Leann Sweeney - Shoot from the Lip

Okay. Wouldn’t learn anything from the pizza place. Kids usually worked there. The cheaper hair salons probably had a high employee turnover. I parked in front of the manicure shop-Nails by Suzi-and went inside.

The pretty Asian woman was alone, and no matter what question I asked, it was always answered with, “You want French manicure?” Or “You want pedicure? We do nice pedicure.” When I offered my card, I was directed with a smile to a fishbowl on the front counter loaded with other business cards, phone numbers inked on the backs. “We have drawing once a month,” I was told. “Free manicure.”

I backed out quickly, hearing, “It’s okay you come tomorrow. I be here.”

Please, dry-cleaner person, know something, I thought.

The man behind the counter said, “Ticket,” and held out his hand even before I was through the door. In the background, a huge circular rack held plastic-draped clothes, and a giant gray laundry bin was overflowing with recent acquisitions.

“I don’t have a ticket, I-”

“No ticket. Hmmm. And you’re not a regular customer, because I certainly don’t recognize you. What shall we do?” He clasped his hands in front of him and cocked his balding head. His pants were belted high, and his starched shirt was buttoned all the way to the neck. I guessed he had to be about sixty, maybe older.

“My name is Abby Rose, and I’m not here to pick up dry cleaning.” I handed him the card the manicurist wanted me to drop in the fishbowl. “I hope you can help me with a case.”

He took the card and stared at it for a second; then his eyes grew wide with delight. “You’re a detective? How fun.”

“Right. Fun,” I said. “How long have you worked here… um… sorry. What’s your name?”

“How rude of me.” He held out his hand. “Herman. Herman Bosworth. I opened in 2002.”

We shook, and I had to pull my hand away when he kept holding on.

“You own the place, Mr. Bosworth?”

“I do-or should I say the bank and I do. What would life be without mort-gag-es?” He practically sang the word, and followed this with a snorting laugh.

This guy’s crosshairs definitely weren’t lined up. “Okay, then. Would you by chance know who owned any of the properties bought up to build this strip center?”

His eyes grew brighter, and he supported his elbow with one hand while the other hand rested on his cheek. “I might. What’s this about, Abby?”

“I’m hoping to talk to a woman named Rhoda who once owned a bar around here. I don’t have a last name.”

“Why do you need to find Rhoda?”

“As I said. I need to talk to her,” I answered.

“You’re being e-va-sive. About what, Abby? You can tell me.”

I could research real estate records and might find out what I needed-probably should have done that to begin with. But I had a feeling this guy knew something. He could save me time if he’d quit fooling around. “You want money, Mr. Bosworth?” I started to open my purse.

But Herman Bosworth was shaking his head vigorously. “No-no-no-no. No money. I’m simply interested. Dry cleaning is, well, rather dry. Dirty clothes in, clean clothes out. But you’re dealing with something important, and I can help you. So do tell, Abby. Please?”

I sighed and, without naming names, I told him I hoped to locate anyone who may have known a cold-case victim, hoping that would be enough information to satisfy him.

“Cold Case. I love that show. You don’t look anything like that blond actress. But you’re doing what she does, and that is so awesome.”

“Will you please tell me Rhoda’s last name now?”

He folded his arms, leaned toward me and whispered, “I can do more than that.”

But before he could say another word, Paul Kravitz walked in. “You’re sure taking a long time picking up your dry cleaning, Abby.”

Damn. I thought he was leaving town, yet here it was Thursday and he was still lurking around. He’d found me even though I’d been watching for a tail. Probably had someone helping him who knew Houston streets.

“Do you work with Detective Rose?” Herman asked.

I said, “He does not-”

“Detective Rose,” Kravitz said. “I like that. You could say we work together. Exactly what part of the case are you helping her with?”

“Don’t answer that, Herman,” I said. “I don’t work with him. I don’t work for him. He followed me here.”

“You were followed?” Herman clapped twice. “Oh, my goodness, wait until I tell my partner, Robert.”

“That’s great,” I said. “You can tell Robert all about it. But this guy-”

“You’re him. You’re Paul Kravitz from Crime Time.” Herman’s eyes had grown wide behind his glasses, and he was pointing at Kravitz. “Get over here. Let me have a good look at you.”

Kravitz gave me a smug smile as he approached the counter.

I was certain celebrity status outweighed detective status and I wouldn’t get what I needed.

Meanwhile, Herman was studying Kravitz. “I have to say, you look far better on TV. Are you ill?”

Paul laughed. “No, sir. Healthy as a horse. How are you a part of our story, Mr…?”

“Bosworth.” He looked at me. “Am I connected to the story?”

Only in your mind, I thought. “Listen, Herman, I can’t tell you what to do, but you promised to help me, not him. You have my card. You decide.”

I walked out knowing I was taking a risk. Now I had to wait.

I waited a better part of the day for a call from Herman Bosworth, and waiting is not my strong suit. I felt as edgy as an armadillo at a monster truck rally as I paced in my kitchen. Adding to my agitation, the promised DNA comparison hadn’t come in. I knew this because I’d bugged DeShay so many times he told me to stop calling him.

I’d done the property-records search for the strip mall, and this produced more than a dozen names of people who’d sold their land or businesses before the center was built. No one named Rhoda appeared on that list.

Finally, though I knew what had probably happened between the dry cleaner and Kravitz, I called Bosworth around seven that night. He told me he’d given Rhoda’s last name to Paul Kravitz in exchange for studio-audience tickets to a talk show. When I asked if he’d do me the same favor for, say, Houston Rockets or opera tickets, he said that if he gave me any information, Kravitz’s offer, which included money for a nice stay in Hollywood, would be withdrawn. Herman hung up with one long “Sorr-eeee.”

Great. I’d lost out to Kravitz and also wasted precious time. I had to do something productive, and was headed to the computer to search the Internet for anything-a Web site, an ad or even a sentence containing the word Rhoda-when someone knocked on my door.

I checked the security monitor. Paul Kravitz. What the hell did he want? A chance to gloat?

I opened the door and said nothing.

He smiled. “Can we talk?”

“I thought you were going away. Far away. On an airplane.” But I widened the door to let him in. I could take anything he wanted to throw at me. I might not have Hollywood connections, but I had something he didn’t: a connection with Emma and a burning need to obtain the answers she wanted so she and her family could have a future without sorrow and regret haunting them for the rest of their lives.

I led him into the living room, and he accepted an offer of wine. He chose red, I took white and then we sat down across from each other.

“I think we’ve gotten off to a bad start,” he said.

“What would make you think that?” I tried to sound like I didn’t give a rat’s ass and failed.