The public area for Armstrong Realty lived up to the address, with professionally decorated furnishings and a sectional couch that managed to look chic while also managing to be comfortable. While Mike and Marta went to the glassed-in reception desk to check in for our nine-thirty meeting, I took a few moments to recapture my cool while examining the other people seated in the waiting room. I counted six, two pairs and two singles. Only one of them, the older man seated in a corner chair by himself, looked out of place. He wore a set of blue jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt with an Indian Motorcycle logo emblazoned on the front. Despite the casual dress, he was clean and looked freshly groomed with his neatly trimmed Fu Manchu mustache. Probably rich enough that he doesn’t feel the need to wear a suit, I deduced. Only then did I realize I was actually scanning the room for potential threats.
I wasn’t openly carrying, since an internet search revealed Armstrong Realty was a no-gun zone, but the little Kel-Tec holstered in the small of my back lent me a tiny bit of confidence. The rest of my arsenal awaited me in Mike’s lockbox in the overpriced parking lot around the corner.
“She said someone will see us shortly,” Mike explained after wandering back over to take a seat next to me. Marta claimed the spot on the other side, and she patted my leg in brotherly concern while we waited. She could tell something was bothering me, but she also knew me well enough to realize I wasn’t going to say anything until I was ready. Mike, for his part, seemed tense as well, but probably for different reasons. No matter how practical this decision seemed, it was still the house where they’d started their family, and where they’d invested so much of their time and money over the years.
As I waited, I thought again about the gang of thugs who’d attacked us at the storage unit, and what we’d found in the back room of that office. As I sat there, something tickled at the back of my brain about that lot. Not inside, thank goodness, but a detail, a glimpse, of a clue outside that evaded my efforts to bring it back into focus.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hardin? Miss Eveena will see you know,” the perky brown-haired receptionist called out, and I heard some grumbling from someone seated behind us. I didn’t hear the words, but I caught the sentiment. We’d only been there ten minutes, so some brainiac was whining about line jumpers. I wanted to turn and explain the concept of an appointment to the wiseass, but Marta’s hand on my shoulder stopped me mid-motion. I gave her a nod of understanding, but Mike glared like he wanted to join me in laying waste to the loudmouth. Tension crackled, fed by frustration and misplaced aggression, but I managed to choke it down a heartbeat before Mike performed the same feat. Clearly, we needed some time on a therapist’s couch, but so not the time, I said to myself with a mental sigh.
Ms. Eveena was, as her name suggested, of south Asian descent, and looked to be in her early to mid- twenties and trying hard to look older. I almost laughed at the thick, black horn-rimmed glasses she sported, and I wanted to tell her they made her look more like a hot librarian than the mature businesswoman she clearly wanted to portray. Despite my faint amusement, she had a firm handshake and conducted herself as an experienced professional. Really, I found myself studying the room to distract myself from my grim musings from just a few minutes ago.
Eveena, her first name I noted, had a nicely decorated office, one of several glass-walled workspaces, and I quickly calculated that Armstrong Realty must take up a full half of the building’s first floor. She also had not only her real estate license, I observed, but also a bachelor’s degree from SMU. My old eyes couldn’t discern the discipline, but my money was on either business or finance.
I let Mike and Marta do the talking, listening in after they introduced me as their attorney but merely observing as they discussed the property, the community, and things like Home Owners Association dues and the like. I hadn’t realized how much Mike and Marta paid every year just to keep up the community pool they never used or replant fresh rosebushes by the main entry. These costs weren’t itemized, of course, but from what I remembered, those were the most notable features in the subdivision.
Mike had copies of the most recent county property tax appraisals, which we knew Ms. Eveena had access to on her computer, as well as receipts for the new roof, the kitchen remodel from three years ago, and a dozen color photographs taken around the house that highlighted the best features. Ms. Eveena accepted copies of everything, complementing my brother and his wife for their thoroughness and organizational skills at keeping track of such details, and Marta preened like a kitten at the praise. She was the file keeper and the mistress of all things related.
The discussion then turned to money, and how much was still owed on the mortgage and who held the note. I thought it was kind of funny that they were talking about sending a check to a lender that was no doubt already out of business, or at the least, only a shell company with more liabilities than assets. Eveena didn’t try to hide the facts, namely that the market for available housing at the moment was up, way up, and the only limit was the inability for purchasers to secure a mortgage. She also offered Mike and Marta two options, namely, an outright purchase of their house by her real estate company, or an offer to list the house for sale as their agent.
“You could get more for your house just using us as your agent,” Eveena conceded without a trace of shame, “but you would need to find the right buyer and hope they had the money on hand to make the cash purchase. Or you could sell to us and take a guaranteed price after closing, and let our firm deal with the hassles and delays of advertising, screening, and locating the right buyer.”
I listened to her pitch, and I suspected her boss already had a buyer lined up for that particular property. Mike and Marta had said nothing about their current living arrangements or their recent absence from the house, but I knew they wanted to get what they could out of the house before events overtook us. That didn’t mean they had to give it away for a handful of magic beans though, so they talked the options back and forth for nearly half an hour before Mike broke down and asked for the cash price offer, contingent on passing the inspection.
Mike had handled the background and selling points of their house, but Marta took over when it came time to talk figures after that first offer. Marta worked her hard on the final figure, making me proud of her haggling skills as she kept Eveena on her toes. She left the room at one point, to talk to Mr. Armstrong, she claimed, and the three of us huddled up and pretended to discuss the prospect of walking out and taking the sale elsewhere. We had no basis to believe the office was bugged, but we had no reason to believe it wasn’t either, and between Mike and I, we brought a truckload of paranoia to the conversation.
Finally, the negotiations concluded, and after satisfying the outstanding mortgage, Mike and Marta ended up squeezing out more than thirty thousand dollars over our best previous projections. Clearly, we were right. They already had a buyer lined up.
After reaching their number, the paper signing started. Title search, inspection, and all the other attendant details occupied another thirty minutes, and I felt like a fifth wheel in the proceedings. I did make it a point to read every document before Mike or Marta put pen to paper, but the agreements proved to be fairly standard. Since this was going to be a straight up purchase, they didn’t enter into an agency agreement, but Eveena still winced when Marta made a point of deducting my fee as allowed. I didn’t care; the small percentage would go back to them in any event.
With Eveena’s permission, I wandered off to the breakroom to grab a cup of coffee while a notary came in to start stamping things. The urn in Eveena’s office was drained by the time the bargaining ended, and after a night of poor sleep, I needed the caffeine. I offered to grab refills, but I received no takers.
The breakroom was clearly designed for employee use only, but I wasn’t surprised to see the older guy with the motorcycle t-shirt on seated at one of the buffed steel tables when I wandered in, following the smell of a freshly brewed pot of coffee. I approved. Those single cup m
achines might be efficient, but I never cottoned to the taste.
Using a plain white mug from the cabinet, clearly a guest cup, I topped it off and added sugar before grabbing one of the wooden sticks and stirring. I usually drank it with cream at the farm, but I despised that non-dairy creamer, so I suffered along, wondering just how badly the weather changes would affect coffee production. Thinking about the disaster, I decided we needed to up our already massive coffee reserves. If Juan Valdez couldn’t lead his donkey out of the mountains with his fresh coffee beans, I worried about the fate of the world.
The joke fell flat just in my own thoughts, and I decided not to share it with Mike or Marta. I knew nobody else would think it was funny, anyway. Besides, we would lose the fuel or the roads for trucking, or the ships plying the coffee routes, before the bean harvesters gave up their trade. And that didn’t even take into account the local markets in Columbia and Brazil.
“Good coffee,” I said by way of small talk to Mr. Indian Motorcycle.
“Better than that K Cup swill,” the older man agreed. He looked up, scrutinizing me briefly before continuing. “You here buying or selling?”
“Neither,” I replied, “just riding shotgun for my kinfolks. How about you?”
The man gave a little chuckle at my comment, then gave me another look before continuing.
“Aye, you’ve got that look about you. The suit threw me off,” he noted, then paused before continuing. “I’m here to buy. Came out of Friendswood, down near Houston, but now I’m living up here temporarily. Don’t like the city, so I’m looking for someplace more rural.”
I smiled at that, and the man wrinkled his eyebrows before nodding his head when he realized what he’d said. “Not with these guys,” he grinned back at me. “Just looking for a recommendation for an agent out west. Someplace in the hill country, maybe.”
“Pretty country,” I agreed, but something in my tone must have given me away.
“You don’t agree?”
“Going to get really dry over that way,” I commented, thinking it was time for me to shut up.
“Even with all this rain we’ve been having? I heard they’ve got flooding all along the Brazos. Might be hard to find a place without water,” he joked.
I decided to change the subject. I wasn’t in the mood or the position to explain the new world to someone who wasn’t willing to listen. I could tell he was a smart man, but sometimes smarts aren’t enough to overcome the normalcy bias.
“What about the suit threw you off, Mr…”
“Taylor, Brodie Taylor,” the man said by way of introduction, and when he stuck his hand out to shake, I found it to be softened by age but still calloused from work.
“Bryan Hardin,” I replied.
“Well, pardon the presumption, but originally I had you pegged as a real estate agent, but you must have done something else more active before. Then I shook your hand, and even though you don’t push it, you’ve got hands like a carpenter, or maybe a brick mason.”
“No, sir. I’m just a gentleman farmer, and a country lawyer these days. How about you?”
“I did a stint in the Army about a million years ago, then used the G.I. Bill to get my degree in mechanical engineering,” Mr. Taylor explained. “I worked a few years for one of the big oil companies as a design engineer, then broke off and started my own little company about fifteen years ago, building experimental equipment for the oil industry for years. My time in the Army, that’s what threw me off. When I saw you in the lobby, you reminded me of some of those old sergeants. Always on the lookout for Charlie in the wire.”
“That’s not me, and I’ve never worn a uniform. Until this recent unpleasantness, I’d never used a weapon in earnest or been under fire.”
Mr. Taylor seemed to take a moment to digest what I’d said, then he asked his next question with some care.
“I take it, you’ve seen some…unpleasantness since the hurricane hit. Was it looters?”
“You would be correct,” I replied, making eye contact as I spoke. “And I’ll assume from your statement that you haven’t seen any yet. For what it is worth, Mr. Taylor, I hope you don’t, but you need to be ready to do everything necessary to protect your family, no matter where you end up.”
“What about the police? And with the president adding Texas to the list of states included under the State of Emergency provisions, that should be seeing National Guard on the streets to ensure order.”
I shrugged, but I was not surprised to hear the news of Texas being added to the list. “My best guess is the Guard is going to remain pinned down on the border and in the big cities. You’re not likely to see them in small towns except when pulling patrols. My advice remains the same: better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.”
Mr. Taylor’s face fell at my words.
“That bad? I mean, I know things are chaotic out west, and the cities are crazy these days, but are you suggesting we lock ourselves in…”
As the look of apprehension spread across his face, the older man fell silent mid-sentence.
“Mr. Taylor, wherever you go, I suggest you make friends with your neighbors and post a watch on the road. And good luck.”
As I paused at the kiosk to refill my coffee cup, I took a peek over my shoulder. Mr. Taylor was deep in thought, and the apprehension was being replaced by concern. Thinking about his words, about locking yourself in, I felt a dawning sense of realization click into place. Locks, that was the key. No pun intended.
Wandering back to Eveena’s office, I felt like I’d solved one small puzzle that had been bothering me since the day before.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“You think you know what they were looking for?”
“Yeah, it was obvious those gangbangers weren’t just there for fun,” I replied, looking over my shoulder to make sure Marta was still inside. We were back at their house, most likely for the last time, and Mike said it was time to pick up one last thing. He’d gotten a shovel out of the garage and I’d followed him around to the back of the house.
“So what was it?”
“You tell me what we’re digging up and I’ll tell you what I think.” I replied, looking around at the expansive yard. In addition to the swing set and slide, I saw the cement bird bath and the old sandbox where Tommy and Tammy molded their intricate sand castles. I wasn’t sure what Mike was up to, and I tried to make a guess.
“We taking the bird bath?”
“Nope. You don’t think they were just randomly looting?”
I shook my head as I followed Mike out to the wooden privacy fence at the back of the property. Instead of sinking the shovel head into the muddy soil, he turned the short-handled tool sideways, using the blade to hammer into the corner crosspiece on the fence. This popped up a long metal pin in that corner.
“Come on, grab those bolts, and the ones on the next crossbar, and let’s go,” Mike instructed, and I did as directed, my gloved fingers probing, finding the four six-inch pins that acted as bolts to secure the four-foot-wide section. This part of the wooden fence had been converted into a hidden gate, with clever hinges placed on the inside to prevent detection. The gate swung inward, and from what I could tell, could not be opened from the other side. Tricky, this brother of mine.
The land behind the gate remained mostly untouched by the developers, other than some work done to cut down the slope and thin out the scattering of the pin oaks. Mike proceeded to one of these surviving trees and pivoted to the left, and I saw he had pressed one of his heels to a mostly concealed metal pole protruding six inches from the earth. It looked like a cutoff piece of simple rebar, and in time I could see how it might fade into the trunk of the tree as it grew.
Balancing the short shovel on his shoulder, Mike began stepping off paces, heel to toe. I thought about a pirate’s treasure and wondered if he was going to dig up a chest of spanish doubloons. I gave Mike a questioning look, but he just ignored me as he counted under his breath. Surpris
ingly, he continued on past where the back of his yard ended, then beyond what I thought of as Scott’s. Checking the fence line, I saw we were entering the area behind the property owned by another of Mike’s neighbors. Trey Crenshaw. Ah, Mike buried a cache tube behind the house of the biggest tool in the neighborhood.
I’d never actually met the man, but based on stories shared by Mike and Scott both, the guy seemed to be the consummate tool. He was another attorney, but that was hopefully the only thing I had in common with the guy. Working for a big corporate firm in downtown Ft. Worth, Trey bought his old house on the lot here four years ago and had it razed and replaced with a McMansion worthy of the worst kind I’d seen at River Oaks in Houston or in the Highland Park area in neighboring Dallas. The three-story monstrosity covered almost the entirety of the already oversized lot. That was fine if you wanted to build in that manner, and spend those kinds of dollars, but Scott complained about a very real issue even before the recent flooding. Simply put, the massive covered area left little room for rain runoff and resulted in Scott needing to install a new drainage system in his own yard to handle the overflow.
The ensuing legal fight had gotten nasty, and even now I could see the land behind Crenshaw’s property appeared much more waterlogged than the same area around Mike’s house.
“Why the hell…” I started to ask, but Mike held up a finger to his lips. Oh, the windows from the Crenshaw house backed up right on the waste ground behind. Anyone in that section of the house might overhear our conversation.
When Mike reached the correct spot, I assumed anyway, given the way he was checking landmarks, he started digging. With the soil so saturated, the process took much longer than normal, and Mike went down deeper than I thought he would. In fact, he ended up digging out a slope-sided crater that looked more like a grave than I was comfortable with, having to bend over almost to his knees to lever out the last shovel full of swampy mud before I saw the top of the fiberglass cylinder. I was right. Mike was pulling a cache tube before leaving town.
Tertiary Effects Series | Book 2 | Storm Warning Page 21
