'Great because it connects the crimes, but it still doesn't do much for Lawrence Washington or your client,' Jeff said.
'It's evidence. Unless you're trying to convince me that Lawrence gave the gun to someone after the murder, or sold it, or pawned it, and then years later the same gun is used to shoot Verna Mae? Come on, Jeff.'
'I'm trying to make you think this through. For one thing, you can't be certain Will is Lawrence's son.'
'If you'd been in that prison and seen him, you wouldn't have a doubt—they look that much alike. I plan on asking Thaddeus Washington for a DNA sample tomorrow, since Lawrence won't cooperate. Then we'll have even more hard evidence.'
'Good idea. I'll handle that. Send someone out to collect a sample tomorrow. You won't get your private lab tech to work on a weekend.'
'Yeah, okay. Thanks,' I said.
Jeff tucked several strands of hair behind my ear. 'You're distracted. What's going on?'
'I keep thinking about Lawrence Washington, Jeff. He claims he's innocent yet he won't cooperate about this baby thing. That tells me he's either protecting someone or he's got nothing to tell.' I reached down, grabbed Jeff's shirt from the floor and put it on. 'Protecting the mother of his child? Protecting his father? Protecting the son he never knew?'
'Maybe all three,' Jeff said. 'Or maybe he didn't want to get his hopes up about getting out, feared the parole board would bypass him again. Now that you've got a little leverage with him, he might talk.'
'Leverage?' I said.
'His father. I saw you two together. You got old Thaddeus charmed. Rent a wheelchair van and take him up to Huntsville. I'll call ahead, arrange the visit. With his father urging him to cooperate, you might get something out of Lawrence.'
'Do you guys have a wheelchair van?'
'A wheelchair paddy wagon is a better description. Not exactly a comfortable ride for the old guy.'
'Wait. I have an idea on where to find a van, not to mention some willing spirits at the Church of the Reverent Life that might just lend me the transportation.'
The next morning, I called the church hoping to talk to B.J. and learned you do not call a church on a Sunday morning and expect to get any help. I didn't even bother to leave a message. Turned out Jeff couldn't get me into the prison anyway. Someone had stabbed one of their best buddies with a paper clip, and discipline was the order of the day. My need for an interview wasn't deemed important enough to override the warden's order for all inmates to remain in their cells.
Needing another means of transportation to get Thaddeus up to the prison, I found a United Way volunteer who'd rolled over the office phone to his cell. He told me they'd help whenever I needed them. I didn't even have to donate money, though I made a call and left a message for my very excellent financial adviser—who did not go by the name of Oscar Drummond—to get a donation to them in the mail tomorrow.
I turned my attention to Jessica Roman. I had been unable to find her through usual computer searches, but finally did locate her using one of my expensive pay-as-you-hunt Internet companies. Strange how a picture does not always tell a thousand words. She looked prim, serious and even a little nerdy in the old church photo, but it turns out I could have gotten tons of information about her from Jeff for free. Jessica Roman was a 'massage therapist' with a rap sheet as long as a well rope. Apparently her God-fearing days had ended long ago.
I called Jeff, and he hooked me up with a vice officer who knew Jessica well. But Officer Marty Lamar didn't want me visiting Jessica at her 'business' by myself and offered to take me. Seems he and Jeff were pretty good friends and he'd been told to look out for me.
Marty picked me up in the late afternoon. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and I'd opted for the same. A minor cool front had blown through and knocked the temperature down to the high seventies today. He was short and muscular, maybe late forties, but had spent way too much time in the Texas heat. His skin was leathery and sun- damaged, but what was more striking was his cynicism. Every word he uttered told me he should consider changing jobs. Vice did not agree with him.
We headed to a very nasty section of the city where massage parlors lined the streets, and he took me straight to where Jessica did business—Vivi's. The sign on the door read ALWAYS OPEN.
'Guess you know Jessica pretty well?' I asked.
'I know 'em all,' Marty said. 'But my view is kind of one-dimensional. She might be nice and helpful and all those things normal people are. I've never bothered to find out and don't give a shit, to be honest.'
His attitude reminded me how much I had to learn about crime, despite long talks with Jeff—but then Jeff was as different from Marty as sugar was from salt. Not that Jeff was sweet and soft. He just had something Marty might have lost along the way. Compassion.
When we walked into the very small, very rundown portable metal building, a woman at a front table jumped up.
'Cool your jets, Bitsy,' Marty said. 'I'm not here on a bust. Where's Jessie?'
Bitsy was a bleach blonde with lips painted as red as Twizzlers. She was about as 'bitsy' as a longhorn steer. 'She's, um, busy. Guy with a really bad back needed help.'
'Yeah, right,' said Marty. 'You go fix his back and get her out here. Now.'
'Sure. Whatever you say.'
While she hurried down a small narrow hall, I said, 'I'll bet for every one of these you shut down, another springs up.'
'Every fuckin' day. This used to be the Ocean Club. Looks like a club, doesn't it?' He offered a wry smile.
I just shook my head.
Less than a minute later Jessie appeared, wiping her hands on her spandex pants. I sincerely hoped that white stuff she was shedding was massage lotion.
She stopped short of us. 'I'm losing money by the second. What do you want, Marty?' Despite her lifestyle, Jessica Roman had aged well. She still had the kinky red hair and high cheekbones in the photo— not to mention a very nice body. The boobs, however, were bra-busters, probably not original issue.
'Let's go out to the car. Have a little chat,' Marty said.
She looked at me with skepticism. 'Who's she? An assistant D.A.? 'Cause I'm clean. Off the crack, doing real massage—'
'Save it for some rookie, Jessie. Let's go.'
We went out to Marty's unmarked Ford, and Jessica and I slid into the backseat. He started the engine and turned on the air-conditioning over Jessica's protest that it was cold in the car already. He pulled a turkey sandwich from a brown bag and started eating while I explained I was a PI and needed her help.
'And why should I help you?' Jessica asked.
'Because I said so,' Marty answered with a full mouth, his icy stare catching her in the rearview mirror.
'Okay, okay,' she said. 'Shoot.'
'A long time ago,' I said, 'you belonged to the Church of the Reverent Life.'
'When I was fifteen. So what?' She lifted her chin, her hostility evident.
'Hey, this has nothing to do with religion or the lack of it, if that's your problem. Don't get all bent.' I had to thank Will for the vernacular one of these days. Helps with the job.
'In return for me talking to you, I don't get busted? Is that the deal?' she asked.
'That's right,' Marty answered over his shoulder.
Jessica rolled her eyes and sighed. 'What do you want to know?'
'There was a kid in your group, Lawrence Washington. He ended up in jail.'
'Yeah. Lawrence. Killed some girl. Not what I expected from him. He probably had an IQ bigger than Pastor Rankin's. He was one smart dude.'
'You thought Lawrence did the murder?' I asked. 'To tell you the truth, no. But everyone's got a dark side.'
'Yeah, including you,' Marty said.
'Shut up,' Jessie shot back.
'Back to the youth group,' I said. 'What do you remember about the pastor's daughter?'
