounded down the stairs, leaving me wondering if I really needed a lawyer. Surely Fielder would screw her head back on this morning and figure out I had no reason to kill the Beadford brothers.
Jeff’s footsteps reached the front door, but after I heard the door open, the word “shit” echoed up the stairs.
Okay. Something was wrong. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and got up to see what was the matter. The room spun for a second, and I had to keep myself from toppling over by clutching the corner of the nightstand.
Jeff strode back into the bedroom and came over to help me. “When you get your sea legs, the press is waiting for you, Abby.”
“The press? Why are
“Because there’ve been two homicides, and somehow they’ve learned you’re involved. Get with the lawyer and tell Quinn Fielder exactly what happened last night so those buzzards will leave you alone.”
“And what about the rest of it? Should I tell her everything I learned in Jamaica?” The wood floor was cold on my bare feet and I shivered.
He picked up my bathrobe off the chair and draped it around my shoulders. “What do you mean by
“Why does that make a difference?” I lowered myself with his help and sat on the edge of the bed. I’d set a bottle of Motrin and a glass of water on the nightstand last night just in case and now spilled three pills into my hand and gulped them down.
“This is Fielder’s case, and it involves your client. The less I know about it, the less I can say if she asks me.”
“She’d ask you?” I realized how naive that sounded as soon as the words left my lips. “Yeah, she would. So I shouldn’t tell you anything?”
“Not now. To Quinn, you’re a suspect, and she seems bent on proving you have something to do with these murders. I know her pretty well, and considering she didn’t leave HPD willingly—”
“Hold on. Maybe it’s my messed up head, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
He sat next to me. “I told you she and I had a history. What I didn’t tell you is that after our relationship ended, Quinn got a little weird, made some pretty bad calls in the field. A few of her collars fell through even though the perps were guilty. She didn’t do the groundwork and paperwork to make them stick. Made a lot of bad assumptions and, well, the department suggested she get a fresh start somewhere else.”
“So she got fired. Happens all the time.”
“But she blamed me. She said I
“She blames you for her incompetence, and to get even she wants to make me look guilty even if I’m not?” I said.
“I wouldn’t go that far, but my guess is she wouldn’t mind making your life miserable.”
“And one way to do that is leak to the press that I was right there when Graham got pushed off that balcony?”
His face tight with anger, he nodded slowly. “I can see her doing that. Especially since there are some extenuating circumstances.” I read worry in his eyes.
“How extenuating?” I said.
“She called me about that sketch artist and—”
“I know that.”
He reached for his gum. “What you don’t know is that she also asked me to meet her for dinner.”
I felt my neck and shoulders tighten and that made my face throb. “And did you?”
“Yeah. She said she needed to talk through the case.”
This was a three-sticks-of-gum confession, and I wasn’t sure I wanted the details—but I was going to get them anyway. “So what happened?”
“She was feeling vulnerable, overwhelmed by the biggest case of her career. She drank too much wine... started getting a little personal under the table and—”
“One thing led to another?” I said quietly.
He grinned. “Now who’s jumping to conclusions? Her hand on my crotch led me to walk out on her—for the second time in her life.”
I smiled even though it hurt. “So she’s the one with the green-eyed monster on her back now?”
He nodded. “The less I know about the case, the less she can involve me. And that’s better for you.”
“She’s no problem for me.”
“Tell her the truth, okay? Just make sure the lawyer is there.”
“I’ll be happy to tell her the truth,” I said. “If she’ll listen.”
When Jeff left the house, he must have said something persuasive to the reporters because when I came downstairs, I saw only one car parked down the street and a lone van from a local independent network. Someone sat in the driver’s seat of the white car. A stubborn reporter, maybe?
I needed coffee, preferably strong enough to walk into the cup, so I headed for the kitchen. But before I could grind a single bean, the phone rang. Maybe the press thought a telephone call might work better than hanging around the neighborhood. I let it ring while I took a bag of French roast from the freezer. But when Megan’s voice came on the answering machine I rushed over and picked up.
“Hey, I’m here. What’s up?”
“Will you be home for a while?” she said. “Because I’m almost to your place. I need your help.”
“Is this about your uncle Graham?”
“In a way, yes. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” She disconnected.
Before she arrived, I debated whether to tell her what I’d learned, that her parents must have surely known the identity of the child they adopted. But when Megan showed up looking as pale and sick as I’d felt yesterday, I knew now was not the time.
I was carrying my mug when I let her in and offered her coffee as we came into the living room. She refused.
“You look pretty spent,” I said, sitting down.
I gestured for her to join me, but she started pacing by the fireplace. “Courtney’s missing. She’s probably passed out in a crack house somewhere. I don’t think she knows Uncle Graham is dead.”
