Dead Giveaway

guy's retired now. Washington's family needed money but weren't poor enough to qualify for county assistance. They had no insurance, either. Those are the kind of people who fall through that giant crack that exists between a rock and a hard place.'

'Sounds like you feel sorry for them.'

'The family. Not the killer. There's no excuse for what he did.' Jeff's voice had gone hard.

I rubbed his knee. 'Hey. I agree.'

He looked at me. 'Sorry, but if you haven't noticed, I've got no sympathy for killers.'

'Think I could talk to Washington? See if he remembers picking up the blanket from the British store and what he did with it?'

'You're thinking the blanket makes him the birth father? I'm not so sure.'

'It's possible, Jeff. He's black, he was an athlete and he picked up a blanket that Verna Mae kept hidden away for nineteen years.'

'The blanket is not proof, Abby. Washington could have been doing a favor for a friend by picking it up.'

'You're right. That's why I need to talk to him. Can you please arrange that?' I asked.

'I can get you in, but you'd need a background check first.'

'If you recall, I already had a background check when I signed on with Angel.'

'Forgot about that.'

'You worried about me walking into a prison?' I asked.

'No... well, maybe a little. What makes you think Washington will talk to you, anyway?'

'My charm?'

Jeff's gaze traveled to my chest and then down my bare legs to my toes. I hadn't bothered to put on the rest of my clothes. 'That might work,' he said. 'But I don't think they'd let you in dressed like you are right now. Might start a riot.'

I grinned. 'Can you go with me?'

'Nope. My plate is full. DeShay might be willing. He's ticked I'm not giving him much to do on this one.'

'Great. When can we go?'

'I'll look into this tomorrow. Maybe you two can connect some of the coincidences, build something circumstantial between Verna Mae's death and Will's abandonment. Right now, all I know is that a woman was beaten, robbed and—oh, I forgot to tell you— shot.'

I sat up straighter. 'Shot?'

'Dr. Post faxed the preliminary autopsy report today. The Olsen woman was beaten then shot. Thing is, she was probably close to death from the assault. She hardly bled from the chest wound.'

'Raped?'

'No evidence of rape. We do have a bullet, though. Real evidence you can hold in your hand. I plan to run the bullet through the system, see if I can trace the gun.'

'This is crazy. What could Verna Mae have done to make someone so angry?'

'Maybe he wasn't angry—and you agree this had to be a male perp?'

'Or a woman strong enough to knock the white out of the moon,' I said.

'Maybe the bad guy was trying to make her tell him something and beat her unconscious, then shot her to make sure she never gave up what she knew and never identified him.'

'What about the gang angle you were following? Could this have been a test for a wannabe member?'

'I've been working the streets, but our informants say the Olsen murder wasn't a gang casualty. We do know she shed blood in her car, probably from a blow to the face, but they found no prints other than hers.'

'You've got nothing except the bullet?' I asked.

He shook his head. 'Nothing. Cases like this get damn frustrating when you pass the magic forty-eighthour window. Leads dry up. I'm counting on you to see if our cases intersect.'

'Nothing like a little pressure,' I said.

'I trust you. Go interview Lawrence Washington, see what you come up with.'

I rubbed my foot up and down his leg. 'One more thing and then we can quit with the shoptalk.'

I got up and retrieved my purse, pulled the keys from the side pocket and tossed them to Jeff. 'What do you think of these? Is the tag from a storage facility?'

'Most likely. But where'd you find them and why are they important?'

'I'm not sure they are. I found them under Verna Mae's bed and wonder if they fell out of the album box.'

'You took evidence from a crime scene?' From his tone, I expected Jeff to pull a pack of Big Red out of his shorts and cram every stick into his mouth.

'Not intentionally,' I said quickly, sitting back down. 'I had no idea it would become a crime scene. I found the keys before I found Kate out cold, and with all the excitement, I totally forgot about them until I arrived here.'

'You're the one who told me Rollins is clinging to that blanket like it's the Holy Grail, so I don't think he'll be too happy you have these.'

'I'll give them back.' After I copy them, I thought. 'You mean after you copy them?' Jeff said.

'Did I say that?'

'Work with Rollins on this. It's not like you can call up every storage facility within a hundred miles and ask if Verna Mae Olsen rented space. They won't tell you a damn thing.'

'You're right, but they'd tell a chief of police.'

'You got it. If Burl wants in on this investigation, it's the perfect job for him. He may not have the time, but he sure has the desire.'

'How long before you hook me up with DeShay and I can get into the prison?'

'I don't know. Depends on how many people get murdered tomorrow.'

'Let's hope that for a multitude of reasons the number is less than one,' I answered.

He sat up and brought me to him, his lips close to mine. 'I'll help you get into the prison, but prepare yourself. It won't be fun.'

We kissed and I tasted pickles and onions, but the way he held me, the shift from passion to protectiveness, told me he might just be a little worried.

And now I was, too.

13

Before Jeff's partner picked me up Wednesday morning for the trip to Huntsville State Prison, I made a quick run to Marjorie McGrady's place—calling first, of course. She agreed to see me, and I showed her the newspaper photo of Lawrence Washington. She remembered the layout of the article, where the story had been placed on the page more than his picture, and stared at the photo for a long time before deciding he was indeed the man who'd picked up the blanket. I stared right along with her, and though I decided Washington and Will bore a vague resemblance, it wasn't enough to add to the list of reasons he was the birth father.

After I returned home, DeShay Peters picked me up in his unmarked police car and we started north on I-45 toward the prison. The first hour of the drive was dedicated to a discussion of DeShay's latest girlfriend. We had come to the conclusion that she was too high-maintenance for him. DeShay, forced to wear a coat and tie for the job, would rather be wearing baggie jeans and Houston Texan T-shirts, whereas Tisha spent hours shopping at the Galleria for shoes when she wasn't getting her nails painted with little American flags.

'Good,' he said, leaning the driver's seat back a little. 'Tisha's history. Now, Abby, tell me more about your side of this case. You know Jeff. The man's good, but he'd rather chew gum than talk. I only got the Cliffs Notes version of what we're doing today.'

I told him what I'd learned so far, and by the time I was done, the rifle towers and razor wire surrounding the old redbrick units that make up Huntsville State Prison appeared on the horizon.