"But she didn't?"
"I don't think so. She was too busy with social causes. Smart and pretty and caring. Can you blame me for liking her?" He drained his glass, then swished the ice around. "After spending more time with Lawrence during our meetings, she pulled her name from the Confederate Legion Debutante list, said she couldn't justify taking part after getting to know him. That annoyed the pastor, I can tell you."
"How did you know?"
"Overheard a little argument. He couldn't keep up his end, though. She was the better debater, and he adored her too much to see her upset about anything. He told her he would respect her choice. Must have been difficult for the Rankins. They wanted to show her off, have her picture in the paper all dressed in white with their family history printed underneath like all those other debutantes."
"The debutante scene is still strong in Texas." I took another sip of wine realizing that's all I really knew. Despite our money and the mansion we'd lived in, Daddy kept his Rolex in a coffee can when it wasn't on his wrist. Society stuff has always been Aunt Caroline's territory, and I made sure she knew I'd rather show off new jeans at the rodeo than trip over some ball gown.
"They worshipped that girl," Drummond went on. "When she disappeared, they spent weeks looking for her, hired locals in Mexico to help, had search dogs flown in. Later that year, close to Christmas, we had this big memorial service... so, so sad. Sara was all they had. Besides God, of course. Their faith carried them through. I couldn't return to the church after that, watch those nice people hiding their grief."
"Could she have had a relationship with Lawrence?" I asked.
"You mean boyfriend and girlfriend? No way. I would have caught on, since I'm very perceptive." He straightened in his chair, pasted on his happy salesman face again. "If you'd like proof of just how well I use my better traits, I have some revealing charts that compare traditional index funds with a highperforming real estate trust."
I said, "If I decide to change the people managing my money, I promise I'll think of you first."
"I'm certain your people have told you that diversification is the key to long-term growth. If they haven't, then—"
"Sorry, Mr. Drummond."
Maybe I should have strung him along awhile, because he didn't have much more to offer when I asked him about the other people in the photos. None of them had kept in touch, and Oscar Drummond hadn't set foot in the Church of the Reverent Life since Sara Rankin's memorial service.
But, I thought, as I made my escape after we made uncomfortable small talk over veal marsala, at least I know a little more about Sara. Problem was, if she disappeared in March or April and died soon after, she couldn't have been Will's mother. He'd arrived on Verna Mae's doorstep in October.
I had a feeling there was a whole lot more to that story, though. The only avenue I had left to explore was the other girl in the picture—Jessica Roman. Maybe she had some answers, could even have been Lawrence's girlfriend. But to explore this avenue, first I had to find her.
20
I was dog tired when I made it home, too tired to revisit my Internet searches looking for Jessica Roman right now. I'd just finished microwaving a pizza when Jeff showed up. Nothing better than more chardonnay and a little sex for my dessert. I'm never too tired for that.
An hour later, we were lying in bed, my head close to Jeff's ear, when he said, "The bullet is a match. The same gun that murdered Amanda Mason killed the Olsen woman."
I sat straight up and shoved Jeff's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me the minute you walked in the door?"
"Because I had other plans. What would you do with that information tonight anyway?"
"I don't know. Drink more wine, maybe. I mean, this is great."
"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.