Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

I, however, considered this a point in the man’s favor. I never trusted neat men. Neat men called their mothers on odd-numbered days and collected stamps. Dodging a trail of towels, I made my way to the bathroom. A minute later, when I moved a shirt strewn over the sink so I could wash my hands, three or four business cards fluttered from the pocket. I picked them up.

Police-issued business cards. An embossed gold shield was prominent in the upper center, and beneath this was printed, Terry Armstrong, Ph.D., Houston Police Department, Consultant .

Hmm. These could prove useful. I pocketed them and returned to the dining room.

“Guess what?” said Kate. “Terry’s agreed to help with your plan to find Feldman.”

“Really?” I said, genuinely surprised. “How’d she convince you?”

“By being Kate.” He smiled and squeezed her hand. “I think she’s right, though. There’s nothing illegal about checking out Parental Advocates by pretending to seek their services. Investigative reporters do things like this all the time. A little playacting, right? Besides, you are practically family. Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there, Abby.”

“Thanks... I’ll call you when I’m ready to execute the plan.” I ran my fingers over the edges of the small rectangles in my pocket. “But are you absolutely positive?”

“Sure,” he said. “It’s not like I’ll be impersonating a police officer or anything. Now, that can get you in big trouble.”

The following morning I was finishing a bagel in the kitchen and listening to the Weather Channel reporter banter about the possibility of the tropical storm becoming a hurricane. She bubbled with anticipation as pictures of those upper-level disturbances and low-pressure systems came in via satellite. She was orgasmic about potential ratings, rather than the storm, was my guess. Folks would be glued to their televisions up and down the coast. When she got to the important part, I jotted down the coordinates of the storm, making a mental note to check our supply of batteries and bottled water.

Kate had gone out for the Sunday paper, and when she returned, she noticed what station I was tuned to. “When should we expect the duck drencher’s arrival?”

“Not sure. It’s a slow mover. Meanwhile, I have more pressing concerns.”

“Like what?” she said. “I was hoping we’d loaf by the pool today.”

“Sergeant Kline called, and in his best evil-mannered delivery, he suggested I come and see him. Today.”

“Doesn’t sound like fun,” Kate said. “Did he say why he wants to talk to you?”

I shook my head. “Maybe I’ll be calling you from jail for bail money.”

“Should you phone Willis? Have him meet you downtown?”

“I was kidding. I can handle a few questions without benefit of counsel.”

“I could go with you for moral support,” she said.

“I’m a big girl. By the way, have you seen Diva? She’s pulled another disappearing act.”

“She always comes back when she gets hungry,” said Kate, gathering up the newspaper and her green tea before heading for the pool deck.

I hope she comes back before bedtime, I thought, heading for the stairs to dress for my trip to police headquarters. One night without her was enough.

With my visitor sticker plastered to my cotton camp shirt, I made my way down a narrow carpeted aisle bordered on both sides by partitioned cubicles in the Homicide division at HPD. Phones were ringing, computers whirring, and I heard more than one pager beeping as I made my way to where Sergeant Kline sat behind a desk piled with folders and papers. He indicated a plastic chair and I sat across from him, again confronting that unwavering stare.

After I refused the gum he offered, he folded a stick into his mouth, chewed a second, and said, “I have a few concerns. This shouldn’t take long.”

“Shoot,” I said. “Or is that a bad word to use in a police station?”

He didn’t smile. “First off, this case has few leads.” He leaned back in his chair and rested one foot on the edge of the desk.

“So no one’s confessed. That won’t stop you, right?”

“No. But it takes an awful lot of legwork, paperwork, and brainwork to solve a whodunit like this. From what Sheriff Nemec tells me, digging around in thirty-year-old dirt might not even lead us anywhere. Even if I’m not the one to dig that dirt up.” He raised his eyebrows.

So the sheriff had gone and told him about my visit to Cloris’s attic. “Why not be direct, Sergeant? Might save us both some time.”

“Okay,” he said, “I want whatever evidence you took from the Grayson house.”

“Have you decided to investigate Cloris’s death, then?”

“Maybe. Two people in the same family dying from cyanide poisoning—even if the murders were years apart—is no coincidence,” he said.

Ah . There was intelligent life in the police universe after all. “That’s exactly what I thought, and I figure—”

“So,” he interrupted, “either you cooperate and turn over what you found, or you could be investigating the inside of a Harris County jail cell.”

I sat back, my enthusiasm melting like a chocolate bar left on the dashboard. “When have I not cooperated?”

“I don’t call taking away evidence cooperation. But if you had a motive to kill Mr. Grayson, I haven’t found one. Not even blackmail. And now, with the similarities between Ben’s death and Cloris Grayson’s, I—”

“Wait a minute. Blackmail? Why would Ben blackmail me?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

“So you still think I might be hiding something?” This was ludicrous. Clearly Ben’s death was related to a murder that occurred fifteen years ago, one I knew nothing about until last week.

He chewed languidly for a few seconds before speaking. “Ben Grayson was probably living on your property because he had a good reason to be there—which logically might involve the people who live in your house. Your father’s dead, your sister spends every waking hour in the library when she’s not with Terry Armstrong, and you... ? Well, I’ve learned you have a less restricted schedule.”

My cheeks tingled. “And what, exactly, do you know about my so-called schedule?”

He said nothing.

“Oh. I get it. You’ve been watching me. Following me.”

He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable for the first time since we’d met.

“Has this been going on since the day of the murder?” I knew I was glaring, but hell, this pissed me off.

He put both feet on the floor and squared his shoulders. “Routine stuff. Nothing personal.”

“You haven’t answered my question. How long?”

“After Nemec phoned and said he screwed up and let you take stuff from the Grayson house, we had to watch you more closely. And that’s the reason I brought you down here. Following people can get you in lots of trouble. You nearly got more than you bargained for with that car thief in Galveston.”

“So the big black dude who nailed James Franklin wasn’t merely some good Samaritan, huh?”

“Not exactly.”

Another tension-filled silence followed before I said, “You’re wasting time and taxpayers’ money pursuing me. You could have been up in Shade, where you might actually find answers—like I did.”

His neck was blotched, the fire spreading up to his ears. “Carting off evidence before the police have a chance—”

“Nemec came to Ruth’s house earlier and chose not to take anything, so I figure she could give me whatever she wanted.”

“You figured wrong. I’m dropping the polite approach with you, Ms. Rose, so quit—”

“You actually believe you possess a polite approach?” I said with a laugh.