“I was just going to knock, Ms. Lancaster,” he said from the other side of my door, irritation pulsing through his voice. “I’m Special Agent Benton Turner, FBI.”
FBI? Seriously? I hesitated for another moment, then looked through my peephole. He stared at me without a trace of amusement.
“Badge, please,” I said.
He reached into the jacket of his black suit and pulled out a bifold wallet. Flipping it open, he held it up to the peephole. One side was a gold shield with an eagle on top and the other side was a photo of him: mid-thirties, about five foot eleven, light brown hair that was stick straight and parted on one side with the help of a little gel, unremarkable blue eyes, same for his nose, and an expression not any friendlier than the one I’d just witnessed. The ID read FBI in large letters, and below, in smaller letters, was his name—SPECIAL AGENT BENTON A. TURNER.
I wondered how often people pointed out his initials spelled “bat.”
“Ms. Lancaster, I’m here to ask you some questions regarding your business relationship with Angus ‘Gus’ Halloran. May I have a few minutes of your time?”
I frowned. What could the FBI want with Gus? Was this about the press conference the other day?
“Ms. Lancaster. Would you please open the door?”
I could tell saying “please” was just about killing this guy, which made me pretty sure he was legit. Still, he could be that good at fooling people and in total cahoots with the guy who broke into Betty-Anne’s house. You’re darn tootin’ I wasn’t going to take any chances, especially since I couldn’t spot a fake FBI badge from a real one if my life depended on it.
Putting on my coat, I returned the carrier bag of photos back to the barstool for the time being, gathered my other things again, and loosened the top on my travel mug. Sort of like I’d advised Betty-Anne, I figured I could throw twelve ounces of really hot tea in this guy’s face if I needed to make a getaway. Squaring my shoulders, I opened the door again.
“I’ll be happy to answer your questions, Mr. Turner—”
“Special Agent Turner.”
I gave him a dry look. “But I would prefer we talk in public. There’s a park behind my building. We can sit on one of the benches and talk among the soccer moms and their toddlers on the playground. Take it or leave it.”
He worked his jaw for a moment, but then stepped back into the open-air landing and motioned for me to lead the way.
After locking my front door, I fiddled around in my bag, wasting time and hoping one of my neighbors would see us. My complex consisted of thirty units separated into three buildings, forming a squared-off U shape with a pool in the center. The units were ten years old and starting to show their age, but the complex was in the historic Travis Heights neighborhood and within walking distance to some good shopping and restaurants, including those on Austin’s eclectic South Congress Avenue, known locally as SoCo. The active lifestyle it encouraged, combined with the fact that half my neighbors were college students, meant that someone in my building was usually either coming or going. I crossed my fingers that one or more of them would see me with Agent Turner.
Sure enough, we heard someone ascending the stairs to my second-floor landing. Special Agent Turner and I both turned to find not a college student, but a stocky man in his early forties with a mane of luxurious auburn hair that arched up over his forehead and flowed back at the sides. He wore well-cut jeans, Italian loafers, and a cashmere sweater in a teal blue that hugged the few extra pounds he’d put on in recent months courtesy of his newfound relationship with a pastry chef. In one hand was a venti coffee and in the other was a canvas tool bag.
I was pretty sure my condo complex was the only one managed by a man who had hair prettier than most women’s and wore cashmere while he performed handyman tasks.
“Good morning, Jackson,” I said.
“Lucy, my sweet, good mornin’,” he replied with an accent that had Mississippi stamped all over it. His smile was warm as he bent to give me a kiss on the cheek, but his hazel eyes really lit up when he saw Agent Turner.
“Who’s this, darlin’?” he asked me, his grin expanding as he took in the federal agent’s admittedly nice shoulders and trim physique.
I prepared to say, “This is Special Agent Benton A. Turner with the FBI. His initials spell ‘bat,’ and he’s about as friendly as the hordes of them that live under Congress Avenue Bridge. He scared the tar out of me a few minutes ago and now wants to interrogate me about my friend and client. Commit his face to memory, will you?”
But I got no further than, “Jackson Brickell, this is—”
“I’m Ben,” Agent Turner finished for me, holding out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
They shook hands and I stared at the federal agent like he really was a bat who’d suddenly transformed. Not into a vampire, but into a regular person. Who was smiling, and relaxed, and looking almost charming, like someone with whom I might enjoy having a conversation.
In some normal situation, of course.
Jackson, whose subtlety levels were about on par with Serena’s, gave me a bright-eyed look. “I bet he was fun last night. High-five to you, darlin’.” Though he didn’t actually offer his palm to slap against mine. Jackson didn’t do high-fives. Before I could recover and correct his embarrassing assumption, he’d unlocked my neighbor’s door, calling out, “Y’all be good now … or not,” as he disappeared into the condo.
It all happened too fast for me to turn more than a couple of shades of pink. Agent Turner, I noted, didn’t seem the least bit ruffled. With the closing of the door, his guy-next-door smile disappeared and back came the cloak of disinterest and professionalism. Surely a hallmark of the FBI. I retightened the lid on my tea mug.
“Ben?” I said as we walked down the short landing to the stairs. “Suddenly you’re ‘Ben’ now?”
“It is short for Benton. That’s what people generally call me.”
He let me go down the stairs first, so I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear that he was finding my indignity amusing.
“Plus, I’m not here to start people talking, Ms. Lancaster. If I’d told him I was a federal agent, he’d be trying to get you to gossip about a sensitive matter that requires discretion. It was best to let him think what he wanted: that you and I spent the night together.”
I nearly tripped down the last step, but Agent Turner grabbed my arm and kept me upright.
“Did you really just say that?” I sputtered, spinning to face him and jerking my arm away.
“Do you deny that it will be a lot easier to tell him you had a romantic evening with a man than explain why the FBI is questioning you?” he returned.
My voice went cold. “I’m not known for telling lies, Special Agent Turner, and I have no desire to start now. I would have found a way to deflect Jackson’s questions without telling an outright lie, if it even came to that, thank you.”
“Duly noted,” he replied. I wondered if he could care any less.
Feeling my shoulders tense, I moved past a row of dark green shrubs toward the keyed gate to Little Stacy Park. Then it happened in the blink of an eye.
One of the shrubs shook. I screamed when out leaped eighteen pounds of furry orange beast. Agent Turner moved to shield me, but it was too late. White paws furiously batted my ankles, then streaked off to the next set of bushes.
“NPH!” I yelled, my hand over my pounding heart. “Not cool!”
Agent Turner stepped back with narrowed eyes as he watched the long-haired tabby cat disappear into the greenery.
“NPH. As in Neil Patrick—”
“Housecat,” I said. “He belongs to Jackson, who happens to be my condo manager, and I’ll get his fluffy butt back for this.”
I didn’t bother explaining that NPH and I were besties and the cat’s punishment for his latest sneak attack would consist of a healthy dose of back scratching.
“Whose butt? The cat’s or your condo manager’s?”
; I gave him a scornful look. “Can we get on with your questioning, please? I have things to do.”
“Lead on,” he said with what appeared to be a suppressed smile, gesturing toward the gate and the tree-filled park beyond.
* * *
I chose a park bench that was about thirty feet from a playground. As expected, there were three mothers talking to each other while giving their toddlers gentle pushes in the kiddie swings.
“What is this all about, Agent Turner?”
“Ms. Lancaster, would you please give me a timeline of your relationship with Gus Halloran?” he replied, gazing out past the mothers to a female jogger in tiny purple shorts. She was bending over to give her Labradoodle some water from a faucet on the side of the water fountain that was specifically for dogs.
“Nice nonanswer there, Ben,” I said.
His eyes swiveled my way, unimpressed. Not caring, I took my time with a long sip of tea. Then I pulled out my iPhone and checked my calendar. Not because I really needed to recall how long I’d been working with Gus, more just to make him wait.
“Mr. Halloran engaged my services as a genealogist about six months ago, on April twenty-fifth. He has not been my sole client these past months, but my work with him has taken up the bulk of my time.”
I heard multiple buzzing noises and almost looked around for bees when he pulled an iPhone from his breast pocket, read a text, and clicked it off again. Then from his right pocket, he pulled out a different smart phone, read a text, typed a short response, and clicked it off as well. I didn’t have to ask to know that one was his work cell and the other was his personal cell. I’d often seen my sister Maeve, who was an investment banker, do much the same thing. Walter, too, for that matter.
“Did you know Mr. Halloran prior to April of this year?”
I replied, “I’d heard the name Halloran, of course. I mean, who hasn’t if they live in Texas? Besides the Frost Bank building here in Austin, the Halloran Incorporated tower is one of the tallest and most recognizable skyscrapers in the city. Practically everyone’s seen a Halloran Realty sign, stopped at an H-Mart gas station and convenience store, or looked into buying a car from Halloran Lexus, Halloran Chevrolet, or Halloran BMW. I bought my Equinox last year from Halloran Chevrolet in Houston, in fact, but I’d never met any member of the Halloran family, including Gus.”
“You are now acquainted with the immediate family, though, correct?”
By the way he casually glanced over my shoulder, I could tell his question was meant to bait me. I figured this line of questioning concerned Gus’s son, senatorial candidate Pearce Halloran, and the truth allowed me to slip his hook all too easily.
“I’ve met or spoken to all of Gus’s siblings, his two still-living uncles, and many of his first and second cousins, as well as several who are cousins, once or twice removed. I’ve also become friendly with his three daughters. However, I have never spoken to or met Pearce Halloran, though I did call him five times looking to interview him.”
Agent Turner’s expression was skeptical.
I continued. “I only received one email from Pearce Halloran, sent through his personal assistant. That email contains two short anecdotes about his paternal grandparents and one even shorter tidbit about what he remembered about his paternal great-grandfather, Seamus Halloran. Apparently Seamus scooped his peas into a row on the blade of his knife and let them fall, single file, into his mouth. I will be happy to provide you with this email, should you request it.”
“What exactly were you contracted to do for Gus Halloran?”
“My research varies, depending on what the client desires,” I told him. “Gus wanted the full package.”
“And this includes?”
I sat back and crossed my legs. “First, it’s a complete tracing of the Halloran family tree and extensive videotaped interviews with the family to preserve their oral history,” I explained. “I also collect cheek-swab samples for mitochondrial, autosomal, and Y DNA testing—which encompasses haplogroup and haplotype testing—and then interpret the data into easy-to-understand layman’s terms. I then take pictures and other documents, old and new alike, and put them into a family record, which is a report-slash-scrapbook for each family member who requests one.” I paused for a breath, then added, “I also give a presentation to the family when the project is at its completion and create a private family website. It contains whatever photos, stories, and genealogical information they wish to allow on the internet.”
Agent Turner looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Does this ‘full package’ also involve you becoming an amateur investigator?”
“Excuse me?” I shot back.
“Ms. Lancaster. There was no question that Seth Halloran was the progenitor of the modern-day Halloran line. Therefore, explain exactly why you felt the need to go looking into a death from all the way back in 1849, when knowing whether the man was murdered does not affect the family’s lineage. Especially when Gus Halloran did not request that you search for the truth.”
I inwardly slumped a little at the shock of hearing it put like that, and I wilted a little more with the fact that he was correct.
When Gus had told me the story of his great-great-grandfather’s death and the mystery that surrounded it, he hadn’t dreamed of me discovering the truth, so his purpose was nothing more than preserving the oral history of his ancestor’s life. Finding the inquest record, which gave me Jeb Inscore’s name, and contacting the Inscore family in the hopes that someone might be able to shed some light on the matter had been my idea, plain and simple. I probably would have admitted to Agent Turner right then that he was correct—and promised that I wouldn’t do any further looking into the mysterious C.A. like I’d planned—but my hackles went back up when I noticed the hint of a smirk on his face. It made me want to pour my hot tea in his lap.
“First of all,” I said, sitting up straighter. “I had no intention of being, as you so patronizingly put it, an amateur investigator. My job is to follow trails. They’re historical, familial trails, yes, but when I find one, it’s my natural inclination to go down that path. All I wanted to do was see if the Inscore family might be able to add information to the history of what happened to Seth Halloran. I thought Jeb Inscore’s great-granddaughter would have a story that had been passed down—‘Great-Grandpa Jeb once witnessed a man’s death,’ and that sort of thing. I never thought in a million years an actual photograph would exist proving that Seth was murdered, much less that Jeb would have left journal entries explaining how that murder happened and giving clues as to who might be responsible. It was beyond my wildest dreams, yes, but it was simply a really lucky find.”
I watched him watching me, taking the measure of my words. Before he could ask me if I planned on doing any more research into C.A., I turned the tables.
“Are you aware that Betty-Anne Inscore-Cooper was robbed early this morning, and that the thief stole the boxes containing her great-grandfather’s journals?”
He leaned toward me, and I could see his otherwise average blue eyes had a bit of green around the pupils. There were no other people around except for the mothers and their children, who were squealing in delight, but he still lowered his voice.
“How did you know about that?”
I flung up a hand. “How do you think? Betty-Anne called me. At two o’clock this morning.”
For the first time, Agent Turner didn’t change the subject, which was weird.
“Okay, I’m going to ask you again,” I said. “What on earth is going on here? I don’t know much about law enforcement, but I know a robbery is the job of the local police. In this case, the San Antonio police. Therefore, I’m not understanding why the FBI is involved. What could possibly make this a federal case? The only thing I can think of is that, after the press conference, Senator Daniel Applewhite feels there’s a threat on his life.” I gasped. “Or maybe there actually is a threat on his life? Am I correct?”
“You’ve been watching too much t
elevision,” Agent Turner replied, sounding bored. “I’m a white-collar agent and we don’t handle threats of that nature. That’s the territory of violent crimes.”
Then he stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Lancaster. If I have any more questions, I know where to find you.” With no more ado, he walked down the jogging path, away from my complex’s gate and toward the street.
For a long moment, I sat there, flummoxed, staring at his retreating back. Then I took a long sip of my tea and felt the heat as it went down my throat, warming me from the inside out, soothing me at the same time.
Shrugging the federal agent off, I crossed my legs, leaned back against the bench, and set my gaze on two handsome joggers coming my way. One of them grinned at me as he passed, and I smiled back at him, raising my cup to my lips once more.
There was nothing like a good cup of tea and some eye candy to make a girl feel better, and that’s the truth.
SEVEN
“Bloody hell, you’re in late today, love. It’s half past two,” Josephine said as I breezed into the office, hung up my coat, and powered up my computer. “You feeling all right?”
“Yeah, we were getting worried that you’d taken another antihistamine and blacked out after eating Flaco’s tequila-glazed chicken,” Serena said, adding, “It’s the special today.”
“I’ve been at Gus’s office,” I replied airily, “showing him how well the family photos he wanted restored turned out.”
Gus, who’d been reading an article in a business magazine when I arrived, tossed the magazine aside when he saw the words KARL STOLLEIS PHOTOGRAPHIC RESTORATION & PRESERVATION on the carrier bag. He’d lifted two black photo boxes from its depths—one marked ORIGINALS and the other COPIES, plus a small box that I told him contained a USB drive with the digitized versions. He opened the box of originals first.
“I think you’ll be happy with Karl’s work,” I told him. “He repaired the few that had water damage or cracks, and then made high-quality copies of all the photos. Once you decide which ones you want on the Halloran-family website I made, let me know and I’ll upload the digital files.”
Murder Once Removed Page 6
