Dead Giveaway

A man in his sixties holding a golf umbrella pressed his face to the glass. I glanced back at my tail and saw that the car had also pulled into a driveway, but in the first block. Damn. I couldn't see the plates. I rolled down my window.

'You selling something?' the man asked, his irritation obvious. ' 'Cause if you are, we don't need your Avon or your Tupperware.' He pointed at me with the handle of the umbrella as if scolding a child.

'Um, no,' I answered sweetly. 'I'm kind of lost. Can you help me?' I glanced back at the Lexus idling a block away.

'Oh.' This seemed to deflate the man. Here he'd been ready to scare off one of those perfume predators who he probably didn't realize rarely sold doorto-door these days.

'Where you headed?' he asked.

I gave him Joelle Simpson's address.

'You're almost there.' He pointed down the street with the umbrella, telling me to drive three more blocks and turn right.

Since the guy was gesturing while giving directions, I might still be good. The tail would think I'd simply gotten lost, and once the Lexus was behind me again, I could make the plates and call them in to Jeff.

After I pulled out of the driveway and headed toward Mrs. Simpson's house, I watched in the rearview as my tail backed out and headed in the opposite direction. My heart sank like a rock with a hole in it. I couldn't read anything. The Lexus was too far away. The adrenaline rush that had surged through me at the prospect of obtaining a solid lead vanished like hailstones in July.

I drove on to the Simpson house thinking how my sister had been knocked silly at Verna Mae's place and now I'd been followed. Someone was paying close attention. Who? The only people aware of me working this case were Burl, HPD, Angel... and my sister... my aunt, oh, and the chaplain and then there were all the people I'd interviewed and—holy hissy fit. The whole frickin' world knew.

I'll be on the lookout for my friend in the Lexus, I thought, as I parked in the Simpson driveway. I only hoped Jeff or Angel hadn't put some babysitter on me. That would be worse than a bad guy hanging around.

A smiling Joelle Simpson, her ginger hair gray at the roots, greeted me at the door of her modest brick home before I could even ring the bell. She wore a loose-fitting cotton dress and no makeup, and had an almost ageless oval face. She must have avoided the Texas sun her entire life.

She grasped my hand in both of hers and smiled broadly. 'No one's ever asked me anything about Frank's cases before. I really hope I can help.' Her attitude was a welcome departure from the prison visit yesterday and my conversation with Frank's partner earlier today.

As she led me inside, my initial take on the house was that it seemed like a cozy bungalow filled with comfy furniture. Then I took in the photographs filling the walls—photos in stark contrast to the smiling, sweet Joelle Simpson and her warmth. Not family photographs, but the work of someone with a serious hobby. No Texas landscapes or old barns or fields of bluebonnets. They were all people... haunting character studies. Some were in color, some in black and white—people young and old, crying, or with heads bent, or clinging to children or other loved ones. A few were so searing in their portrayal, I had to look away.

'Frank,' Mrs. Simpson said quietly. 'He took them.'

'They're... amazing. Who are these people?'

'Families of the victims. He got their permission, if you're wondering. Most of the time, he'd invite them here later on, after he'd developed and framed their pictures. The families wanted to see, and the pictures offered an opening for them to talk about the day their lives changed forever. They welcomed the chance to sit and talk with Frank, sometimes for hours.'

'Sounds like Frank had a big heart,' I said.

She blinked back tears. 'Funny, that's what killed him. A heart attack. I told our grandchildren his heart was so big it just burst. He was the kindest man I ever met.'

I reached out and squeezed her arm. 'I didn't mean to upset you.'

'That's okay, Abby. Can I call you Abby?'

'Of course.'

'I'm Joelle. Anyway, the occasional sadness, the bouts of tears, it's all part of missing him and I expect it will go on forever. Now tell me more. You mentioned Lawrence Washington on the phone.'

'Yes. Did Frank talk much about him?' I'd learned from Dugan that he had, but I needed Joelle's take on this.

'Frank knew something wasn't right about that case, said he thought the boy was innocent. Let's go get Frank's book.'

His book? I wondered, as she led me up a narrow staircase and into a converted bedroom with wall-towall shelves. They were filled with hardback and paperback books as well as a slew of albums, each labeled with a month and year on the spine. On the left wall I noted more framed photographs, and one jumped out at me. It was an eight-by-ten black-andwhite of Lawrence Washington sitting with his cuffed hands resting on a small table. He was leaner than now and wore a Texas A&M T-shirt, his tired eyes staring into the lens, dark and as sad as I remember from yesterday. If I had seen this picture first, rather than the one from the newspaper, I would have known Will and Lawrence were most certainly father and son.

'I'm not sure of the month,' Joelle said, stepping toward the 1987 shelf.

'April,' I answered, wondering why Washington agreed to the photograph. Maybe he'd wanted someone to remember the worst day of his life.

She pulled the album and brought it to a card table set up in the center of the room. 'Frank used to have half of this space set up as a darkroom, but I finally had some friends remodel it about a year after he died. Took me that long to accept he wouldn't walk through the door with a new roll of film in hand.' She pulled her lips in and out a few times, the album held tightly against her chest.

'I lost my daddy not long ago,' I said. 'I understand.'

'I'm so sorry.' Joelle reached out and squeezed my hand.

'What's with all these albums? More pictures?'

'Not exactly. I added more shelf space so I could organize these. He had them everywhere. I've always wished one of his old police buddies would write a book and use them—they all say they're going to write a book, you know.'

I smiled. 'I have a detective friend. He tells me that half the force say they have a book in them.'

'Frank kept information about every case, though

I'm not sure he was supposed to do that. I'm hoping one day, because of him, a wrong can be righted.' She set the album on the table.

We took folding chairs side by side and Joelle began turning the pages. Not only were there pictures and newspaper clippings, but Frank Simpson had kept notes about each case. Amanda Mason had been murdered in April, and Joelle pointed out a photo of Frank standing between a middle-aged couple. The picture was nowhere near the quality I'd seen hanging on the walls.

'Who took this?' I asked.

'Randall.'

'Randall?' I said.

'Frank's partner, Randall Dugan. He took some of the pictures for the books.'

This seemed so strange, the families posing like that, but kindness and compassion can open almost any door, and from what I'd seen of Frank's photos, he had been filled with both.

'These people are related to Amanda Mason?' I asked, pointing at the picture.

'Her parents.' She turned the page. 'And here's Lawrence Washington's parents. Frank considered them victims, too. They were as devastated by their loss as the Masons.'

Frank was standing next to a porch swing where Washington's parents sat. Mrs. Washington wore a bandanna around her head, a scarf that had slipped, revealing her baldness. Mr. Washington seemed like a giant next to her, his belly spilling over his belt and his long legs stretching so far his feet weren't even in the photo. Their anguished expressions showed how devastated they were. I'd never thought about those left behind, those who suffered when a child they loved was sent to prison.

'He didn't often take pictures of the suspect's family, but these people touched Frank. He talked often with