Harrison P. Monroe, forty-five, owned a nice ten-acre spread in New Braunfels, north of San Antonio, jointly with his wife, Faith Parker Monroe, forty-four. No children. Stockbroker for a major brokerage firm. Not specifically land investments, but they were cousins, so to speak, so Sean kept him on the list as well. His only debt was his house, which he had taken a second mortgage out for renovations, and one car loan, though he had three cars in either his or his wife’s name. Faith was a senior lawyer for a major San Antonio firm, but her specialty wasn’t listed on their website.
Harrison T. Monroe, thirty-five, lived in Austin. He was a red flag—he had substantial debt and was upside down on his mortgage. Also married—to Natalie, thirty-six—with two kids, both preteens. He was a Realtor, specialized in residential properties. His wife didn’t work after she had her first kid, up until two years ago when she renewed her dental hygienist license and started working for a dentist office that specialized in children.
Red flag because of his career—he might have known Victoria Mills as a fellow Realtor, and he had the knowledge to run a land scam. Red flag because of his debt—if he was banking on a get-rich-quick-scheme that didn’t pan out the way he wanted, he might be desperate enough to kill. Harrison T. was at the top of Sean’s list, but he’d check out the other two Harrisons.
Sean knew a bit about land scams from reading the news, and he understood how some of them worked, but straw buyers were usually small scale—buying a property that had been listed too low by an unscrupulous Realtor, then either fixing it up and selling high for a quick profit or renting it out for a steady income. Very hard to prosecute such cases because the buyers willingly signed a contract and agreed to sell the house for a specific price. Unfortunately, many of those scammed were the elderly, and that really irritated Sean.
He didn’t see Victoria Mills—what little he knew of her—as scamming senior citizens. She was wealthy in her own right. And the way Stan had described it, the contracts he’d seen appeared to be for tracts of land, not individual houses.
Sean had the files he’d asked Max to pick up, and he started by reading the corporation papers for MCG. Nothing appeared unusual. They were equal partners, each owning 26 percent of the company. Simon Mills, Victoria’s brother, was a silent partner and owned 15 percent. The last 7 percent was held by the Grover and Judith Mills Trust. Perhaps they’d given the business seed money and, instead of repayment, kept a small percentage of the business. But only the three partners—Victoria, Mitch, and Stan—could vote. In the case of death, the partner’s share of the company was divided between their heirs and the surviving principals.
What Sean really needed was a Realtor to help him access and analyze the real estate database. Every property, listing agent, and buying agent was inputted into a central database. He could do a basic search, but if there was something illegal going on, finding it just by search terms would be difficult. He could call his Realtor but didn’t have the time to explain what he needed right now. He made a note to himself to reach out to her tonight.
All three principals owned land separate from the company, and their company also owned land—mostly unimproved properties or agricultural land. On paper, they looked legit—but Sean was going to have to look at the properties in question because he wasn’t familiar with the area west of San Antonio.
Mitch, Stan, and Simon had gone to college together; Victoria was two years younger. The four of them graduated from Texas A&M. Same college. Longtime friends. Victoria and Mitch had lived together for several years before marrying; how did that relationship end in divorce? They legally separated three years ago, then divorced shortly thereafter, but still worked together and by all accounts remained friends. Anything’s possible, Sean thought, but he’d like to know why they split. Adultery? Irreconcilable differences? Something completely different? If it was serious, how could they work so closely together and remain friends.
His phone beeped, reminding him he had to leave for the courthouse. He updated Max’s visual timeline and hoped she didn’t get angry that he was messing with her workstation. Then he sent her a text with an update and left.
Max’s hotel wasn’t far from the courthouse, and Sean arrived just after one fifteen that afternoon. There was no access on the north side of the building—only those with a card key could go down the wide alley to the parking structure. Terrific.
He drove around the block, and a side entrance—which was closed—was the best bet for a quick and secure exit. He parked semi-illegally in front of the side entrance, put on his hazards, and called Marie. “Are you ready?”
“We’re in the lobby. We’ll come out.”
“No, wait for me.”
He left his vehicle. He might get a ticket, but no way could they tow him in the two minutes it would take him to return.
He looked around the area. The historic building was on a corner; no parking in front (loading zone only), and he was on a one-way street on the south side of the building. It didn’t look like anyone was sitting and waiting.
Sean would have to sweet-talk the bailiff into letting him out this entrance. He walked briskly around to the front of the building and went up the stairs two at a time, then turned and looked out at the landscape. Clear. A few people having late lunches outside on this beautiful Fall day. A floral delivery truck in the loading zone of the archives building across the street. Lawyers walking from the historic courthouse to the expansion across the street to the north.
While he believed there was a threat, it would be dumb for someone to attack at a courthouse with armed guards and in close proximity to the police station. Yet the main doors provided the best vantage point if someone wanted to get to Stan.
He entered the building and spotted Marie and Stan sitting on a bench in the main lobby. He went through security and asked the head bailiff if he could let them out the side exit.
“The door’s locked. We don’t use that entrance.”
“But can someone unlock it?”
“It would be a hassle.”
“There’s been a threat made against Mr. Grant and I’m making sure he gets home safely.”
The bailiff almost smiled, then hid it. He was the epitome of why Sean didn’t like some cops.
“I can’t open the entrance. It’s locked and alarmed.”
Sean wanted to keep arguing but didn’t think he was going to get anywhere.
He told Marie and Stan to wait for him inside, then he ran out to his car. He didn’t want to drive around the block, so waited until the street was clear and backed up two hundred feet. Now he was double-parked, but his car was right next to the path off the main entrance. Less than a hundred yards in the open. Not ideal, but better than walking Stan past the fountain to the main street, which was twice as far.
He flipped on his hazards and ran back inside.
“Be alert,” Sean said. “It’s ten seconds to my car.”
“Is this really necessary?” Marie asked.
He hadn’t meant to scare her, but better to scare her than not expect trouble. “Follow my lead, okay?”
He stepped out again, this time with Stan and Marie right by his side. He glanced around—little had changed in the few moments he’d been in the courthouse—then ushered them down the stairs, turned left, and briskly strode toward his jeep, looking for potential threats.
No one approached them. But out of the corner of his eye he saw movement.
The florist van.
The van burst through the intersection as if trying to beat a light—except they were heading down the one-way street where Sean’s car was double-parked.
“Down!” he shouted as he heard the first gunshot. He pushed both Stan and Marie hard, falling on top of Marie to shield her body.
The van screeched to a halt and Sean reached for his gun, only to remember it was in his car because he’d been in the courthouse.
More gunshots rang out of the driver’s side window in rapid succession.
&nb
sp; one two three four …
Five total bullets, then the van floored it and sped away, firing one last time into Sean’s rear tire. His vantage point from the ground was poor, but the driver appeared Caucasian and there was someone in the passenger seat—someone he couldn’t see.
“Marie! Marie, are you hurt?”
She didn’t answer and Sean climbed off her as multiple cops came running from the courthouse.
“Call nine-one-one!” he shouted.
“On their way,” one of the court security officers said.
Sean inspected Marie. She seemed to be in shock, but he didn’t see any blood on her. A small pool was above her head. Had he hurt her when he pushed her down?
“Marie!” He gently shook her.
“You’re bleeding,” she said in a monotone.
He looked at his arm. That’s where the blood was coming from. He thought he’d been nicked. It was just enough to draw blood.
“Are you okay?”
“Stan!” she cried out.
She tried to get up. Sean helped her to a sitting position and told her to stay.
More officers were coming toward them from the annex.
Sean looked over at Stan, who was sprawled, facedown, on the sidewalk. Three distinct entry points.
Fortunately, two of the officers immediately went to him, while two came over to Sean and Marie, who were ten feet away, on the grass.
“Are you okay?” one asked.
“Sean Rogan, private investigator,” he said. “Can I retrieve my identification?” It was always good to tell an officer when you were reaching into your pocket, even when you weren’t carrying.
The officer nodded and watched him. Sean pulled out his wallet and handed him his PI license and driver’s license.
“What were you doing here?”
“Taking Mr. Grant and Ms. Richards to a hotel after the bail hearing.” Someone knew exactly when they were leaving, that was the only explanation for them to be able to act so quickly. “We need to check surveillance cameras in the area. A white florist van, I don’t know the name, but there was a large picture of flowers taking up the entire driver’s side panel. Two suspects, the shooter was a white or light Hispanic male, but that’s all I got. I couldn’t see the license plate, but they were parked outside the archives building in the loading zone the entire time I was here.” He paused. “The back doors were open on the van, so they pretended they were delivering something.” They could have been there for an hour. Someone had to have seen them. This was a major intersection with several government buildings and the courthouse, and there were security cameras all over the place.
The officer wrote everything down.
Sean was supposed to protect them. But clearly, someone had tipped off the shooter. Who? Someone who worked in the courthouse? Someone Stan reached out to in the hours he was waiting for release?
The van was there when you arrived ten minutes ago. They were waiting. How long?
“Marie,” Sean said as the ambulance pulled up behind Sean’s car.
“Stan. I need to go with him to the hospital.”
“They’re working on him right now. He’s alive, that’s all I know. Marie, listen to me. This is important. Did Stan talk to anyone while you were waiting for his bail and ankle monitor?”
“I … yes … but—”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. He used my phone.”
“May I take it? Someone knew when you were leaving.”
The officer said, “I don’t know about that—”
Marie ignored him and handed Sean her phone. “The passcode is four-four-two-one.”
“You go with Stan. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
He helped her stand, inspected her head. “You have a bump, you should be looked at for a possible concussion.”
Spontaneously she hugged him, tears beginning to flow. “You saved my life. You risked everything for me, I’ll never forget that. My boys—” She choked up. “My boys.” That was all she needed to say.
“Don’t leave the hospital until we talk. You shouldn’t go anywhere alone until we figure out what’s going on. But I think Stan was the primary target.” But the shooter didn’t care if they hit anyone else. And if the shooter thought Stan might have said something to Marie, she could also be in danger.
So could Max.
The shooter was good. Of the five shots, three hit Stan, one grazed Sean, and one missed completely. Sean hadn’t clearly seen the weapon, but it looked and sounded like a small-arms semi-automatic pistol. Well-trained, possible former military.
Sean knew professional bodyguards he trusted, at least until they could rule out Marie as a target.
He watched as the ambulance left, gave his statement again to the investigators, then called a tow company to pick up his jeep.
While waiting for a private taxi to take him to pick up a rental car, he looked at Marie’s phone.
Stan had called two people, neither of whom was in Marie’s contact list. As the ambulance rushed Stan off to the hospital, Sean searched the owners of those numbers on his own phone.
The first was to Mitch Corta, Stan’s partner.
The second was to an unregistered number, likely a burner phone. Virtually impossible to trace.
Did one of those people set up the assassination attempt? Or was it his new lawyer, Oliver Jones?
Or someone in the courthouse?
Sean had his work cut out for him. He called Max. She was going to have to watch her back, because if the shooter believed Stan had told her something that might be dangerous to them, Max could be at risk, too.
But in his gut, he suspected Stanley Grant was going to take his secrets to his grave, and that the only way he and Max would be able to find out who shot Stan was to solve Victoria Mills’s murder.
Chapter Fourteen
Max had been trying to meet with Detective Jennifer Reed for the last two hours. She talked to the PIO, who was friendly but gave her absolutely nothing about the Victoria Mills homicide that Max hadn’t already obtained through the PIO’s official statement. But when Sean called her about the shooting at the courthouse only minutes after it happened, Max knew exactly what Reed would be doing.
Max left the police station and walked around to the side exit, where there was no public parking but no guard to stop her, either. She’d researched the senior detective before she left New York, had her official photo to go by—medium height, short straight black hair, brown skin, brown eyes. She had a decent record in the department but no major standout cases and volunteered during her off time at a youth center run by a church. Cops notoriously avoided social media, but once she had her name and photo Max was able to dig up a few things about her.
Within ten minutes of Max staking out her spot—not caring much if one of the many cameras caught her waiting—Detective Reed exited with a male cop substantially younger than she.
Reed saw her and swore out loud. She said something to the young detective, then turned to Max.
“You’re trespassing.”
“The sign says no public parking, not no public allowed,” Max said. “Two minutes.”
“No comment.”
“You’re heading to the courthouse to follow up on Stanley Grant’s shooting—does this mean you believe he’s innocent or guilty and working with someone else?”
“No comment. I don’t want to see you again.”
“You haven’t seen me before. You haven’t answered my calls.”
“We have a public information officer, as the desk sergeant told you at least three times.”
“And the public line is always that you got the right guy and it’s up to the justice system to prosecute him. Rumor is that if Grant’s confession is tossed by the judge, then the prosecutor isn’t going to charge him unless you come up with more evidence.”
“Where the hell did you hear that?”
Max had made it up out of thin air based on the little she knew about
what the police actually had, and she was pleased she got Reed to react.
The young detective pulled up in a pool sedan.
“So it is true.”
“We always review evidence prior to trial. Grant confessed, we take it from there.”
“But the evidence is circumstantial.”
Wisely, Reed didn’t comment, though Max was hoping she could goad the senior detective into a slipup.
“Ms. Revere, I have a shooting to investigate. If you want any information about this case, you’ll need to talk to the public information officer. And if I catch you stalking me again, I’ll arrest you for interfering with a police officer in the line of duty.”
Max laughed—she couldn’t help it. “Good luck with that,” she said, and watched Reed get into the car and drive off.
The cop might be good, but Max was better.
They knew their case against Stanley Grant was weak. Now Max needed to know what exactly they had.
How to get it might be tricky, but that had never stopped her before.
She called Sean.
“Where are you?”
“In an Uber on my way to pick up a rental car. The damn gunman shot out my tire.”
“We need to talk to Mitch Corta.”
“Yes, we do,” Sean said. “He was one of two people Grant talked to before he left the courthouse.”
“Who was the other?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m working on it.”
“I want to talk to Mitch alone, but I need you to follow him.”
“One of my favorite pastimes.”
* * *
MCG Land and Holdings was housed in a new four-story building north of the airport. They shared the first floor with an insurance company and a property management company.
Mitch Corta was the only principal left working, with Victoria dead and Stanley in prison. He still retained their full staff, but according to Grover Mills, Mitch was overwhelmed and didn’t want any help, so Max was pretty certain she’d find him in the office.
Cut and Run Page 14
