That side of the case was Jeff's territory, but I needed to know, too. He'd been so busy lately, he hadn't shared much of anything, so before I took home the file and concentrated on its contents, I wanted to talk to him. Okay, I wanted to see him, too. Smell cinnamon on his breath and, if I got lucky, make him smile.
I reached him on his cell, and he said he wanted to see me, too, if only for a little while. We agreed to meet at the Beck's Prime hamburger place on Kirby for lunch, one of our favorite places to eat.
Thirty minutes later we were sitting across from each other at a small table reminiscent of McDonald's. But the hamburgers? A whole other world. This was fast food with a reason to exist. I'd indulged myself with a chocolate shake along with my burger, and then kept stealing from Jeff's mound of ketchup-drenched fries. It's not like you can order your own fries when you've given in to a milkshake.
We ate in silence for awhile, me with my grilled onions and cheddar dripping out the sides of the burger and Jeff making amazingly neat work of his pickle and jalapen˜ o pure Angus concoction.
I picked up a napkin and wiped mustard from the corner of my mouth before saying, "You ever find any of Verna Mae's friends?"
"The woman had acquaintances, not friends. She belonged to a garden club and that's about it. By the way, I've discovered I love interviewing garden clubbers a whole lot more than guys with bad attitudes."
"What did they tell you?"
"Nothing we don't know already. EZ TAG records offered far more. I learned she made lots of trips to Houston, used the toll roads. Made at least one trip a week over the I-10 bridge before heading south on the Sam Houston Tollway. Made the same trip back. I have dates and times. She usually made a day of it."
"She went south from I-10?"
"Right."
"If you were heading for downtown, you'd stay on the freeway, right?"
"I would, but then some folks will drive ten miles to avoid traffic on I-10."
"True. Any pattern to her visits? Maybe she had regular meetings in town."
"Lots of Wednesdays, but she came plenty of times on other days of the week."
"Like the Friday she died," I said. "Did you ask the garden clubbers if she ever mentioned where she was going on her trips out of Bottlebrush?"
"I asked. Like I said, the ladies were nice, but no help," Jeff answered. "They talked flowers and shrubs with the Olsen woman. The only other place they saw her was at church."
"Last Friday?" I asked. "You have a time line on her activities that day?"
"She used her EZ TAG coming toward Houston at two-fifty p.m., but never used that prepaid cell phone we found near the body. So we checked your cell records, to see how she contacted you before she was murdered. She phoned you from a gas station pay phone in the vicinity of the coffee shop."
"Why buy a phone and not use it, Jeff?"
"Good question. I don't have the answer. She purchased it that morning at a Target store east of Houston. Wish I could ask her about phone records. We checked her landline in Bottlebrush and got nothing. No toll calls to Houston. No long-distance calls period. My guess is she always used prepaid phones or calling cards, and probably did so for a reason. We find that reason, we're a step ahead."
"What about relatives? Any luck finding someone who might have been interested in her money?"
"DeShay's on that. So far, he's got nothing. She was estranged from her in-laws—hadn't spoke to them since the husband's funeral. Rock-solid alibis. They didn't ask about money when the notification was made. The deputy who visited them said they acted like they hardly knew the woman. Her parents are gone, have been for years. No kids. No siblings. Nada. The lady was a loner."
"An obsessed loner," I said. "But maybe that's redundant."
"Unless she went to the Galleria every week, we don't know what she came to Houston for. You check out her closets? Was she a shopaholic or something— and I cannot believe I just said 'shopaholic.' " He rolled his eyes. "That's what I get for hanging around garden clubbers."
I laughed. "I wouldn't say she was a big shopper. She appreciated nice things, had well-made plus-size clothes, but not an overflowing closet or a designer wardrobe. With luck, that storage unit key will tell us why she drove into town week after week. Burl is checking into that."
"Glad you turned over those keys to him. He sounds like a guy with some smarts. Did you learn anything from Dugan?"
"Not much. Simpson's widow helped me far more. I have his file on the Washington case."
"Simpson copied HPD files?" Jeff's pupils constricted, enhancing that glacial blue stare I'd seen a number of times when he was bothered by a case. He reached in his shirt pocket for gum.
"No," I said. "He did his own investigating. Is that wrong?"
"If he worked a closed case on the clock, yeah."
"He's dead, Jeff. And his wife... I think she'll need his pension."
"Chill, Abby. Who do you think I work for? Internal Affairs?" He smiled.
"Thanks," I said.
"For what?" He folded two sticks of gum and laid them on his tongue.
"For the smile. I don't get enough of those."
He reached across our tiny table and took my hand. His fingers trailed down mine when he pulled his hand away. Suddenly I wanted to be home alone with him, murders and prisons and evidence forgotten.
"Tell me more about this file," he said.
"I haven't gone through it yet. Just took a quick glance. I did learn a few things talking to Simpson's wife, and there are these photographs he took—the guy had an amazing talent, by the way." I told him more about my visit with Joelle and ended by mentioning that I thought I'd been followed there.
His gum-chewing speed switched to double time and he stared at me, eyes narrow in thought. Finally he said, "You should have called me when you spotted the tail. I could have given a description to any patrol units in the area. Hell, you could have taken a video with your fancy phone and we'd have it right now."
"What? Stick my phone out the window so I could take a picture? Oh, wait. I could have jumped out of my car, waved my arms like I was as crazy as a road lizard and shouted, 'Hey, are you following me?' "
"You should have called me, Abby." No smile. He was as serious as the tax man.
"I have my .38 in my glove compartment," I said.
"When's the last time you took target practice? You know you have to keep up your skills, make sure—"
"Don't get parental on me, Jeff. I hate that."
He sighed, closed his eyes. "You're right. I worry, that's all."
My turn to smile. "That's what a girl likes to hear."
After I left Jeff, I made the short drive home, came in through the back door and immediately spread out the contents of Frank Simpson's folder on my kitchen table. His organizational skills? Not so good. Soon Diva arrived—she has a nose for anything made of paper laid out on a table—and thought she might help me rearrange things. I quickly carried her off and bribed her this time with a catnip toy. I didn't need her taking a nap on Frank's notes.
While Diva knocked herself out with her fake mouse, I sat and began the process of making order out of chaos. Some notes had been jotted on scraps of paper or on the back of his business cards, others on full notebook-size sheets. At least he'd been good about dates and times. Guess cops do have to pay attention there. When I was done putting everything in chronological order, the compilation spanned years and wasn't as much information as I had initially thought. The papers and cards were messy and crumpled after being jammed in the folder, making it seem like there was a lot more.