“Decide what’s real?” she said. “I’m not delusional.”

“Sorry,” White said. “I’m sure you don’t doubt what you saw, but, well, the forensics say that baby was not your sister.”

I said, “But Emma saw her mother give birth. If the baby under the house was the child born in the tub, doesn’t that bring into question whether Christine O’Meara was Emma’s biological mother?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I shouldn’t have said them. Not yet, anyway.

Emma said, “Oh, my God. She’s right.”

DeShay shot me a look, gave a slight shake of the head to shut me up. He looked at Emma. “We won’t know until that other DNA comparison between you and the woman in the morgue is complete. For now, can you tell us what you remember about the time period surrounding the baby’s birth?”

“I don’t know anything more than I’ve already told you,” she said.

“Tell us again for the tape recorder,” White said.

Emma told her story once more, while I tried to make sense of this unexpected information. If the baby wasn’t related to Emma, was she related to Shannon and Luke? That question would have to wait, too. Or perhaps the police didn’t care. But Emma would. She did resemble Xavier Lopez-same eyes, same smile. Could she have been born outside Lopez’s marriage and he placed her with Christine to hide her existence from his wife?

Wait. No. Christine was supposedly pregnant with Emma when Lopez died. Or so Emma’s date of birth indicated. But no one knew better than I did that birth certificates can be changed or forged or outright manufactured. I’d already seen it happen with previous clients. DeShay was right. Until the DNA comparison came in, we couldn’t assume anything.

White was saying, “You’re sure the baby was gone the next day? That you didn’t see CPS come and take her away?”

“All I know is that if the baby had been in our house for any length of time, even one day, I would have held her, I would have fed her, I would have changed her diapers, like I did with Shannon and Luke. None of those things happened.”

“You did all that when you were only eight?” White’s voice was generously laced with skepticism.

“Emma raised her brothers and her sister,” I said. “She’s been their legal guardian since she was sixteen. I think she’d remember if there was another baby for her to care for.”

White was apparently still simmering, and every time I opened my mouth he almost boiled over. Ignoring me, he said, “Most of those old houses have a trapdoor that leads to the crawl space under the house. Was there one in your place and did you ever open it?”

“The door was nailed shut,” Emma said. “I never had any reason to remove those nails. I didn’t want to know what kind of bugs and rodents were crawling around under there.”

“Nailed shut, huh? Now you’re telling me something. Seems your mother didn’t want you kids snooping around. She had something to hide.”

DeShay said, “I’m not sure we can draw that conclusion yet. A trapdoor to the outside wouldn’t be safe for a houseful of little kids. Maybe Ms. O’Meara-”

“Yeah, right, Peters. Thanks for pointing that out. Why don’t you do something useful, like call up your friend at the ME’s office?”

“But Julie said the DNA results-”

“Call her,” White said. “Put some pressure on those people.”

“Can I talk to you, Sergeant?” DeShay put the laptop on the coffee table, stood and walked to the window.

“Excuse me, ladies.” White followed, again adjusting his sport coat.

Though they’d stepped away, I could hear every word. It wasn’t like they were behind a closed door.

“I am not your slave,” DeShay said in an angry stage whisper. “You treat me with respect, because for now, I’m the only partner you’ve got.”

“Didn’t mean to rub you the wrong way. I’ll be more sensitive to your needs in our partnership. Sounds to me like you’d rather be partners with your little detective friend.”

A tense silence followed. Then I heard DeShay say, “We’ve got a job to finish.” He came back, reclaimed his chair and picked up the laptop. “Sorry about that.”

White resumed his questions, and the answers hadn’t changed from the last time he’d interviewed Emma and me. They left fifteen minutes later, and DeShay said they’d be in touch with any developments.

“I don’t understand, Abby,” Emma said. “How could my mother not really be my mother?”

“You were her oldest child. Maybe someone left you with her.”

“Who? My father?”

“Listen, I know you’ve had several big surprises today. Let’s wait on the DNA. Then we’ll know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“Guess you’re right. I’ll know the truth soon enough,” she said quietly.

I could tell this had hit her like a heavyweight’s punch. What else could happen? We talked a few minutes longer; then I took off and returned home to research Emma’s neighborhood, hoping to use the ideas Jeff had suggested to find anyone who might have known Christine O’Meara back in the nineties.

Diva was happy to have me at the computer, and once we were both comfortable, I tried the Houston City-search Web site, used all sorts of query combinations using Dogpile.com, one of my favorite search engines, and combed the online yellow pages for bars and liquor stores in Emma’s neighborhood. There were plenty of stores and bars, but after a dozen calls I learned that most places had turned over ownership time and time again. No one would remember a woman from ten years ago. I did come away with the names of two places that had kept the same ownership for longer than ten years, one bar and one liquor store. But a short list was better than no list at all. Time to hit the streets.

The liquor store was on Cavalcade, a good distance away from Emma’s house. I decided to try Pedro’s Beer Garden first. Interesting name. Maybe I’ll find Wolfgang’s Cantina around the corner, I thought, as I pulled into the empty lot next door to the bar. There was no parking lot.

Tejano music blared from speakers at the back of the building, where I could see a few rusty wrought-iron tables on a patio. The bar was a run-down shack made of metal sheeting. I noted only a few cars besides my own, or should I say pickup trucks, not cars. Three of them.

Since I was alone in an unfamiliar part of town, I considered sticking my gun in my bag-but bringing a firearm into an establishment that sells liquor is a big no-no, and I do want to keep my PI license. I put on a confident smile and walked through the screen door.

The sunlight was so intense that when I entered the dark interior, I had to pause while my eyes adjusted. The music was even louder inside, but the wonderful smell of cilantro, hot peppers and retried beans more than compensated. It was past one o’clock and I’d skipped lunch. My stomach knew it.

The place had a few mismatched tables and chairs as well as a bar with five stools. I could make out the silhouettes of two men seated there wearing cowboy hats. Both of them were eating, and as I got closer I saw they were also drinking longneck bottles of Dos Equis.

The bartender looked about forty, with dark hair slicked back in a ponytail. He wore a grungy once-white canvas apron. “You lost, señorita?” he said.

I practically had to shout over the music. “No. I’m hoping you can help me.”

The two men who’d been eating lunch switched their attention to me and offered raised eyebrows and smarmy smiles to the bartender. To his credit, he ignored them and offered a welcoming expression.

I had a business card ready and handed it to him. “My name is Abby Rose. I’m investigating the death of a woman who lived in this area in the mid-nineties. She disappeared in 1997 and I’ve learned she was murdered.”

The bartender stepped back. “I don’t know nothing about no murder. I’m a Christian man and run a good place. And I keep it good. No fights. No gangs. No killings.”