“Don’t say it. My mother had something to do with this. She would have given up anything for money to keep her drug of choice in plentiful supply-even her own child. She’d certainly given up the rest of us for alcohol, though in a different way.”

We talked for another minute, mostly about Emma’s schedule and how she was supposed to do her job with people following her all the time. After I hung up, I turned to my BlackBerry and the matter of Jerry Joe Billings. Wherever he was, I would find him.

First I checked his driver’s license photo and decided Billings must have fallen from the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. All DPS photos are gruesome, but Billings had wild hair, half-open eyes, a day’s growth of beard and a mouth that made me think he might have left his teeth in a jelly jar by the bed. He couldn’t possibly look like this every day, and I worried the photo might be worthless. Would I recognize him if I saw him in person? Then I noted he was an organ donor. I hoped he had decent corneas, because his liver was probably pickled.

I checked the arrest record. The last offense had been in 1998, which could mean he was either dead or he’d gotten sober. If sober, he probably had a job. I hit a few keys with my computer pen and opened a person-locator database, a very expensive but trustworthy tool. I entered Billings’s social security number, and within a minute I knew where to find him.

The man who answered the phone at the warehouse discount store in the NASA area where Billings worked was happy to tell me he’d return my call after he finished mounting a set of tires. I didn’t bother to leave a number, just packed up and left the coffeehouse to find him. Trouble was, when I arrived I was told that since I didn’t belong to the club store, I’d need a membership to enter. When you live alone-except for frequent and wonderful Jeff sleepovers and extended visits from sisters who’ve dumped their boyfriend-you don’t need a hundred of anything. Besides, where would I store that many rolls of toilet paper?

Once I’d filled out the application and been approved, it was my turn to have a truly awful photograph saved for posterity on my brand-new plastic member card-my ticket to overconsumption on a massive scale. I had to admit, however, that the places I shopped could take a lesson from the bare cement floors and unfinished ceilings. Might bring the price of a little black dress down to within reason.

Getting around to the tire section took me about a week, or so it seemed. But if I thought I wouldn’t recognize Billings, I was wrong. I spotted him leaving through a back door that led out to the garage area, where I assumed tires were changed. No one could miss that hair. His considerable long fuzz was sticking out from his cap like a clown wig.

Okay. There had to be an entrance for the cars somewhere around the building, and I hurried back the way I came, unswayed by the lure of hot pretzels, pizza or fresh popcorn. In my rush, I practically knocked over a poor woman who must have been seventy years old who was trying to offer me a mini sample of peach cobbler.

Another senior citizen was standing guard at the exit, checking people’s purchases. I didn’t know if I had to show my card to get out of this place, so I held it up like it was an EZ Tag as I rushed through the automatic doors. When no alarms went off, I figured I was okay.

I briefly considered walking around to the back of the building, but decided that might seem odd. No one bought tires on foot. Better to look like a customer. I jogged to my car-another long trek, since I’d had to park about a mile away. At least I got my exercise for today, I thought as I slid behind the wheel.

I’d just made it around the building when I spotted Billings climbing into a battered navy Pontiac. I pulled my car behind his, blocking his way. I didn’t want to chase him on the freeways. If he was going home, no problem, since I’d also learned where he lived, but if he headed anywhere else I could easily lose him.

I got out, calling, “Mr. Billings?”

He went from looking pissed off to looking confused. The DPS photo might have actually been complimentary, now that I saw him up close.

“Do I know you?” he said.

“My name is Abby Rose, and I’d like to talk to you.”

“Not on my lunch break. Get your car out of my way.”

“I only need a few minutes of your time.”

“Are you some nut wantin’ to convert me to your crap religion? ’Cause the bosses here don’t let none of you people on the-”

“I’m a private investigator, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

He almost smiled. Now I was speaking his language. “I only get thirty minutes.”

“Fifty dollars,” I said. “And I’ll buy you lunch.”

He squinted at me, fighting the late-morning sun. “You got yourself a deal.” He climbed in beside me and directed me to the Sonic Drive-In on the other side of the huge lot.

A moment later I pulled into an angled parking spot. Billings shouted his order into the speaker and had to lean close to me to do this. Though I smelled no alcohol on his breath, it might have been better than his halitosis. Didn’t he know they sold mouthwash by the gallon right where he worked?

I checked out the menu and skipped the Tater Tots smothered in processed nacho cheese that I so wanted and settled for a cherry limeade.

Then I handed Billings my business card. “As I said, I’m a private investigator.”

He stared at it and said, “What’s this about?”

“You tipped the police back in 1997, said that you recognized a woman whose picture appeared in the paper-an artist’s reconstruction of a murder victim’s face.”

“You’re here about that? I didn’t get a penny, if you’re coming to take it back-but wait… that don’t make sense, since you said I’d get fifty bucks. Were you lying about the money?”

I removed two twenties and a ten from my wallet, but held on to the cash. “You knew that woman, didn’t you?”

“What if I did?” he said.

A teenager roller-skated up to the car window with Billings’s order and my drink. I paid and tipped her generously. Anyone who could skate and hold a tray of food at the same time deserved a few extra bucks.

Billings picked up his foot-long chili dog with both grimy hands.

“Tell me who you thought she was or you only get the free lunch,” I said.

“Christy O’Meara,” he mumbled around his mouthful of food.

I wanted to smile. He did know her. “Why’d you back off on the identification, Mr. Billings?”

“It was her, wasn’t it?” He jammed three onion rings into his mouth.

“Why didn’t you tell the police you recognized her?”

It seemed to take an eternity for him to suck down half of his Brownie Blast milk shake. “When you’re drinking as much cheap wine as I was back then, hard to tell if seeing is believing.”

“I’m not buying that, Mr. Billings. I compared a photo of her to the picture that appeared in the Chronicle. The resemblance was remarkable.”

He eyed the money in my hand, maybe worried I wouldn’t pay up if he didn’t come clean. “So?”

“Then why not claim the reward?”

He crammed more onion rings into his mouth and chewed for several seconds. “My stupid ex, that’s why.”

“Your ex-wife told you to keep quiet? Why would she do that?”

“You don’t get it. She wasn’t getting anything from me. Not then, not now. But I had my dumb-ass kid for the weekend and he heard me talking about the reward, so he calls and tells her. Then she turns around and tells me she’s taking every cent for back child support. Said the police would be happy to turn the money straight over to her.” He sucked on his straw, then added, “Bitch.”

“You allowed a dead woman to remain unidentified rather than let your ex have a few dollars you owed her anyway?” I couldn’t hide my distaste for Jerry Joe Billings.