Patches of fluorescent oil from departed cars slicked the blacktop separating me from Verna Mae Olsen, my witness. That's assuming she was inside the coffee joint and trapped by whatever event brought the police here. Maybe someone strung out on a caffeine high had foam in their mouth rather than in their coffee. Those five-dollar brews will piss you off some days. I sure hoped nothing serious had happened in there.

I'd interviewed Verna Mae several days ago in Bottlebrush—a town about an hour from here and as different from Houston as a toy poodle is from a coyote. My newest client, Will Knight, hired me to do what the police couldn't accomplish nineteen years ago—learn who had abandoned him on Verna Mae's doorstep. He and his adoptive parents hoped I'd uncover information about his birth family, and since I'm a PI who specializes in adoption issues, I took on Will's case.

Verna Mae seemed the logical starting point, and I thought I'd heard all she had to tell the other day, but she surprised me by calling tonight. I invited her to my house in the West University section of the city, but she insisted we meet here. Why at this coffee bar, I had no idea, but I'd agreed, and we'd exchanged cell phone numbers in case we missed each other.

Missed each other? Isn't that what just happened? If she were inside the café or sitting in her car watching this police show like I was, I'd feel a whole lot better if I heard her voice. I opened the car door, put the soda can in the cup holder and reached across the seat for my phone. Then I dug in my shorts pocket for her number. When I punched in the digits, it only rang once.

"Why are you calling this phone?" said a familiar male voice.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. It was Jeff, Sergeant Jeff Kline of Houston PD Homicide. My Jeff. The guy I love. He'd recognized my caller ID.