Leann Sweeney - Dead Giveaway

But why the huge cover-up? Why were the stakes so high for these people? These were the questions that reminded me Verna Mae hadn't been the only one murdered. This had to do with Amanda Mason, too. Was that why Simpson's notes were stolen? Why I'd been followed and nearly killed. Yes. This had to do with her.

I picked up the phone and called Jeff, grateful to hear his voice and not a machine. "This is about Amanda Mason as much as it is about Verna Mae's murder," I said, so eager to get this out, my words ran together.

"Slow down. Have you learned anything new?"

"No, I'm just certain Lawrence was set up. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Talking to him today convinced you he's truly innocent, huh?"

"You don't think so?"

"I have a little different take on this. From what you told me, Washington had even more reason to be looking for money than a sick mother," Jeff said. "He had a kid on the way. He saw Amanda Mason with cash in her hands and he wanted it."

"Could you trust me on this? He didn't do it, Jeff."

"I take it there's more you want to tell me?"

"I think the Rankins are the money machine, the ones who paid off Verna Mae. But I haven't quite figured all that out yet."

"That's the problem. Before we go into that church with badges blazing, we have to figure it out. We need evidence. You understand that?"

"Oh, I get it. I just want you to believe me about Lawrence, okay?"

"With the gun still out there, I do tend to believe you. It's time for me to step in tomorrow, interview the pastor and his wife, especially if Rankin's the man who left you to fry in that storage unit."

"He's too puny, but he has this man working for him. I only know him by B.J. He could have been the one."

"You have more than initials?"

"He's the pastor's assistant or something."

"Can you do some computer magic, find out his name? Then I can check him out, see if he has a rap sheet. I'd do it myself, but I'm kind of tied up here with a DB."

"You take care of your dead body. I'm on B.J. like a bird dog on a duck." We said good-bye and I disconnected.

I got busy on the B.J. task and found the church website easily—reverentlife.org. I was at first struck by the glitzy presentation—Flash media, color photos of all the pastors and assistant pastors, not to mention scrolling Bible verses. But I felt the hairs raise on the nape of my neck when I read the words above the picture of "Pastor-Teacher Andrew Rankin." It said, "Our church is a safe harbor for those in chaos, a place of forgiveness for the guilty, and a haven of hope for the hopeless."

A place of forgiveness for the guilty, huh? From the way he acted both times we met, I was beginning to think he might be more guilty than grieving.

I searched every inch of that website looking for B.J.'s picture or even a name that began with B. No one but the pastors rated names and pictures on the site, and the "contact us" e-mail box offered only a generic address to their church mail.

I checked my watch then refocused on the monitor. The site calendar said the church library was open until eleven p.m., and I saw that the choir was meeting from eight to ten as well. There'd be plenty of people leaving about the time I got there if I left right now. I could ask around, see if I could get B.J.'s name or maybe find it in the library. Those bound leather volumes had helped me once already.

This was simple. Just a few little questions. No badges blazing, I told myself, as I stood and placed Diva in the warm chair I was abandoning.

Late evening traffic was light on the freeways and I reached the church in less than thirty minutes. Sure enough, streams of cars were pouring from the lot. Some colossal choir, I thought, searching for a parking spot close to the sanctuary. I was reviewing my opening line, considering something like, "Have you seen B.J.? And by the way, does the guy have an entire name?" when that handicapped-equipped van once again nearly took me out. Olive, the nurse's aide, was at the wheel.

That woman's dangerous, I thought, not smiling as I stared her in the eye. She maneuvered around my stopped car with another apologetic wave.

That's when it hit me like a plank to the skull.

She's the one in the picture at the storage unit. The person I thought might be Verna Mae's friend or sister. The one I'd seen before someone burned the place to the ground.

Okay. I could go find out about B.J. or I could talk to her. I liked the idea of talking to her a whole lot better, considering B.J. had muscles and maybe owned a gun that killed a few people.

My turn to play follow the leader, and she was easy to follow—seemingly as clueless to my pursuit of her as she was to minor details like double yellow lines.

We were heading toward the NASA area, but turned off at Pearwood, a small town with acreage lots where home owners could walk out the front door and feed their horses. A woman had been abducted and murdered in these parts about five years ago. I shivered a little, remembering all the publicity, the face of her devastated husband, who, in the end, turned out to be the one who killed her.

This was ranchland with dirt roads, plenty of fields and lots of trees. An easy place to hide a body. Better check in with Jeff, I decided, keeping a reasonable distance from the van on the narrow two-lane road.

But it was DeShay who took my call. "Jeff's got his hands dirty right now. You don't want the details. Can I give him a message?"

"Tell him I'm in Pearwood. I'm following a woman who works for the church. I plan to ask her a few questions when she stops, presumably at her home."

I heard DeShay relay this information and then I heard Jeff in the background say, "Shit."

"Does that response adequately convey his feelings?" DeShay said.

"Tell him it's just some ditsy lady," I said. "I want to ask her about—wait. She's pulling into a driveway. We turned off FM 2005 onto Bluebonnet Road. The house is about a half mile on the right. Tell him I have now checked in with the courtesy call he always seems to want when I'm out late on a case."

"I'll relay the first part, but not the last. He's holding one big-ass bloody knife right now. You take care out there, Abby." DeShay disconnected.

I folded my phone shut, slowed to a near crawl and waited for the van lights in the driveway up ahead to go out. I then sped up and a few seconds later pulled into the driveway. I started to get out, but another car came barreling down the road toward the house. I got back into the Camry and locked my doors, realizing I'd been concentrating so hard on tailing the van, I again hadn't paid much attention to anyone following me. Stupid idiot. When the car sped on down the road into the blackness beyond without even slowing down, I breathed a sigh of relief.

This little scare, however, reminded me to take my .38 from the glove compartment. I was in a strange place about to meet with someone who probably wouldn't be too happy to know I'd followed her home.

The house was a one-story log cabin—though not really a cabin. It was big, at least a couple thousand square feet. Could a nurse's aide afford a place like this? Then it dawned on me that this might be a shutin parishioner's home. Awkward to knock on the door and say, "Hi. I'm a PI who's been hanging around the church asking annoying questions. You want to talk to me?"

The house had a porch along the front with a wheelchair ramp, so I figured I was right, this wasn't Olive's house. Now what?

Light flowed from a side window, illuminating a small garden. No drapes pulled yet. Maybe I could take a peek inside before I knocked on the door.

I slipped from behind the wheel and eased my door shut so as not to alert anyone in the house. Gun at my side, I quietly made my way toward the garden. The little plot was bordered by stones and I had to step over them. My feet sank into newly laid pinebark mulch and the smell wafted up around me. I nearly sneezed but held it in. Flattening against the logs, I looked in the window.