I sighed and took my phone out of my purse, but before I could even speed-dial Jeff's number, Aunt Caroline rapped on the back door and then came prancing in like she always does. Could this day get any worse?
"Abby, I heard you were robbed. What did they take?" She was wearing a pink polo shirt and golf shorts, her electric beach tan just a little too dark this week.
The break-in probably happened an hour ago and she already knew. The woman never ceases to amaze me, and I don't mean that in a good way. "Nothing antique or encrusted with jewels was stolen, but thanks for asking if I was home or I was hurt or any of those less important details."
If she hadn't applied so much plum blush I might have detected embarrassment over her being more concerned about material things than her niece. Her reaction, however, was par for the course, and I didn't give a flying flip anyway. How would I explain to Joelle?
"Who told you?" I asked.
"The news is all over the neighborhood, so Marion Callaway called me immediately, which is more than you did."
"I only just found out and who the hell is Marion Callaway?"
"Your neighbor down the block. You really need to be more sociable, get out and meet people. I met Marion at the country club, we got to talking and I found out she lives right near you. We've been friends for several weeks now."
Great. Aunt Caroline had her own CIA agent in my neighborhood. "Listen, I'd love to give you all the tantalizing details, but there aren't any, and I don't feel much like visiting, so—"
"Marion said she's seen that car several times hanging around your place and didn't think it belonged to anyone she knew. Then this happens and she sees the police and—"
"She saw the car?"
"Oh, yes. Didn't see the driver, but Marion is quite good with numbers. I swear she could keep her golf score in her head. God knows, she always keeps track of mine. I only hope when I'm as old as her I—"
"Numbers? What about numbers?"
"She remembered the license number. I think she said she was calling it in to the West University Police right after she hung up from me. Unlike you, she knew I needed this information immediately, even before the police." Aunt Caroline smiled—the last face-lift was already wearing off, so she could actually smile without splitting her lips 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.