The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,97

and one in front of Reed, then popped open the third and settled back into her seat.

“I said I don’t want this,” Greta said, pointing at the diet soda.

“Sorry.” Delacroix looked at Reed. “Just assumed.”

He said, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Greta said, her anger flaring a bit. “I don’t like this. I want Herman here, with me.” From the other side of the table Greta looked from Delacroix to the now-closed door. “This isn’t right.”

“You were telling me your mother’s name,” Reed reminded her.

“I’ve got that,” Delacroix said. “Beth Morgan Smith, she’s your mother, and your father is Ronald Smith. Right?” she asked.

Greta, appearing dumbstruck, nodded.

Apparently she didn’t realize how quickly the department could look up documents, court records or any violations anywhere in the country via the Internet.

“Yes,” she said, playing with her hair a bit. “Yes, that’s right. Ronald’s my dad.”

“So did they adopt you?” Delacroix asked.

“What?”

“Well, you call them ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad,’ but if you’re really Rose Duval, they would have to be your adoptive parents, right? Because Margaret and Harvey Duval would be your biological mother and father.”

“I don’t know. Well . . . yes. Of course.”

“No paperwork?” Delacroix pushed. “What about a birth certificate?” She took a swallow from her drink, but her gaze never left Greta’s.

Greta blinked, started fiddling with her hair, her composure slipping. “I-I think they used my sister’s. I think she died and they just had me take over her information.”

Nodding, Delacroix said, “But there should be some record of that. Of her death.”

“I-I don’t know.” More flustered than ever, she shook her head, the shiny barrette sliding farther down, her recently pinned back hair falling into her eyes. “Herman needs to be here with me. He knows all this. Where’s my husband? I want him here with me or . . . or I want my attorney!”

“I think he said he was already calling a lawyer, and you came to us,” Reed reminded her. “Of your own volition.”

“Because I saw on the news that you were looking for me! That woman who talks for the police, she was on the air telling people to call in with tips or come in here. Marlow, I think her name was, and she had this image that she showed, a computer thing, and it looks just like me!”

Delacroix leaned forward. “So you saw the image and thought, what? Wow! There I am?”

“It was Herman. He saw the news and . . . and since, well, you know, I have this weird childhood, he asked me about how I came to be with Mom and Dad.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t really remember, but he showed me a clip of the news where you all were looking for Rose Duval and suddenly it all clicked. I remember going to the theater with my sisters and . . . and my brother let us off and we went into the show after we bought some candy.”

“And then?” Reed said, not buying her story for a second. Delacroix was right, the woman was a fraud, either intentional or because she was a nut. He wasn’t sure which.

“And then it gets kind of blurry. I, um, remember being separated from my sisters; they went back to the refreshment stand or the bathroom or whatever and I started looking for them and I must’ve wandered outside but . . . I can’t remember after that.”

“We have tapes from the theater that day,” Delacroix said. “Neither Holly nor Poppy Duval ever went back to the refreshment counter.”

“There weren’t cameras in the bathrooms. That’s illegal.”

Reed said, “The cameras covered the entire lobby, including the entrance to both the men’s and women’s restrooms.”

“But that’s what I remember!” Greta was agitated and on her feet.

“That’s what you read and you added your own story to it.”

“I want my husband and I want him now!” she said, and before Reed could say another word, she grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “I told him this was a big mistake. That you wouldn’t believe me.” With a toss of her head she was out of the room and into the hallway.

“I’ll go get her,” Delacroix said, but Reed shook his head. “We’ve got it all on tape. Too bad we can’t prove it. I was hoping she’d drink from the soda, leave her DNA.”

“We might not need it,” Delacroix said, and snagged a tissue, then kicked back her chair and walked to the door, where she bent down and picked