Page 34 of 3rd Tango
“I have a lunch date.” She glances away, then back to us. “With a friend.”
It doesn’t take a genius to jump to the conclusion she’s going out with Al. I don’t like it, but she’s an adult, and that’s another argument I’m not up for.
I give her arm a squeeze and round up Matt. “We’ll call if we figure out who the woman is in the portrait,” I say, motioning him toward the door. He looks relieved.
“Have you done anything else on the case?” Mom asks, and it seems directed at me.
I stop and face her, drawing from Meg’s well of patience. “I spent three hours this afternoon on it. I contacted the medical examiner in Grayson County, who still has the bones of the unidentified woman. I requested a DNA sample and they turned me down, since I’m not law enforcement or family. In reality, they don’t have the budget to take samples from unclaimed bones or the manpower to constantly recheck databases.”
Another tangent of mine that’s unnecessary to get into right now. “So I called my contact at the Attorney General’s office”—everyone knows that’s JJ—“and he put heat on them. Found out a sample had already been taken and ran through a database years ago. They’re sending the analysis from that original test, plus a new genetic sample to my friend tomorrow. Once we have all that, we can run it through Family Ties, as well as uploading it to GenCo, and maybe we’ll get a hit, some distant relative.”
“Oh,” Mom says, pleasantly surprised.
“I also left messages for family members of the women who were identified and I’m waiting for responses from them,” I continue. “I’ve been through Alfonzo’s case notes, which I already told him how much I appreciated, and I have a couple other leads to check into.”
This seems to satisfy her and she nods. “Thank you.”
I give her a weary smile and she returns it over Meg’s shoulder as my sister hugs her. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” Meg says.
She and Matt follow me out to the van. Matt shakes his head as he starts it and backs down the driveway. “I can’t believe she showed up at the garage.”
I glance at Meg and she puts her hands to her head in mock horror. “That’s our Mom,” she says.
As Matt pulls onto the road, I look toward Gayle and Marie’s, relieved to see there are no lights on, no commotion, no police cars. “I have the uneasy feeling that whatever Mom and Alfonzo are doing involves more than lunch,” I say.
“Like what?” Meg asks.
I glance at Matt. “How would you like to tail our mom?”
“I thought I was fired.”
Smartass.
He flashes a grin and makes a whatever motion. “You’re the boss,” he says. “If you want me to follow Mama Schock, then that’s what I’ll do.”
14
Meg
My mood matches a bleary gray sky. This morning I’m battling several things. My lack of sleep and blown routine, which, for a girl who likes to keep to a ten pm to six am sleep cycle, could be dangerous.
I’m off-kilter today. As if my brain can’t quite catch up. Throw in the almost-botched B and E and my mother’s fixation with a former, possibly-shady FBI agent and I’m a hot-ass mess.
By the time we arrived home, my brain wouldn’t shut down as I pondered ways to identify who the Evelyn might be.
I tossed in my bed, stringing ideas together. Internet searches. A family history on Marie. Whoever the woman in the painting is, I feel like it has to be someone special. Why else would Marie deviate from lighthouses and landscapes to a lone portrait?
Somewhere around five, I drifted off to sleep, but my eyes popped open at six forty-five. I attempted to convince my psyche it was time to rest, but, well, epic failure for sure. I dragged my weary body from bed and killed time meditating and browsing the internet until Matt showed up.
All in all, this investigation has been quite the adventure. And that’s saying something considering my sister and I recently caught a serial killer.
It’s just before eleven when I slide into Matt’s father’s Buick and—thank you, sweet baby Jesus—see two coffee cups in the holders.
“Hey.” His blue eyes twinkle and I’m once again reminded of his ability to constantly be on the move.
This isn’t the first time I’ve ridden in Papa Stephens’ car. Matt’s is a slick vintage Mustang, not exactly low-key when tailing someone. When on the prowl, borrowing his Dad’s has become the norm. The black sedan that millions of Americans drive blends beautifully.
“Hey.” I settle in and fasten the belt. “You broke out the Buick.”
