Dead Giveaway

'I try not to look on either side of the highway when I drive by here on my way to Dallas,' I said.

'Why?' DeShay asked, sounding surprised.

'Because Huntsville State Prison is a nasty old dungeon filled with hatred and violence.'

'As far as I'm concerned this is the best damn place in the world, even if half the population are brothers. Not to say I don't work every day at getting more white guys locked up. White guys do just as much evil shit as the next man, but they got so damn much money, they get mouthpieces who can actually talk for them. Black dudes? They got nothing but mamas who cry a lot. Damn injustice, Abby. You hear what I'm saying?'

'I hear, all right. Jeff tell you my ex is here? He's a white dude.'

'Say what?' DeShay sounded genuinely shocked.

'Yup. Killed two people.'

'If it'll make you less jumpy, he's not here, Abby. He'd be in Livingston.'

'No,' I said. 'He's here. On death row.'

'Death row's been moved. 'Course when they give him the needle, they'll bring him here. You gonna come and watch?'

'Are you kidding? I never want to see him again, alive or dead. He blackmailed my adoptive father, nearly killed me and then for some stupid reason, when he was about to drown in a flash flood, I saved his sorry ass.'

'That's the difference between you and him. It's called a conscience.'

'Yeah, I have plenty of that,' I said, nodding. 'My daddy used to say conscience is like a toothless old hound. It might not bite you, but you can't keep it from barking. Mine barks all the time.'

'Jeff talked about the case that brought you two together after we were partnered up, but he never said your ex was the bad guy. How'd you hook up with someone like that?'

'He was smart, could charm the skin off a snake and I thought I loved him. Didn't take me long to figure out his charm came courtesy of Jose Cuervo. He was an alcoholic, and I divorced him. But did I keep my distance? No. Big mistake. He killed my yardman, partnered up with the lawyer who'd arranged my illegal adoption and then murdered him, too. All for money. It's very sordid and makes me sound like a fool.'

'You are no fool, not if Jeff Kline, the smartest guy I ever met, is head over his ass about you.'

I laughed. 'Feeling's mutual.'

'You like the PI stuff?' DeShay asked, pulling into the parking lot of the Goree Unit, where Washington had lived for the last eighteen years.

'More than I thought,' I said, noting the turnoff was almost in the shadow of the humongous cement statue of Sam Houston that for some bizarre reason guards the interstate. The thing was ugly, white and about six stories high. What in hell were the folks in Austin thinking when they contracted for this? That statue was scary enough to give kids nightmares.

DeShay parked after we were checked through at the gate—a police badge is handy at locked entrances—and as we got out of the car, I said, 'I hope you plan to help me out with this interview. If I go wrong, pinch me or something.'

'Jeff would send me out of this life if I hurt you.'

I slugged his arm. 'You know what I mean.'

'Hey, I'll be right next to you the whole time. Just give me a look and I'll step in, but this is your deal.'

Once we were escorted inside, DeShay turned over his weapon, and since I was civilian, I gave up my driver's license. We passed through a metal detector, and a young man wearing a gray uniform with navy epaulets led us down a narrow, bleak corridor.

We were taken to the empty visitors' area. The long room was split by a counter with chairs facing mesh and Plexiglas that divided the prisoners from their visitors. Despite the air-conditioning, the old room smelled of mildew with an undercurrent of body odor and urine— those smells leaching from beyond the divider. And then there was the hint of eau de sour mop.

The guard gestured us to chairs and said the prisoner was on his way. Then he stood in one corner, hands behind his back, his young, smooth face impassive.

'This place makes me feel so small.' I didn't add scared, but my heart was pounding so hard I felt every beat in my temples. Gates and bars and ancient, chilly rooms had a definite effect on me, I was learning. Not to mention the unsmiling faces of the gray shadows who worked here. How could they do this day in and day out? Where do you stash your fear before you step beyond those heavy doors?

Through the distortion of the scratched, smudged Plexiglas I saw a guard let Washington into the room. He wore no cuffs or shackles as I'd expected, and they left him alone. Tall and not as dark-skinned as DeShay, his prison-issue pants and shirt were as white as the Sam Houston statue.

He sat across from us, and I stifled an 'Oh, my God.' The grainy, copied picture from an old newspaper had not told the truth. This man's resemblance to Will shocked me. Sure his skin was darker, his eyes brown not amber, but he could have spit that boy out, that's how sure the resemblance was.

'Why am I here?' Washington's soft voice hardly carried through the mesh and glass.

I couldn't answer right away. All doubts had disappeared now that I was being confronted with a resemblance almost as honest as a mirror. Will's father was a murderer. That wasn't quite what he or his family had hoped to discover.

Washington stared straight into my eyes, awaiting my response, and when I didn't answer, he repeated the question.

'I'm sorry,' I said, focusing on this familiar face. 'It's just that you look like someone I know.'

'Get to the point. I have work to do in the laundry.' Even tone. Not insolent or sarcastic.

His gaze and demeanor spoke of intelligence and self-control. Not what I expected from a man sentenced to life in prison. Guess I thought he'd be as egotistical as my ex. I took him in more fully and thought I also saw sadness in his eyes. A profound sadness so tangible it made my heart heavy. This was an awful place, and every bit of pain he'd been subjected to rested in his eyes. I didn't want to feel sorry for him, but I did. I just did.

DeShay cleared his throat to encourage me to speak, and I managed to find my voice. 'My name is Abby Rose and this is Sergeant Peters. I'm working in conjunction with HPD on the murder of a woman named Verna Mae Olsen. I'm hoping you can help me.'

'Then you'll put in a good word with the parole board?' Washington asked, eyebrows raised.

I looked at DeShay for this answer.

'Depends on what you got to say, bro,' he said.

'I am not your brother.' Washington's eyes glinted with anger.

'I think we'll move on,' I said quickly. 'Maybe you'll find a reason to help after I've explained why I'm here. I'm working for a young man named Will Knight. Basketball player at UT. Ever heard of him?'

'Who hasn't?'

'He's my client and he's—' I stopped, remembering the guard on the far side of the room. Would he leak the connection between Will and Verna Mae to the press? Was this how information got out? But... Jeff wouldn't have helped me get here if he hadn't been willing to risk that possibility.

'You know a superstar,' Washington said. 'I'm impressed. What does that have to do with anything?' Sarcasm had surfaced now, but I could tell he was interested.

'Will Knight was adopted as an infant,' I said. 'He hired me to find his biological family. That search led me to Verna Mae Olsen. Did you know her?'

He looked down at his hands folded on the divider's ledge. 'Never heard of her.'

'She was murdered after my client and I paid her a visit. See, she found Will on her doorstep in 1987. We discovered a baby blanket at her house after she died. A very special blanket. A blanket I've learned that you picked up from a British import store about nineteen years ago.'

Washington's head snapped up. He glared at me, the muscles of his forearms bulging with tension. I began to wonder about the strength of Plexiglas about then.

The angry silence that followed seemed to slash through the mesh. I'd never felt so intimidated and yet so exhilarated at the same time. That blanket meant something to Lawrence Washington.

'I never bought any blanket.' He enunciated slowly, every word cold and bitter.