Free Shoot from the Lip by Leann Sweeney Page B

down on the cream leather bucket seat.
    He slid behind the wheel and offered me a huge smile, his perfect teeth bright in contrast to his dark lips and skin. “Let’s take Lucille around the block, okay?”
    “Lucille?”
    “Named her after my granny. Seemed fitting to call the best car ever made after the best woman who ever walked the earth.”
    He started the ignition, the engine came to life and the headlights lit up the empty parking area. He drove over to the next street and curbed the T-bird in front of an empty house with a FOR SALE sign.
    “First off,” I said, “I can’t thank you enough for showing up. You know me. I may think I know what I’m doing, but it’s nice having someone around who’ll steer me straight if I stray.”
    “You’ve handled your cases pretty damn good, from what I’ve seen. How’s your client liking the limelight?”
    “She hates it.”
    “Well, she’d better get out her sunglasses. Hollywood loves to shine their spotlights far and wide. She’s a good woman, this client?”
    “I am so impressed by Emma. She has an amazing spirit, DeShay.”
    “If you say she’s good, then I know she is. How can I help?”
    “I want to research Emma’s mother’s disappearance. If we find her, we might find that baby’s killer. Her name was Christine O’Meara, and she abandoned her kids in 1997.”
    “Missing-persons inquiry ever filed?”
    “Not by the family, but maybe a friend filed a report. I don’t know. CPS probably didn’t. Since I started working as an adoption PI, I’ve learned that in Texas, the courts have no obligation to hunt down abandoned children’s parents. Sure, the social workers look for relatives to care for the kids, but those people are seriously overworked and overwhelmed. Their job is placement, not investigation.”
    “Cold-case disappearance. Sounds like a tough one.”
    “Let me run a few things by you,” I said.
    “Sure.”
    “That baby disappeared and was probably buried under the house in 1992. Why do you think Christine waited five years to split if she’d put a defenseless infant under her house? Wouldn’t she want to get as far away as possible as soon as possible?”
    “Maybe she was afraid a new owner would discover the body and she’d be busted. Either that or something happened to her—something she didn’t plan on.”
    “She could have ended up anywhere, maybe even landed in an alcohol-induced coma in a nursing home. Or maybe was arrested and put in jail—but wait . . . there’s another possibility.”
    “She’s dead.” DeShay smiled. “I figured you’d get to that.”
    “Yes. And that would be the easiest place to start. Can you help me get a list of all unidentified bodies from 1997?”
    DeShay wet his finger and wiped at a smudge on the dashboard. “Sure, but I won’t be sneaking around behind anyone’s back. White and Benson ask me what the hell I’m doing, I’ve got to tell them.”
    “Fair enough,” I answered. “Let me give you her description.”
    DeShay pulled out his pocket notebook and jotted down what I told him; then he said, “And now, can you help me out?”
    “Anything,” I said.
    “What the hell is our man Jeff doing in Seattle, Washington? And why does he sound like a different person, all subdued and mysterious and, well, weird?”
    “DeShay, I wish I knew. I’m sure he’ll tell us soon enough.”
    “Just kinda worried. That’s all.”
    “Me, too.” Worried more than curious, especially since DeShay, who spent hours and hours with Jeff, thought he now sounded like a different person, too.

7
    I arrived home about seven thirty to find a hungry dog and an aloof cat, but no Kate. Working late, I guessed. I fed Webster and Diva, wondering how this case had gotten so complicated in less than forty-eight hours. Not that complications bothered me. On the contrary, I was sure I’d have a hard time sleeping tonight as I inventoried all the possible tracks I could take trying to solve this