Leann Sweeney - Shoot from the Lip

“You say where and when.”

“My place. Gotta meeting tonight, so it will have to be around ten.”

“Give me your address.” I didn’t want him knowing that I knew where he lived.

He recited the street and apartment number that matched what I already had.

I drove him back to the store and he got out, patting his overalls pocket and smiling. I dumped his trash at the adjacent gas station, then used a sample bottle of Clinique makeup remover I found in my purse to clean chili off my upholstery and my shirtsleeve. Then I took off for my next stop, Murray Motorcycles on Houston’s north side. I checked for a tail often, but freeways are tough. Every car looks almost the same at sixty miles per hour.

On my way there, I called DeShay and told him about Billings.

“I don’t like this, Abby,” he said.

“I don’t either. That’s why I hope you’ll come with me tonight. But not with your badge on your belt or your gun bulging. I get the feeling he won’t say anything if he knows you’re a cop.”

“I’m your boyfriend then, or I’m your brother-no, that won’t work, will it?”

We both laughed, and I said, “Not unless I spend the rest of the day at a tanning bed. But seriously, can you wait outside?”

“Only if you’re wired, and that would take some paperwork and the agreement of one irritable, temporary partner named White.”

I sighed. “Okay, you’re my boyfriend, but you’d better be good at playacting. I mean, Billings tells me you cops threw the poor man in jail time after time when all he needed was a little love to get over his problem.”

DeShay said, “Then please give me a chance to apologize for the entire department and the city of Houston after he spills what he knows about Christine.”

I laughed again, and DeShay said he would pick me up at nine thirty that night.

I arrived at Murray Motorcycles forty-five minutes later. First I noticed the sign saying Murray’s was in the repair business, but they offered used sales as well. On the door of the storefront, the words THESE PREMISES PROTECTED BY SMITH AND WESSON were painted on the glass. I peered inside, but the small showroom and sales counter were deserted. The door was locked, too, but the garage doors were raised and I walked in there. A man with braided gray hair and massive muscles knelt by a bike in the garage.

He greeted me with “Are you wanting a new ride?” without getting up.

“I’m looking for Rhoda.”

“Did you talk to her on the phone about a bike?”

He didn’t take his eyes off whatever he and his wrench were doing.

“Um, no. My name is Abby Rose and I’m a private investigator. I’m hoping Rhoda can help me with a case I’m working on.”

The man stood and focused amazing blue eyes on me-eyes almost as wonderful as Jeff’s. Then he stared past me at the street. “I’m Larry Murray, her husband. She’s out test-riding a bike I repaired. Did you bring a partner in another car?”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“The person who seems to have followed you here-Oops. They’re gone.”

I turned to check the street, thinking how this man’s perfect grammar and soft-spoken manner were smashing some of my “biker guy” stereotypes-though he did have the leather vest, tattooed arms and multiple ear piercings.

“No one followed me.” I sounded defensive and hated that I did. I’d been constantly checking my rearview and side mirrors. Besides, for some unexplainable reason, I didn’t want this man thinking I learned to wave good-bye only yesterday.

“I’m commenting on what I observed,” Murray said with a smile.

He was probably right, too. I remembered Jeff’s words: If a follower knows where his target is headed, tailing someone is pretty easy. Kravitz did have me followed.

“White Ford Focus,” Murray went on. “Driver wore sunglasses and a cap. Hard to tell gender.” His demeanor was in no way condescending. He wasn’t showing off, just offering information. I decided I should be grateful, not defensive.

I smiled. “Thanks for telling me.”

He grinned. He grabbed a filthy rag and wiped his hands. “Let’s go into the office, see what this is about.”

I followed him, saying, “Rhoda’s who I need to talk to.”

He opened a door smudged with oily fingerprints, allowed me to enter the store first and said, “After thirty years together, Rhoda’s business is my business. But if you’d rather wait on her, have a seat.”

A row of connected molded chairs sat against one wall. Two shiny motorcycles took up most of the floor space-those and a stack of tires.

“Maybe both of you can help me,” I said.

He went behind the counter, picked up a container of waterless hand cleaner and squeezed some into his palm. “I’m an agreeable person and am more than happy to answer your questions. Rhoda is a horse of a different color. You might test your luck with me first.”

“Okay. I’m working a cold case. A woman was murdered in 1997 and her body was identified only this week. Her name was Christine O’Meara and-”

“Christy was murdered? That’s terrible.”

“You knew her?” I said.

“She came into the icehouse we owned every day for years. Rhoda had a soft spot for a few of her regulars like Christy. But one day the woman stopped coming in. I think Rhoda told me Christy’s friends quit the place, too.”

“Friends?”

“Rhoda will have to help you with the friends. I only knew Christy because she made herself known when I would come into the icehouse after work. She always had a greeting, was always so… present, so loud and lively. Rhoda said she felt guilty for supplying Christy with Old Number Seven all those years. She decided that when the woman disappeared, a bottle of Jack was probably all she took with her.”

Always so present? Her friends quit the place? Who was this guy? “I have to ask. What planet are you from?”

He laughed. “Academia. I took the next outbound rocket as soon as I figured out there was life on earth.” Then his smile faded. “You’ve brought sad news.”

I walked over to the counter, the strong scent of the hand cleaner tickling my nose. “Mind if I make sure we’re talking about the same person?” I pulled out a photo of Christine O’Meara.

“Yes. That’s her,” he said.

“She was found murdered, left in a field off Highway 290. I guess neither of you recognized her from the photo in the paper back then.”

“Her picture was in the newspaper? I never saw it. I was too busy writing papers to read anything, and Rhoda sticks to cycle magazines. If we’d seen the picture we would have made sure she was identified. I suppose with all the time that’s passed, the police will have a hard time finding out who killed her.”

“Yes. But I’m hoping-” The roar of an approaching motorcycle startled me, and I turned to look out the window. A shiny blue-and-chrome machine came to a skidding halt. A large woman parked the bike and came into the showroom, shaking her white-blond hair after freeing it from her helmet.

“Hi, there,” she said, nodding at me before addressing Larry. “Smooth ride. Nice job, baby. I’ll call the customer to pick her up.” She put her helmet on the counter and kissed her husband.

Rhoda’s raspy voice and the lines around her lips spoke of heavy tobacco use, and when she passed me to go behind the counter I smelled smoke clinging to her hair and clothes.

“Rhoda,” Larry said, “this young woman came to talk to you about Christy O’Meara. She’s a private detective.”

“Don’t tell me Christy’s asshole husband finally decided to hire someone to find her after all this time.”

“Her husband?” I said, surprised.