Dead Giveaway

at the corners—and for once her smug face didn't make me clench my teeth.

I called Mrs. Callaway after Aunt Caroline left, and the woman was more than happy to give me the license number she'd already phoned in to the West U. police. She was a talker like Aunt Caroline, and I listened with half an ear while she rambled on about crime and being a good citizen and how my aunt was proud of me for me getting my hands dirty in the real world. This implied that she and Aunt Caroline wore gloves—expensive ones—to keep their hands clean. After I disconnected, I called Jeff with the plate number but got his voice mail, so I left a message.

But I wasn't done with phones. I'd no sooner hung up when Will called.

'How's the case going, Abby?' he asked. 'Did... did the DNA result come back yet?'

Abby, you idiot. How could I have forgotten to at least call Will's parents, let alone him? Probably because I had tunnel vision right now. One thing kept leading to another in this case, and Will had been the beginning of the trail—a meeting that seemed so long ago now.

'I am so sorry, Will. I should have phoned you right away.'

'I probably couldn't have talked to you anyway. They're pretty strict about us focusing on the game at camp.'

'Nice of you to let me off the hook, but I'm still sorry. I found out Wednesday evening that Verna Mae was not your birth mother.'

A short silence followed, then Will said, 'It kinda makes me feel better. Does that sound bad?'

'No, not at all. I think we both knew deep down she wasn't your birth mother. I am making progress in other ways.' Should I tell him his father might be in prison for murder? That answer came easy. I had to be honest. It was my job. I filled Will in.

'Man, this blows my mind. He's in prison. Do you think that officer was right? That he didn't kill that girl?'

'I have no hard evidence, but Frank Simpson never gave up on Lawrence, and that says a lot. Now that I've lost his files, though, I—'

'You didn't lose them. Someone took them,' Will said.

'I feel responsible, and the fact that someone wanted them that badly tells me they're worried about what Simpson kept.'

'You mean they wanted the evidence that might prove the man who is probably my birth father is innocent, in prison for a crime he didn't commit?' Will, my usually subdued young client, was angry. And so was I.

'Officer Simpson didn't have hard evidence, so I'm not one hundred percent sure about anything Will, not even about Lawrence Washington being your birth father. But I promise you, I will learn the truth.'

'But you believe this man in jail is him. My birth father.'

'Yes, Will. I do,' I said quietly.

'Okay, I want to see him. See the man who's probably my grandfather, too. When can that happen?'

'Listen, I understand this is upsetting, but give me more time, let me find out what's true and what's not. Lawrence wouldn't have even let me in to see him without police help. I doubt if it would be wise to take you to Huntsville.'

'I'm sorry, Abby. This just pisses me off. It's so wrong.'

'I'm sure your parents have told you more than once that what's fair and right doesn't always happen. In this case, I'm hoping we can fix that.'

But while I was reassuring him of my commitment, I was thinking about something Will had just said. He wanted to see his grandfather. Lawrence might not be willing to give up any DNA to prove paternity, but I was certain Thaddeus wouldn't hesitate. Grandparent genes had to be good, though I hadn't had a case yet where I'd needed them. If they could identify Billy the Kid's relatives after a hundred years, not to mention Thomas Jefferson's mixed-race offspring, then surely I could get the proof we needed.

'Abby? You still there?' said Will.

'Sorry. Are you back from camp?' I asked.

'No. I have a few more days to go. We aren't supposed to use our cell phones except for emergencies, but I couldn't stop thinking about that poor dead lady and what you were doing. I'm hoping no one rats me out about phoning you.'

'You do what you're supposed to in Austin, and I promise I'll have more answers when you return.' Okay, so I'd offered up more than a little hope that Lawrence Washington was innocent, though I wasn't totally sure, had left out a few details—like how Lawrence was stonewalling and how I'd been followed and warned and had basically put myself and my sister at risk. But that's what I'd signed up for when I chose this life, and Will didn't need to know all that.

18

My mentor Angel always says the element of surprise is a PI's best friend, so Saturday morning I made no phone call before taking off to visit the Church of the Reverent Life. Besides, everyone's welcome at church, right?

My exhilaration about learning the license number had evaporated after Jeff called to say the car had stolen plates. We agreed that whoever was following me had probably opted for a new car by now and I'd seen my last red Lexus for awhile.

Before I left, I checked up and down the street, looking for any occupied vehicles. Nothing. Maybe the file had satisfied whoever was following me, at least for now. Minutes later I drove off to find the church, being watchful for anyone making all my same turns.

Finding the church was easy. You could play a Rockets game in this place, I decided as I parked in a lot with enough room for about 10,000 cars. I walked toward the monstrous main building, remembering what Thaddeus had said. Hell, the building even had a gold roof, as did the adjacent day care center, youth center, fitness center and retirement center. Yup, this probably served as the center of the universe for lots of folks.

I opened one massive brass-plated sanctuary door rather than try to find the church offices. Who wouldn't want to see the inside of a place like this? I entered a large marble vestibule—even the walls were a mottled beige marble—and walked through into the sanctuary. Holy opulence, Batman. There was red velvet stadium seating, a pulpit so far from where I stood I'd need binoculars if I sat in the back, and a pipe organ so big a photo of it would weigh five pounds. My jaw must have dropped, because when someone lightly touched my shoulder, my teeth came together loud enough to rattle the rafters. And those rafters were way up there.

'Can I help you?' said the man beside me. He had a full head of white-blond hair, styled in the popular bed- head look. I guessed he was around forty. And his eyes. Wow. Almost as clear and blue and gorgeous as Jeff's. (I did say almost.)

I offered what I was sure was an awe-filled smile, both for him and for this place. 'Unbelievable,' I said, again scanning the sanctuary.

'It is, isn't it? I'm certain God is proud of what we've built.'

I offered my hand, and the guy shook it eagerly while his other hand gripped my upper arm. He was staring at me with what seemed as much admiration as I held for the church building. Maybe a little too much admiration, although I was flattered by his obvious interest.

'I'm Abby Rose. I came to see Pastor Rankin.'

'I'm B.J., the pastor's administrative assistant. Seeing him right now might be a problem,' he said with an apologetic smile. 'He's awfully busy. We have brochures about our church if you're interested, and I'll have an assistant pastor call if you leave us your information. Please feel free to join us Sunday.'

'I really have to talk to him today. Could you ask him to spare a few minutes?' I pulled a card from the pocket of my linen skirt and handed it to him. I had put on a skirt and a lime cotton shirt fresh from the dry cleaner. Once I'd tried to wear pants to church and my daddy about had a fit and fell in it. Even now I could hear him saying, 'No funny business in church, Abby. You act like a young lady who's been taught