Leann Sweeney - Dead Giveaway

For Mike. I love you.

A writer needs the support of so many, and I have been blessed with the best writer's group on the planet: Kay, Amy, Laura, Linda, Charlie, Bob and Mary, your support and insights make me work hard every week to write the best book I can. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Susie, Isabella and Spicey, you are like family. Thanks for sharing your home. Jeffrey Cranor, my webmaster and publicity man, you do a fantastic job. A special thanks to Tim Carter, retired death row guard, who answered my endless questions with enthusiasm. To all the readers who have e-mailed saying they love Abby, you have no idea what joy I feel knowing I brought someone the treasured escape of a book. Thank you, Carole Mann, for your help and commitment. I love you, Mike, Shawn, Jillian, Jeffrey and Allison. Lastly, Claire, you are the best advocate I could have ever imagined, my dream-come-true editor. Thank you.

If Daddy were alive and standing beside me tonight, he'd say we've got a skunk down the well. A situation. I was in a parking lot on Houston's south side, leaning against the driver's-side door of my Camry and sipping on a Diet Coke. I wouldn't be getting near the espresso bar to meet with a witness in my new case. Not with crime scene tape strung in front of the building and red, white, and blue police cruiser lights electrifying the night sky like a patriotic carnival.

Folks from the sports bar farther down in the strip mall had wandered out to see what was going on, too. From the number of cars in the lot, the bar must have been packed for the Friday night NBA play-off game. Then a TV station news van pulled into the lot just as the faint mist dampening my hair and bare shoulders turned into a warm June drizzle.

Patches of fluorescent oil from departed cars slicked the blacktop separating me from Verna Mae Olsen, my witness. That's assuming she was inside the coffee joint and trapped by whatever event brought the police here. Maybe someone strung out on a caffeine high had foam in their mouth rather than in their coffee. Those five-dollar brews will piss you off some days. I sure hoped nothing serious had happened in there.

I'd interviewed Verna Mae several days ago in Bottlebrusha town about an hour from here and as different from Houston as a toy poodle is from a coyote. My newest client, Will Knight, hired me to do what the police couldn't accomplish nineteen years agolearn who had abandoned him on Verna Mae's doorstep. He and his adoptive parents hoped I'd uncover information about his birth family, and since I'm a PI who specializes in adoption issues, I took on Will's case.

Verna Mae seemed the logical starting point, and I thought I'd heard all she had to tell the other day, but she surprised me by calling tonight. I invited her to my house in the West University section of the city, but she insisted we meet here. Why at this coffee bar, I had no idea, but I'd agreed, and we'd exchanged cell phone numbers in case we missed each other.

Missed each other? Isn't that what just happened? If she were inside the caf or sitting in her car watching this police show like I was, I'd feel a whole lot better if I heard her voice. I opened the car door, put the soda can in the cup holder and reached across the seat for my phone. Then I dug in my shorts pocket for her number. When I punched in the digits, it only rang once.

"Why are you calling this phone?" said a familiar male voice.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. It was Jeff, Sergeant Jeff Kline of Houston PD Homicide. My Jeff. The guy I love. He'd recognized my caller ID.

"Talk to me, Abby," he said.

"You-you have her phone," I said. "That's not good."

"Whose phone?"

"Verna Mae Olsen. A witness I was supposed to meet. From what I'm seeing in this parking lot, I'm guessing that might not happen."

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Look out the window and you'll see me."

"I'll do better than that," he said.

The line went dead, and a second later he pushed open the glass door, ducked under the crime scene tape and strode in my direction. He held something in one latex-gloved hand and the badge clipped to his belt glinted in the halogen lights that had been set up to better illuminate the lot and storefront.

My heart was hammering now. Jeff's presence, plus his possession of that phone, equaled more than skunk trouble. By the time he reached me, my mouth was so dry I wasn't sure I had enough spit to talk.

Jeff wore his cop facetired and all business. I'd seen that look when we first met, the awful day when my yardman was murdered and he drew the case. He held up a small black cell phone enclosed in a Baggie. "Who is this Olsen woman?"

"I-I interviewed her a couple days ago and she asked me to meet her here."

"You can ID her?" he said.

"ID her? You mean..."

"I need you to look at a body," he said, his tone less brittle, tinged with genuine regret.

"Oh, no. What happened, Jeff?"

"I'm guessing a robbery got out of hand. Guessing. That theory could change." He gestured for me to follow and led me toward the coffee bar, a.k.a. the Last Drop. As we walked, he put the cell phone in his pants pocket, removed his gloves and balled them up. Those went in his other pocket.

The rain had picked up by the time we passed the crew of cops on the sidewalk outside the shop. Several nodded at me in greeting. I'd met them when I went with Jeff to one of Houston PD's favorite watering holes. DeShay, his new partner, was talking to a tall young woman with grape hair, low-riding capris and a nose ring. I knew DeShay better than the others, and he looked my way, saying, "Hey, Abby. What's up?" like it was no big deal I'd show up at a crime scene.

We did not enter the Last Drop as I expected. Instead, Jeff led me around back to a wide alley that ran behind the shopping center, probably for delivery truck access. More halogens had been set up, and jump-suited crime scene workers were canvassing the area around the back door of the coffeehouse. On the other side of the alley, a huge grassy ditch for floodwater collection was illuminated, too. Down in that ditch I saw a figure kneeling beside a dark mound I assumed was the body.

Telling me to follow exactly behind him so as not to disturb any uncollected evidence, Jeff walked carefully down the bank, taking a path where the grass had already been flattened by footsteps.

"How could you find anyone back here?" I asked.

"Pure luck. Guy tied up his dog outside while he went in for coffee. Black Lab with a helluva nose. Dog got loose, and here we are."

The crouching figure was in a blue oxford shirt, the fabric on her shoulders splattered with rain. As we drew closer, I could see the victim's feet. The once white tennis shoes were stained brown, and the wide small feet certainly could have belonged to Verna Mae, a short, plump woman around five feet tall. The day we met, I was struck how round and small she seemed in contrast to my client, who checks in at a lanky six-foot ten. Will's a college basketball player and went with me to Bottlebrush to meet with Verna Mae.

The woman in the oxford shirt stood and turned to face us. She had a round face, stringy gray hair, and held up her gloved hands like she was ready to do surgery. "What do you want, Sergeant?" she asked, not acknowledging my presence.

Her gruff manner and the fact she was standing over a dead person made my shoulders tighten.

"Dr. Post, this is Abby Rose. She can possibly ID the victim," Jeff said.

The woman smiled at me. Her teeth were yellowed and her eyes were sharp with interest. She refocused on Jeff. "You found family without having any ID? You have skills I didn't know you possessed, Sergeant."