“Mind if I ask her what she likes to eat—so we can at least wean her off her bad habits slowly? I mean, who better for the job than the queen of bad habits?” I grinned.
“Sure,” he said. But when I started to get up, he gently grabbed my wrist, gave me one of his intense blue-eyed stares. “You were great with her. I can’t tell you what—”
“Shut up,” I said.
He nodded, chewing his gum like crazy, and wearing the saddest smile I’d ever seen.
I blinked back tears as I went to talk to his sister.
20
Emma was waiting for me outside the production trailer when I arrived in her neighborhood. She’d had plenty of energy earlier, but now she held her left arm close to her body, and her eyes showed her fatigue.
“I didn’t want to talk to Mr. Mayo or Chelsea alone, and I can’t get near my house without their approval. I thought I’d just wait on you.”
“Let’s go for it,” I said.
She climbed the two steps to the trailer door and knocked. I was right behind her.
Chelsea let us in with a “Hi, y’all.” Besides her new-found and very bad Texas accent, she’d really taken to Nuevo Western wear and wore a straight denim dress, braided belt and new boots that were red, white and blue.
Emma said, “I’d like to see the house, but the workers at the barricade said I have to get a badge or something.”
From beyond the curtain that separated the front of the trailer from the back, Mayo called, “Chelsea, who is that?”
“Emma and Abby,” she shouted.
Then came the dreaded, “Send them back here.”
I rolled my eyes and Emma whispered, “Great.”
He was sitting on one of the couches watching what looked like an episode of
Reality Check,
a remote control in hand. By his ruddy cheeks and angry expression, I had a feeling he didn’t like what he was seeing. He turned the TV off and looked at us.
“I’m very glad you two turned up.” Mayo smiled, his flush fading.
Uh-oh.
He’d flipped too fast, sounded way too nice.
Emma beat me to my own question, saying, “What do you want?”
“First off, things have been very tense this past week, and I’d like to put that behind us. Sometimes I lose sight of the fact that most people have no clue what it takes to be a show runner, to be the person who makes certain a program is produced on time and within budget.”
“Is that a long-winded apology?” I said.
“You could say that. My job is to see that the construction and the interior design are done, that we have drama in our episodes that touches America. The unfortunate discovery under your house has eclipsed any thought I might have had of making your story our sweeps winner in November. I lost a very wonderful story to Kravitz.”
“Are you whining, Mr. Mayo?” I didn’t like this guy one bit—even when he tried to be human.
“Maybe I am. There’s no circumventing the effect a dead child would have on our demographic.”
I started to respond, but Mayo held up a hand. “Let me finish. Paul’s program with Emma’s story will draw better Nielsen numbers than the episode of
Reality
Check we now must air that same week. He’ll have the superior show because of the work I did. Now, this goes no farther than this room. I will pay you, Ms. Rose, pay you whatever you want, to make sure Paul is ... shall we say,
hindered.”
I stared at him for several seconds, not believing what I’d heard. “I don’t get it. Aren’t you executive producer of both shows?”
He cleared his throat. “In name only. We have all sorts of titles in Hollywood, some of them meaningless. Paul has almost full control of his program, but that’s not the point. Those higher up than myself have gotten into the mix. They’ve told me to finish Emma’s house giveaway as we promised, give it plenty of local attention. A crime discovered during the filming of an entertainment program like
Reality Check?
That’s the program they don’t want from me, but they do want it on
Crime Time.”
I was beginning to understand. Egos. Turf. Nielsen numbers. First Kravitz wanted my help and now this guy. “How am I supposed to
hinder
Kravitz?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said. “You’ve certainly made things difficult for me—and for him, too, from what I’ve heard.”
“Won’t you get in trouble for trying to ruin his show?” Emma asked.
“Not if no one but us knows,” he said.
“Not to burst your bubble-slash-ego the size of Minnesota,” I said, “but I won’t do anything differently. And I’d certainly never take a penny of your money.”
A tense silence followed; then Emma said, “Could we please have visitor badges?”
Mayo smiled then, tenting his hands. “It was worth a try.” He called for his gofer, Chelsea, and soon Emma and I were walking down her street wearing
Reality
Check hard hats and paste-on paper badges.
At first the house couldn’t be seen, because trucks were parked everywhere, but when we got closer Emma sucked in her breath and stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, my gosh. It’s bigger than I thought.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me along to where the driveway used to be. The newly turned earth and discarded two-by-fours made me wish I’d worn work boots.
The framing was complete, and the insulated walls were up. Before we could go inside, Stu Crowell met us coming out, his ever-present camera with him.
“Hi, there,” he said. “Did the big man leave town and you two snuck down here somehow?”
“Mayo gave us the hard hats himself,” I said.
“He must want something,” Stu said. “How about a tour?”
“No taping, right?” Emma said.
“Nope. I’m keeping track of the work for budget purposes.”
Stu led us through framed-in rooms on the new cement, and Emma seemed able to visualize what everything would look like. She guessed the square footage at around twenty-four hundred. I supposed Realtors could do that. As for me, it was all beams and pipes and wires. Emma wanted to walk through again on her own, so Stu and I waited in what would be the foyer—at least I could figure that much out.
“I was hoping to see you while we were here, Stu,” I said. “Have you had more than one interview with the police about what happened Monday?”
“Nope. I talked to a Sergeant Benson that day, but he only wanted to make sure he had my name and phone number in case he had more questions later. They did that with the whole crew.”
“Did everyone know why I was with Emma that day?”
“Not everyone, but a few people asked after they made the find. Why? What’s this about?”
I debated whether to tell him. Stu
had
impressed me as an honest, genuine man since day one. “Someone has been following me while I’ve been investigating the death of Emma’s mother.”
He looked at me, surprised. “Her mother’s death? I thought this was about—”
“It’s a long story. Can you recall specifically who asked you questions, aside from the police? Strangers in the crowd? Crew members? City employees?” Saying this made me realize how vast the suspect list might be.
“I don’t remember. Sorry.”
Damn.
“Maybe there was someone who stood out to other production people, someone who seemed overly curious?”
“No one said anything to me,” he answered.
I sighed. “If you get a chance, could you ask around and see if anyone else noticed or talked to someone like that?”
Stu nodded. “I can do that. There was a lot of mumbling in that crowd behind the fence. But we’re used to people watching us, wanting to get on camera.”
I smiled. “Emma and I would be grateful for anything anyone remembers.”
“Sure. She’s special, that one. I’ve done plenty of these shows and helped a lot of nice people. People like Emma are why I keep coming back when Mayo calls. He may be there to take the credit when the e-mails roll and the ratings are out, but it’s the researchers, the directors, the film editors, the builders, the craftsmen, the decorators, the shoppers, the banks that give scholarships, the companies that—Hell, I could go on and on. Those are the real heroes.”
“Them and you,” I said. “Without you catching true emotion on tape,
Reality Check
wouldn’t be the hit it is.”
“I didn’t finish. Mayo’s an ass, but he’s a true show runner. You gotta have someone like him to put it all together. He does that well.”
I nodded. “You’re probably right. Thanks for reminding me you can’t judge a car by the sound of the horn.”
The call from DeShay came while I was in the grocery store trying my best to balance boxes of Cocoa Puffs with equal parts broccoli. It took everything I had not to blurt out the news that Jeff was back in town. Especially when DeShay’s first words were, “You hear from the man today?”
“Have you?” I was hoping to avoid an outright lie.
“Voice mail. Guess he’s busy.”
“I talked to him last night.” At least that much was true. “He seemed to hint that he’d be home soon.”
“That’s good. Listen, I got a lead on our pro, Diamond. I decided to try a shortcut first and it worked. Remember Christine O’Meara had that one arrest?”
“Yeah.” I realized where he was going with this. “Did she get picked up because she was with her friend Diamond?”
“You got it. Diamond had lots of names, but funny thing—her fingerprints never changed. Her real name was Fiona Mancuso. Had multiple arrests for solicitation.”
My stomach sank. “You’re speaking of her in the past tense. Is she dead?” I’d stopped my cart in front of the Pop-Tarts and realized a woman with a toddler was staring at me, her mouth open. I guess the words
Is she dead?
don’t go over well in the supermarket.
“She’s dead to HPD,” DeShay went on. “No arrests since 1998. I’m running a print check through DPS to see if she’s still around, and then I’ll check the NCIC database. Maybe she relocated and is still in business.”
“And if she’s not?”
I’d maneuvered my cart over to a less trafficked area and stopped.
“Don’t get discouraged, Abby. Your boy DeShay has been on this all day. Last time she was brought in they also hauled in her pimp on drug charges, a guy named James Caldwell. We know he’s still around because he was recently released from prison. His next scheduled visit to his probation officer is Monday, and White and I plan to be there.”
“Would he know where to find Diamond after all this time?” I asked.
“Maybe not, but he might be able to give us a few names of friends, relatives, you know.”
“By the way, I know why someone tailed me so easily last week. Guess what I found stuck under my bumper?” I told him about the GPS device.
“Could be Kravitz had it put on your car.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said.
“White’s been dealing with the
Crime Time
jerks. He could ask one of them, but he took off today and tomorrow to spend time at the hospital, I guess I could call him, see if he wants to make a call.”
“Don’t bother him with this yet. The good news is, I found the stupid thing, so—Wait a minute. What about Emma? Could she have one on her rental car?”
He sighed. “She might. I’m on my way out of here. I’ll stop by the hotel and check her car. What’s she driving?”
I gave him the description.
“Are you home?” he asked. “I can pick up the device you found, turn it over to the tech people. We may be able to find out who bought it.”
“Actually, I’m not home. I-I’m shopping for a friend who’s not feeling well.” More skirting the truth. I hated this. “I could meet you in the hotel parking lot and give the thing to you—say, in about thirty minutes?”
“That’ll work.”
“Another question. Did you talk to Billings’s family? Ask if he came into any money around the time he changed his mind about his Crime Stoppers tip?”
“I did, as a matter of fact. If he had any extra cash, the ex didn’t know about it or she would have taken everything she could for back child support.”
“Hmm. Maybe he didn’t blackmail anyone, then. See you soon.” I hung up and hurriedly finished shopping.
When I pulled into the hotel lot a half hour later, I spotted the rented Caddy right away, but DeShay wasn’t there. I found him on the other end of the parking lot, and as I handed over the GPS device, he told me he’d spotted someone he thought he recognized—a local PI named Louie Titlson—sitting in a car with the window down, and smoking.
“I think Louie and I need to talk. Want to come?” DeShay said.
I smiled. “I would love nothing more.”
I climbed in the T-bird and we made the short trip. DeShay didn’t bother to find a parking spot. He just braked when we reached Tillson’s car. DeShay got out and rapped on the driver’s-side window, which was now rolled up.
Slowly the window came down, revealing a man with the perfect face for PI work. If I had to describe him to someone else, the only word I could think of would be
ordinary.
“Hey, Peters. What’s going down?” Tillson said.
“Nothing, man. You working?” DeShay said.
“You wouldn’t be knocking on my window if I wasn’t. Who’s the lady?”
I was leaning against the T-bird and planned to keep my mouth shut, as DeShay had suggested on the drive across the lot.
“I’ll bet you’ve seen her before, isn’t that right?” DeShay said.
“Me? No way.” He laughed.
But all three of us knew this was a lie, and I wondered if Louie Tillson had followed me to that dry cleaner with Paul Kravitz in the passenger seat.
“Louie, I’ll pass on your bullshit,” DeShay said. “Why are you hanging around here? No, don’t bother answering. Emma Lopez, right? And if she finds out, she might have to resort to that nasty stalker law.”
“You know that ain’t gonna fly, Peters. Public streets are a PI’s domain.”
“But see, this isn’t a public street, man. This here is a private parking lot, and I don’t think you’ve rented a room at the hotel. Or am I wrong?”