Well, he might have thought about it, but he wouldn’t have done it. His Glock bumped against his hip as he danced away from the obnoxious fowl. However, a bullet though that tiny head and they could all have dinner and live happily ever after.
Conner made it up the steps with his foot intact, but not his pride.
“I’m looking for Trusty Property Management, Inc.” Earl was right. This place should be named Use-At-Your-Own-Risk.
The middle-aged woman smoothed down her wrinkled tank top, flipped her half-smoked cigarette off the porch, and stood two inches taller. “That’s me. Can I hep ya?”
Conner flashed his gold badge and his best smile. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about one of your clients.”
The woman’s face fell when she realized he didn’t represent a fresh source of income. She swung around and disappeared inside.
George Clooney gave a warning screech and Conner rushed after her.
The inside of the house was dark and musty. It smelled of last night’s liver and onions. She turned to face him. Her gray hair hung past her waist and was held off her face with a clip painted to look like a chicken.
In fact, everything in the kitchen looked like a chicken or a rooster or baby chicks or Easter eggs.
His Aunt Jessie had a thing for cows—when he spent the night with his cousins, the milk for their breakfast cereal came from a cow-shaped pitcher—but nothing like this explosion of chicken-themed knick-knacks and decorations.
If he spent any time in this room, he might start to crow.
Chicken-lady pulled out a kitchen chair and plopped down. “Don’t know that I can give you any information without a warrant. You got one of them things?”
“No, Ma’am. But I’m not looking for banking information, just a name.”
“I’d have to think about that. You need any eggs?”
“Thanks, but I’m going to be in my car all day. They’d spoil.”
“No, they wouldn’t. These is fresh today. They’ll last you good. Not like them store bought ones. They’s old when you buy ‘em.”
“In that case, I could use a dozen. When I finish with my questions.” He’d had more direct bribe demands, but not often.
He fished the slip of paper Earl have given him out of his pocket and set it in front of her. “Who owns this property? Where does the money come from to pay the taxes?”
The dry rot, the dust, last night’s onions, the exasperation, the feeling of being watched by hundreds of chickens, all combined to churn in Conner’s stomach. He wanted out of this place but Noah would never let him live it down if he left without the information.
Besides, he needed to take a mental note of everything about this encounter. Since Jeannie stopped working, her first question every evening was, “Did anything interesting happen today?”
This definitely qualified as interesting.
The woman pulled an old-fashioned ledger off a shelf. “Only some corporation. Every few years I get a money order to cover expenses.”
“Who signs it?”
Heaving out an exaggerated sigh, she pushed back from the table and disappeared into another room. When she returned, she held a tattered file folder. “See for yourself.”
The folder held a letter with a computer-generated letterhead saying “Medina Properties,” and a date ten years earlier along with photo copies of two money orders, each covering five years’ worth of expenses.
“What does managing this property consist of?”
“Anytime my husband and I have to go into downtown Houston, we drive by and make sure the fence isn’t down and nobody’s squatting on the land.”
“How often is that?”
“Two, three times a year.”
So she hadn’t been there the last few days. Or recognized the lot from the news footage. Odds were, she shouldn’t count on another year’s payment. No point in him being the bearer of bad news. He might have more questions for her.
He leaned forward and used his phone to take photos of the papers while she scrutinized his every move. Probably worried he’d steal something. Like the hen and rooster salt and peppers shakers.
“You need me to notarize that?” Her cigarette breath was inches from his ear.
Notarize what? His phone?
He flipped his memo pad to a fresh page. “Put down your name, your company name and your contact information.”
The tip of her tongue appeared between her teeth as she concentrated on listing everything he asked. Then she pulled out her notary seal, signed the page, and stamped it.
Conner slapped down two fives—one for the eggs and one for the unnecessary notary seal—grabbed his phone, the paper, the eggs, and ran before George Clooney had time to attack.
Every fiber of his being screamed throw something, break something. smash something…
He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and reared back, ready to hurl it through the TV. He could almost hear the satisfying crash as the screen exploded.
But the reason he could still hear the glass shatter was because that’s exactly what he’d done two weeks ago. And it hadn’t made him feel any better.
Well, maybe. For a minute or two. Until he realized he’d have to buy a new TV.
He didn’t mind buying yet another one, but he didn’t want to deal with that nosy service man-installer and his incessant questions about what happened.
In order to control himself, he’d had to leave the room. The only way to keep from bashing his fist into the man’s face and saying, That’s what happened to the TV. Any more questions?
Plenty of other stores sold TVs. He could buy one there, but that didn’t solve the problem of who the cable provider might send if he had as much trouble as he had with the last one.
He could kick something, but he was barefooted and unless it was a pillow—he’d tried that before, completely unsatisfying—he might break a toe.
Or, like the year he was ten, three toes and two bones in his foot. Plus a couple of ribs and an arm of another kid. (That would teach the maid to allow her kid to play with his toys when she thought he was at school.)
Once that happened, every step, every movement, for six weeks would be a reminder of the disgust in his father’s eyes at his lack of self-control. A reminder of his stepmother crying, not for him, but in embarrassment at what the neighbor’s might think.
A reminder of his trip to see a physiologist who diagnosed him as a sociopath. He was marched home double-time before the appointment was over. The social stigma of that pronouncement more than his stepmother would allow.
He never saw that doctor again, but several years later he Googled the symptoms. At first, he worried the doc might have been right.
Not restricted by normal social mores.
Impervious to feelings of shame or guilt.
A determination to prevail no matter the cost.
Invent outrageous lies.
Then he came upon two additional symptoms and realized with relief they didn’t describe him.
Incapable of love. He had loved his mother. Or probably would have if she’d lived long enough.
Never apologize. As a kid, he’d had many apologizes beaten out of him.
Instead, the article described someone he knew all too well. His father.
The second time he got into serious trouble, at age fourteen, he was sent to a different doctor—a con artist in his opinion—who claimed his only problem was learning to deal with anger issues. A situation common in active, highly intelligent early-teen males.
The faux-doctor then prescribed more love and attention at home, and twice weekly visits to his office all summer for group therapy. He didn’t mind the group therapy—twelve boys his age sitting in a circle lying about their feelings.
Only two kids actually tried to improve themselves. The rest, like him, were marking time until they could escape.
One boy kept his hands in his pockets during every session, enabling him to masturbate through th
e entire hour. He would have been disgusted if he wasn’t impressed with the kid’s chutzpa.
Instead, he waited, planning his next adventure, until his summer sentence was served.
The additional attention was something else. His father and stepmother watched over him like drill sergeants in case he got into any more mischief. What a joke.
All he had to do was outlast them and they soon lost interest.
After a week, his stepmother reverted to walking past while he watched TV and tousling his hair as if in affection when she knew how much he hated disarray. His father would follow her into the room five minutes later and yell at him for looking slovenly.
But even today, long after his father’s death, the old man still controlled the purse strings via a complicated trust that evaporated if he got into serious trouble. At least until his stepmother died. The witch.
He could make it without the money if he scrimped, but he’d have to give up his hobby. And that wasn’t happening.
Sure, he’d managed to save a little over the years. Put it aside for a rainy day.
He just hadn’t anticipated a deluge.
None of that helped him now. Now was when he needed to blow off steam.
He hurled his half-empty glass into the fireplace where it smashed into a hundred tiny shards. The impact was so satisfying he got another glass and flung it in to join its companion.
The idea of gathering every glass in the cupboard and continuing his tirade crossed his mind, but drinking high-dollar single malt from a plastic tumbler was a waste.
Besides, he already felt better.
He tossed a throw rug in front of the fireplace to cover any errant shards of glass and the smell of wasted scotch. Order was restored in his world.
Isabelle would come tomorrow. She could clean it up. He certainly paid her enough to keep her mouth shut. And lucky for her, she was old and fat and ugly. Not the least bit tempting.
He could put the time to good use scouting vacant fields. Because he didn’t plan to move—again.
Hell, he’d always considered preparation part of the game, and searching for the ideal playground was almost as much fun as filling it.
That day he’d known he wasn’t set up for another sacrifice, but what was a man to do when a delectable raven-haired princess pranced her tight little ass in front of him seductively?
Wait?
Hell no.
Ask her to come back next week?
Ha!
Follow his father’s famous words of advice? When you first see an opportunity, act. Don’t delay.
Absolutely.
And he didn’t regret it for an instant.
Rush hour traffic had been a nightmare—a stalled pickup on I-45 and cars backed up for a mile or more. Noah had changed into shorts the moment he got home. Now he sat with his feet propped up on his desk and Sweet Pea snuggled in his lap. At the slightest movement, the dog looked up to see if there was any chance of another Cheetos nub, but she’d had her limit. Noah wasn’t willing to clean bright orange diarrhea off the kitchen floor. And a trip to the emergency room vet was out of the question. That man still suspected Noah had tried to kill the little Yorkie last winter.
Phone to his ear, he leaned back in the Henry Miller chair Betsy had given him for a housewarming gift when they moved in eighteen months ago. “What did you get from the property management company?” he asked Conner.
“More than likely, bird flu, but I washed my hands so I should be safe.”
What the hell was his partner talking about?
“The management company is a joke. They might drive past the property once a year but never get out of the car. The taxes are paid through a shell corporation using money orders.”
He’d suspected that much. “Can you trace the money orders?”
“I doubt it. There were only two, sent five years apart and from opposite ends of the state. I have a feeling they were either purchased with cash or from a store that’s no longer in business.”
“I didn’t do much better.” That slipped out without thinking, but so what? For several years, he and Conner had an easy, uncomplicated partnership, not to mention friendship.
This last year had been different, difficult. He sometimes suspected that Conner was watching him. Waiting for him to screw up. To do something that showed he was no longer capable of handling the job.
He kept striving to prove his worth, like a first-year rookie.
What if it wasn’t Conner worrying about his ability? What if he’d been the one who put a strain on their friendship by doubting himself?
Whatever it was, he missed the old relationship. Wanted it back. And lately, he’d felt hints of its return. An easy, comfortable feeling, like loosening your belt after a holiday meal.
Nice as that was, it didn’t solve this case. And that had to be his top priority now.
“It took me forty-five minutes on the phone, but I traced the ownership of the apartment building to the bank that foreclosed, but the trail ended there. The title had transferred back and forth between corporations that no longer exist. Not one personal name to be found in any of their records. The last corporation declared bankruptcy six years ago and left a mile-long trail of unpaid debts.”
“So another brick wall?”
“Probably. I did pressure the bank loan officer for a list of creditors. Most had gone out of business, but Earl found me a couple of promising leads. By that time, it was late-afternoon and too late to find anyone sitting in an office, working. I figured we could try tracking them down first thing Monday. See if anybody working there remembers dealing with a live human. Not too promising, but it’ll keep us busy until Doc finishes the autopsies.”
“Sounds like a good idea. One of the property management money orders was purchased in Katy and the company appears to still be in business. While we’re out running around, I’d like to head over there on the off chance they kept any records for that long. We’ll have better luck standing in front of them than over the phone.”
“I agree. I don’t like waiting on Doc and the forensics team. Maybe they’ll come up with the key to unlock this whole thing, but maybe they won’t. Until then, we do things the old-fashioned way; face-to-face. Pulling every thread, untangling every knot or octopi or anything we can find until we’ve traced it to the bitter end. Even if it means calling in the Feebies.” Noah never thought he’d say that, but there wasn’t any shame in admitting you needed help.
Montgomery seemed like an alright guy, but sometimes the Feebies could be jerks. Still, they were jerks with connections.
Valuable connections.
Saturday morning and Noah was in the exact same position he’d been in for hours Friday night. He shoved his chair back, startling Sweet Pea. He reached down and stroked the Yorkie’s silky fur, a move that always calmed them both. Two wasted hours on the computer last night and another this morning tracking down Tom Meyers’ hidden agenda.
He’d hoped to crack the tight-lipped lawyer’s cryptic clues before Monday and all its madness set in. If he couldn’t, he might not get back to it for weeks.
All the corporation names he and Conner had collected had been turned over to his least- disliked FBI agent Lincoln Montgomery in hopes the Feds could untangle the threads. If he had any answers by the start of the week, he’d dive in. If not, he and Conner would work the pavement, tracking down leads.
Either way, Meyers’ problems would drop off his personal radar until this killer was caught. Or was it killers?
That was part of the problem; he still didn’t know. And wouldn’t until Doc M finished the autopsies.
For now, he had two days to solve a riddle, get rid of Tom Meyers, and erase Conner’s debt.
A good plan, except it wasn’t working.
Tracking down Tom’s cases was much like finding the one person who remembered the name of someone—anyone—connected with the multitude of corporations that owned or had owned or once owned or drove past and waved at t
he killing field or abandoned apartment.
It required a boots-on-the-ground approach.
Rachelle’s mother-in-law was visiting this weekend so he wouldn’t be seeing his sister or nieces. Danielle Hokpins son had a soccer tournament so his band of singing detectives wouldn’t be performing at the children’s hospital.
With the shorter autumn days, the grass wasn’t growing as fast. He’d mowed his lawn and Mrs. Powell’s next door last weekend and didn’t need to again so soon.
Austin was only a two and a half hour drive away. His computer search had given him the names of five people he was certain were clients of Tom Meyers yet whose records were nowhere to be found. Someone at the Travis County Courthouse would be able to help him and do it in less time than he’d already wasted on a project of questionable importance.
He could be there and back by dark. Or he could spend the night and ask Mrs. Powell to feed Sweet Pea.
Why not? U of H wasn’t playing this weekend so he had nothing to watch on TV, and UT had an away game so Austin would be empty. What did he have to lose except a lonely weekend and a sore rump?
Besides, if he stayed, he could have dinner at Scholz Garten.
How many years had it been since he’d been there? The thought of the German Burger—Swiss cheese and sauerkraut on a pretzel bun—had his mouth watering.
Plus, if he stayed overnight, he might hit Sixth Street. Listen to some music.
Tomorrow, without Sweet Pea to wake him, he’d sleep late and stop in Elgin on the way home for bar-b-que, then again at the Burton Café to pick up a lemon meringue pie for Mrs. Powell.
Okay, maybe one for himself, also.
He swung his chair around and deposited Sweet Pea on the floor. Why bother packing? He didn’t need anything but a toothbrush. Hell, he wasn’t going to see anyone he knew. He could brush his teeth when he got home.
Autumn Secrets (Seasons Pass Book 4) Page 6
