He answered the door quickly, pulled me inside and before I could talk, wrapped me in his arms and kissed me.
"Kate okay?" he whispered against my lips.
"She says so," I answered. "That's the story she's sticking to, anyway. Stubborn doesn't stop with me."
"You two could have been—"
I put a finger to his lips and we started kissing again, the squashed bag of hamburgers falling to the floor. They stayed there, forgotten until we were lying in bed after a nice long hour of lovemaking.
"I brought food," I mumbled. I was lying on my side, head on his chest, one leg bent over his thighs.
"Didn't notice," he said. "Tell me about this break-in."
After I summarized the evening, Jeff said, "What was in those albums again?"
"A history of Will's life from the brief look I had, but maybe there was more. I don't know." I got up and began gathering my clothes. I was hungry, and those burgers were salvageable, smooshed or not.
Jeff put his hands behind his neck. "Those clippings connected Verna Mae and Will, something the press knows nothing about yet. Something that the killer might not have wanted us to know."
"I like that. Us." I hitched my bra and pulled up my panties. "Does that confirm the cases are connected? Could Will showing up in Verna Mae's life again have triggered her murder?"
He stared at me for a second. "God, you're gorgeous."
I grinned. "You're not so bad yourself. Now answer my question."
"You know my thoughts on coincidences and murder. There aren't any. That said, we've got nothing concrete to indicate that her death is connected to her strange attachment to Will." Jeff got up, retrieved his boxers and slipped them on. "So what's for dinner?"
"Squashed hamburgers and cold fries."
"Mmmm. Can't wait."
Jeff's kitchen is smaller than his bed, so we took our reheated food and the only other item in Jeff's fridge, a jar of dill pickles, into his agonizingly plain living room. The one item that hung on his wall held meaning, though—a wedding photo of his parents, both long dead. They were standing outdoors, Mount Rainier in the background. Jeff was not a native Texan, but I didn't hold it against him.
Then there was the upright piano that took up one wall. The always silent piano. The piano I'd asked about more than once. He never would talk about it. Something painful was connected to that thing, and maybe one day I'd hear about it—or better yet, hear him play. He did have long, wonderful pianist's fingers.
We sat on his dark green love seat, our legs intertwined. The love seat and a recliner were the only furniture in the room aside from a scratched-up coffee table and a few lamps.
Before crunching a pickle, I said, "Did you find out anything about Lawrence Washington?"
Jeff tore open a ketchup pack and squirted it on his paper plate. "Oh, yeah. That man's life is an open book. Inmates have no secrets—at least no secrets connected to how they ended up in prison."
"According to what I read at the library, the guy was headed to A&M on full scholarship—a smart kid, with a loving family. Any idea what made him commit such a terrible crime?"
"Washington never talked except to say he was innocent, according to the officer who snagged the case—guy's retired now. Washington's family needed money but weren't poor enough to qualify for county assistance. They had no insurance, either. Those are the kind of people who fall through that giant crack that exists between a rock and a hard place."
"Sounds like you feel sorry for them."
"The family. Not the killer. There's no excuse for what he did." Jeff's voice had gone hard.
I rubbed his knee. "Hey. I agree."
He looked at me. "Sorry, but if you haven't noticed, I've got no sympathy for killers."
"Think I could talk to Washington? See if he remembers picking up the blanket from the British store and what he did with it?"
"You're thinking the blanket makes him the birth father? I'm not so sure."
"It's possible, Jeff. He's black, he was an athlete and he picked up a blanket that Verna Mae kept hidden away for nineteen years."
"The blanket is not proof, Abby. Washington could have been doing a favor for a friend by picking it up."
"You're right. That's why I need to talk to him. Can you please arrange that?" I asked.
"I can get you in, but you'd need a background check first."
"If you recall, I already had a background check when I signed on with Angel."
"Forgot about that."
"You worried about me walking into a prison?" I asked.
"No... well, maybe a little. What makes you think Washington will talk to you, anyway?"
"My charm?"
Jeff's gaze traveled to my chest and then down my bare legs to my toes. I hadn't bothered to put on the rest of my clothes. "That might work," he said. "But I don't think they'd let you in dressed like you are right now. Might start a riot."
I grinned. "Can you go with me?"
"Nope. My plate is full. DeShay might be willing. He's ticked I'm not giving him much to do on this one."
"Great. When can we go?"
"I'll look into this tomorrow. Maybe you two can connect some of the coincidences, build something circumstantial between Verna Mae's death and Will's abandonment. Right now, all I know is that a woman was beaten, robbed and—oh, I forgot to tell you— shot."
I sat up straighter. "Shot?"
"Dr. Post faxed the preliminary autopsy report today. The Olsen woman was beaten then shot. Thing is, she was probably close to death from the assault. She hardly bled from the chest wound."
"Raped?"
"No evidence of rape. We do have a bullet, though. Real evidence you can hold in your hand. I plan to run the bullet through the system, see if I can trace the gun."
"This is crazy. What could Verna Mae have done to make someone so angry?"
"Maybe he wasn't angry—and you agree this had to be a male perp?"
"Or a woman strong enough to knock the white out of the moon," I said.
"Maybe the bad guy was trying to make her tell him something and beat her unconscious, then shot her to make sure she never gave up what she knew and never identified him."
"What about the gang angle you were following? Could this have been a test for a wannabe member?"
"I've been working the streets, but our informants say the Olsen murder wasn't a gang casualty. We do know she shed blood in her car, probably from a blow to the face, but they found no prints other than hers."
"You've got nothing except the bullet?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing. Cases like this get damn frustrating when you pass the magic forty-eighthour window. Leads dry up. I'm counting on you to see if our cases intersect."
"Nothing like a little pressure," I said.
"I trust you. Go interview Lawrence Washington, see what you come up with."
I rubbed my foot up and down his leg. "One more thing and then we can quit with the shoptalk."
I got up and retrieved my purse, pulled the keys from the side pocket and tossed them to Jeff. "What do you think of these? Is the tag from a storage facility?"
"Most likely. But where'd you find them and why are they important?"
"I'm not sure they are. I found them under Verna Mae's bed and wonder if they fell out of the album box."
"You took evidence from a crime scene?" From his tone, I expected Jeff to pull a pack of Big Red out of his shorts and cram every stick into his mouth.
"Not intentionally," I said quickly, sitting back down. "I had no idea it would become a crime scene. I found the keys before I found Kate out cold, and with all the excitement, I totally forgot about them until I arrived here."