Chelsea gathered the papers and cans and took them to the kitchenette.

Mayo had changed back into his Ralph Lauren overpriced shirt, and I thought, Work here? What’s this jerk got up his designer sleeve?

Mayo flipped pages in the document, and while he did this, Chelsea returned from trash duty and sat next to him. This was not the perky young woman I’d met yesterday. She was tired. We were all tired. And it was only four in the afternoon.

“Ah, here it is.” Mayo folded the document to the page he wanted, pushed it across the table and pointed to several lines midway down the page. “Cutting through the legalese, this clause states that our relationship shall continue with you in other capacities and with other possible programming options should there be unforeseen events.” He stared at Emma. “I’d say we had an unforeseen event, wouldn’t you?”

Emma’s face flushed. “What do you want from me?”

“Your full and heartfelt cooperation-or so it should appear on the air. You understand?” His throat and ear-lobes were red with anger.

Emma said nothing. She let her folded arms and stiff posture do the talking.

I, too, had about all I could stand of this guy. “Why are you being such a jerk, Mayo? No one’s having the greatest day, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Let me clarify, then. I’ve lost a nice, happy story sure to be a ratings winner. But I plan on salvaging this, minus the nice and happy part. I’ll have to turn this over to Kravitz. And believe me, that burns my ass.” He swept the contract off the table and sent it flying toward the kitchenette.

“Paul Kravitz of Crime Time?” Now that show I did catch on occasion. Kravitz. the interviewer, always came across as tough but compassionate.

Chelsea said. “Isn’t that way cool, Emma? And he’ll be here tonight.”

Mayo the Magnificent gave her a look that could wither a live oak.

Emma turned to me. “Who is this person?”

“An investigative reporter on a program that digs into past crimes,” I said. “Another show that I assume is produced by Venture?” I looked to Chelsea, who seemed a safer person to talk to, since she was in a better mood than Mayo.

But he answered anyway. “Yes. I’m an executive producer. And though I am very upset and disappointed about what happened today, Paul will do an… excellent job. I’m turning Emma over to his very capable hands.”

Emma bolted upright. “You’re disappointed? Is that because a child died or because you lost your stupid program? But wait, no need to answer. And by the way, I’m not being turned over to anyone. I’m not your slave.”

I rested a hand on Emma’s knee and looked at her. “We need to get something to eat and talk this over.”

“If you’re thinking about ducking out on-” Mayo started.

“Shut up,” I said.

Then Emma and I hurried out of that trailer before I kissed jerk extraordinaire Mayo in his eyeteeth with my fist.

Emma and I left in our own cars and met up at Houston‘s, a restaurant on Westheimer. It was early enough, a little past five o’clock, that the place wasn’t crowded. We each ordered a very frosty, large margarita. Nothing better than Cuervo Gold to take the sting off a horrific day. After a few sips of her drink, I think Emma exhaled for the first time in hours.

Neither of us needed the menu. We both chose the best Caesar salads on the planet, then Emma said, “What can I expect to happen now?”

“For one thing, investigators will be crawling all over Houston. I’d be willing to bet the Chronicle will run a big piece in the newspaper. That means I need to research your father and your mother before they do. Is that okay?”

“My father? But he’s been dead for twenty-three years. What could-”

“That might be one of the first places the Crime Time investigators and even other reporters will start. Do you know how much research they did on your father for Reality Check?”

“They knew he was a marine and died in Beirut. The researcher copied his photo and said they’d probably use it during the show’s intro, sort of give my background through old photographs.”

“That part may not change, but Crime Time is a who-what-why-when-where program. Rather than an entertainment approach, you’ll be subjected to a harder news angle. Ever watch 48 Hours Mystery?”

Emma nodded. “Once or twice.”

“Expect that kind of production. They dig deep, probably tape hours and hours of footage and edit extensively. You may not know until the show airs how you’ll be portrayed.”

“What does that mean?” Emma rubbed salt off the rim of her glass, licked her finger and took a drink.

“If the mystery remains unsolved, you may end up looking like a suspect. They’re real proficient at innuendo.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Emma said, eyes wide.

“Or you could be portrayed as the victim, a child left to raise three other children, a child who went through hell, only to learn the sister she’d helped bring into the world was gone before she had a chance to live.”

Emma looked left and right at the customers surrounding us before leaning close and whispering, “I’m no victim, and I’m no killer.”

“I know that. Now you have to convince Paul Kravitz.” I nodded, offering her a small, determined smile.

She exhaled, relaxed again. “I can do that. Besides, anything has to be better than dealing with Mayo. As for my father, I haven’t been completely honest with you. My father, well… he had a family. He was… married.”

I sat back against the leather booth. “Uh-oh. How do you know this?”

“Because I went looking for any extended family I might have about three years ago. I got as far as his obituary.”

“And a wife was listed as next of kin?”

She nodded. “Figures my mother would shack up with a married man and then feed me all those stories about how much he loved her and how much he wanted to see me and never got the chance. I wanted to believe that fairy tale, and that’s why I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry, Abby.”

“Don’t be sorry. Do you want me to talk to your father’s wife? Warn her about the TV investigators, and the possibility that reporters might come calling?”

“I think that’s the right thing to do. I wanted to contact her before the show aired, but didn’t know where to start.” She studied the fingernails on her right hand for a second. “You know what I’m most afraid of? That after the Beirut bombing, my mother slapped Xavier Lopez’s name on my birth certificate. Gave me a hero for a father when I’m probably the daughter of some dope addict she slept with one night.”

“Come on, Emma. That’s the fairy tale. You have a house and a small trust, right? Whose name is on the deed?”

“Mine and his.”

“You think your mother was capable of manufacturing something like that?”

“No. You’re right. It’s just that I felt like my life collapsed when that house went down and my home gave up such a terrible secret.”

“Listen, I know you feel like your luck is running muddy, but you have your father’s eyes, his smile, and I’d say you’ve got his courage, too.”

“Thanks, Abby.”

“If his wife is still alive, I’ll find her, explain what’s happening.” Hopefully before a Crime Time investigator dumped the truth on her first.

Emma tried for a smile and failed, then changed the subject to her brothers and sister, speaking about them like the proud parent she’d become.

We were nearly finished with our salads when my cell rang.

“Where the hell are you, Abby?” came a familiar voice.

“Hi, DeShay.” DeShay Peters, Jeff’s partner, is one of my favorite people and enjoys giving me a hard time-in a playful way, of course.

“Guess where I am, at Jeff’s request,” he said.

“Uh-oh. Emma’s property?”

“Correct, for two hundred dollars. Next category. What might piss off a police officer more than a turd who leads us on a high-speed chase all over Houston?”