Free Shoot from the Lip by Leann Sweeney Page A

your father’s wife? Warn her about the TV investigators, and the possibility that reporters might come calling?”
    “I think that’s the right thing to do. I wanted to contact her before the show aired, but didn’t know where to start.” She studied the fingernails on her right hand for a second. “You know what I’m most afraid of? That after the Beirut bombing, my mother slapped Xavier Lopez’s name on my birth certificate. Gave me a hero for a father when I’m probably the daughter of some dope addict she slept with one night.”
    “Come on, Emma. That’s the fairy tale. You have a house and a small trust, right? Whose name is on the deed?”
    “Mine and his.”
    “You think your mother was capable of manufacturing something like that?”
    “No. You’re right. It’s just that I felt like my life collapsed when that house went down and my home gave up such a terrible secret.”
    “Listen, I know you feel like your luck is running muddy, but you have your father’s eyes, his smile, and I’d say you’ve got his courage, too.”
    “Thanks, Abby.”
    “If his wife is still alive, I’ll find her, explain what’s happening.” Hopefully before a Crime Time investigator dumped the truth on her first.
    Emma tried for a smile and failed, then changed the subject to her brothers and sister, speaking about them like the proud parent she’d become.
    We were nearly finished with our salads when my cell rang.
    “Where the hell are you, Abby?” came a familiar voice.
    “Hi, DeShay.” DeShay Peters, Jeff’s partner, is one of my favorite people and enjoys giving me a hard time—in a playful way, of course.
    “Guess where I am, at Jeff’s request,” he said.
    “Uh-oh. Emma’s property?”
    “Correct, for two hundred dollars. Next category. What might piss off a police officer more than a turd who leads us on a high-speed chase all over Houston?”
    “Someone who’s not where she’s expected to be?” I said.
    “The girl’s a genius. Give her the million dollars. Are you coming to me, or do I have to navigate rush-hour traffic to get to wherever you are?”
    “I’m on my way.” I hung up, speared the last piece of lettuce and told Emma I had to meet up with someone who might help us. She had to be drained, so I told her to head for her hotel and her family, that I’d handle this meeting alone. She didn’t argue.
    I arrived back in Emma’s neighborhood about thirty minutes later and parked a block away, since the street was still inaccessible. Onlookers lingered, hoping for a glimpse of ... what? Maybe they thought this would be another case like the Dean Corll/Wayne Henley murders back in the seventies. I seriously doubted they’d find thirty bodies buried on Emma’s lot. There wasn’t enough room.
    It was now after seven, and no one was working the scene. DeShay stood talking to the lone officer guarding Emma’s property. I figured DeShay was off duty, since he was wearing his favorite baggy jeans and a Houston Rockets T-shirt.
    “Abby, my girl, what’s going down?” he said.
    “Some nasty stuff. I take it Jeff filled you in?” I said.
    “Yeah. He thought you could use some help.” DeShay gestured to his right. “This here is Officer William Evans.”
    Evans nodded in greeting.
    “Officer Evans tells me they’re not done with this scene. They’ll be coming back tomorrow to finish the grid.” DeShay extended his hand to the uniformed cop. “It’s been nice jawing with you, my man. You take care tonight. Don’t go fallin’ asleep on the sidewalk or nothin’.”
    DeShay and I walked down the block to his car, parked in the empty lot by the trailer. He drove an ancient T-bird, but it was in mint condition.
    He said, “You want to talk here? Or go somewhere else?”
    “I’d like to get away from the TV trailer, in case anyone hanging around gets nosy. Can I buy you dinner?” I said.
    “No, thanks. Already grabbed a burger.” DeShay unlocked the passenger door, and I sat