Austin parking was always a bitch, but Noah found a spot a block from the Travis County Courthouse. The short walk gave him a chance to stretch and enjoy the cool air after the drive from Houston.
The 1930s style building with its oatmeal-colored limestone and bold geometric carvings loomed ahead of him, but Noah wasn’t impressed. He’d been to dozens of courthouses in his career and they all served the same purpose: to make getting justice as difficult and complicated as humanly possible.
He trotted up the steps of the east entrance, under the frieze of a robed magistrate handing out judgments to shackled prisoners, and through the metal detector without a hitch. He felt naked without his weapon, but experience had taught him to leave it locked in a safety box bolted under Lola’s seat.
Only four people were in line ahead of him in the County Clerk’s office. With two clerks working, the wait time was bearable.
His turn came and he slid the paper with the list of names across the countertop. “I’d like to see the criminal files on these individuals.”
The clerk took the paper without looking at him and entered the names into her computer. With each name she stopped to make a notation. “Records more than ten years old are kept offsite, in the warehouse. It’s not far. Here are the file numbers and the address.”
So that’s why I couldn’t find the information.
The clerk gave him back his list, flashed a pleasant if insincere smile and looked over his shoulder. “Next,” she called.
The county warehouse required twenty minutes of winding his way through Austin’s convoluted traffic plus another ten minutes to score a parking space.
This time, the two block walk didn’t feel as welcome. But the air conditioning inside the building did.
Noah had expected something musty and dusty, with overflowing file cabinets and stacks of cardboard boxes, unused and unopened for decades. A mish-mash of an older Walmart, the library in a haunted mansion, and the cramped office of an overworked assistant DA.
Instead, while the building itself wasn’t new, the insides were sparkling clean, smelled faintly of fresh paint, and was manned by a clerk with a new computer.
A woman wearing a navy blue business suit, sensible heels, and carrying her still shiny law-school-graduation-gift briefcase was exiting as he entered. Other than that, the lobby was deserted.
“Take a number, please.” The clerk indicated a number dispensing machine standing like a lone soldier in the right hand corner.
What the fuck? I’m the only one here.
The clerk leaned back and drummed his fingers on his desk.
Noah stared at him for a full five seconds. Neither moved.
“Take a number, please.” Exasperation coated the clerk’s voice.
Noah glanced around the empty lobby in time to see a businessman trotting up the steps toward the glass front doors. He grabbed a number before the man got there ahead of him. “I’d like to see copies of these files, please.”
The clerk didn’t say a word but entered the numbers into his computer. After he finished, he reached under the counter and pulled out a blank form. “Copies are $35 each, cash only. Due now. Fill this out with your name, driver’s license number, and cell phone. We’ll text you when they’re ready. Probably about two hours.”
Behind him, the businessman took his number from the machine with a determined snap.
Noah pulled out his wallet and peeled off the cash. Good thing he’d stopped at the ATM near his house. But with the limit for withdrawal at $200, and counting the two twenties he started with, he was now down to $65.
Enough for lunch, and two pies, but not much else.
The clerk stamped an official looking receipt and handed it to Noah, the red ink so pale it hardly made a mark. “When you come back, you don’t have to wait in the line. Step directly up to the counter.”
Yeah, right. I need to avoid this line at all costs.
Two hours was plenty of time to go to Scholz Garten, have a burger and a beer. He was already out a hundred and seventy-five bucks. Add the cost of a room, and that little favor came with a pretty steep price tag.
Maybe he wouldn’t spend the night after all.
Besides, hitting Sixth Street by himself wasn’t that much fun and he was too used to getting up early to sleep in, even without Sweet Pea as an alarm clock.
He’d relax, enjoy a great meal, drive back to the warehouse to pick up the files, and be home by dark. If he hurried, he could still get those meringue pies.
That left all day Sunday to browse through the files. With the information hidden in there, it shouldn’t take long to solve Tom Meyers’ secret.
Then he’d be free and so would Conner.
The aroma of grilled hamburgers and sauerkraut sent Noah’s mouth into waves of ecstasy before he reached the door of Scholz’s. He placed his order and headed for a picnic table outside.
Why didn’t he do this kind of thing more often? There had to be more to life than work, walking Sweet Pea, and occasionally playing with his nieces.
He was savoring his first juicy bite when he noticed a woman, two tables over. Her burger basket was shoved to the side and her head bent over some type of thick notebook.
Blond hair fell in a curtain, obscuring her face, but something about her posture, her deep concentration, seemed familiar. She made a notation on a legal pad beside her and he noticed she was left-handed.
His body made the connection before his mind caught up.
Laurel Bledsoe. The woman who’d helped solve her friend’s murder by pointing him in the right direction.
Of course that wasn’t her. Why would she be in Austin?
How bad a shape was he in if the mere sight of a woman sent electricity zig-zagging through his body like an old-time pinball machine?
He took a long pull on his beer and waited. Eventually, she had to move and he’d see that she was a college student preparing for an exam. Or worse, a state legislator figuring a new way to screw the populace.
But she didn’t.
She read. She made notes. She drummed her pen on the table. But she didn’t turn around.
Okay. What could he tell from this angle? Her body was nice and trim, but he wouldn’t have compared her to Laurel if it wasn’t. She was short. Her feet barely reached the ground from the bench seat of the picnic table. Once she twisted a strand of hair around her finger and he saw that she didn’t wear a wedding ring.
Laurel had, the last time he saw her. But that was eight months ago and she was in the middle of a contentious divorce.
So that was it? From now on, every time he saw a short, left-handed blonde with a good figure and no wedding ring he’d light up like a Fourth of July sparkler? Cherry bomb the hell out of his brain?
He took another bite out of his burger then pushed it aside. Even the pretzel bun couldn’t hold his interest. One deep swallow of beer for courage and he wiped his hands and face, checking for errant sauerkraut juice.
He needed an Altoid or a Certs or a peppermint or a toothbrush. Maybe all four.
What the hell. If he made an ass of himself, he didn’t know anyone here. Shit, he’d made a fool of himself in fancier places than this.
Four steps closer and he still didn’t know. Three more steps and her profile emerged. Not clear enough to know for sure, but nothing to send him back to his seat, half-embarrassed, half-relieved.
Her pen rolled off the table and she bent to pick it up, coming face-to-face with his shoes, then his knees, and finally his face. Azure blue eyes landed on his own and stopped, widening in surprise.
“Noah?”
“Hi, Laurel.” Lord help him. Was that the best he could come up with? He’d been better at this as a teenager. But he’d had practice in those days.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing. You didn’t move to Austin, did you?”
“Goodness, no. I’m taking a class.” She tapped the notebook she’d been studying. “Working on
my MCE.”
“Your MCE?”
“Mandatory Continuing Education. I kept my Real Estate license current while I was married to Peter but he never wanted me to work so I fell behind in some of the required classes. I’m trying to get caught up in one long, hard weekend so I’ll be ready to start working toward my Broker’s license next year.”
The words entered his head, but the only ones that registered were, while I was married to Peter.
Did that mean she wasn’t married anymore? That her divorce had come through?
He searched his memory for the phrase his father always used when he hadn’t been paying attention and didn’t know what to say. “Is that so?”
“Two more years as an agent and I’ll be eligible to become a Broker. An old friend of Peter’s offered to be my mentor. That way he’ll be able to semi-retire and leave all the hard work to me.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. I can see it now, a billboard with your picture and The Laurel Bledsoe Real Estate Agency in six-foot letters. Makes me want to sell my house and buy a new one.”
Her laugh, when it came, wrapped around him like a warm blanket. “Your house is safe for now and it won’t be Laurel Bledsoe. I changed my name the instant my divorce was final.”
I knew it! She dumped the bastard.
“My maiden name was Newcomb, and that means old-time Houston money to people who care about that sort of thing. Peter did. It’s why he married me. To give his underhanded schemes legitimacy. And it’s why Royce Elkins hired me. Because that name opens doors to mansions in Memorial, River Oaks, Tanglewood, and every hidden enclave of wealth in town. My dad may have lost his fortune, but never his reputation. Kind of the opposite of Peter.”
“So your name helped you land a job?”
“That and the fact Royce hates Peter with a pure passion. Peter scammed him out of some money, which he took with good graces, but then he caught my scumbag ex cheating at golf and that’s unforgivable. Hiring me was his way of getting back at Peter. Of course getting a job is one thing, being offered a chance at a partnership is something else entirely. I had to earn that.”
Damn. He always managed to open his mouth and insert his foot. This time it went all the way up to his knee. “I didn’t mean to imply that. My last name probably still means something to those who heard my mother sing or my father play the violin. At best, it might get me an audition, but I’d have to prove myself to get a job.”
“Is that how you got the gig in Paige Reimer’s band?”
Yep. She’d seen him with Paige and wasn’t going to let him get by with it. The chime of a text saved him.
He held up his phone, showing the message banner. “I have twenty minutes to pick up some legal papers or I’ll lose my place in line. Why don’t I tell you the story of my brief music career over dinner?”
She glanced at the time and jumped to her feet. “Shoot, I’m going to be late. I’m staying at the Omni on San Jacinto. See you at seven?”
He had four hours to retrieve Tom Meyers’ files, check into a hotel, buy a clean shirt and find a toothbrush.
Noah reached Laurel’s hotel with twenty minutes to spare, so he browsed in the gift shop. Buying a box of breath mints seemed presumptuous so he settled on a pack of gum.
The elevator dinged and Laurel stepped into the lobby. She wasn’t dressed up, exactly. Jeans, a blouse the color of his mom’s azaleas, not high heels, but boots. She carried a sweater over one arm.
Her blonde hair was down and looked soft as Sweet Pea’s fur. It swung slightly as she strode toward him, catching the light and changing shades with each step. His hand itched with desire to touch it.
“Hi, Noah. Aren’t you proud of me? I’m right on time. Don’t get too used to that.”
All he could do was swallow and smile.
She stood on tiptoes and brushed a whisper-soft kiss across his cheek. “Did you think of a place for us to eat?”
His throat closed up and he had to clear it a couple of times before he could speak. “There’s a seafood place down the block. I thought we could eat there and walk down to Sixth Street and listen to some music. Unless you have something else in mind.” Damn. He didn’t mean that the way it sounded.
“That sounds great. I’m tired of eating in this hotel and I’ve been sitting for two days. The walk sounds heavenly.”
Outside, city lights blocked out the stars, but the air held the first hints of autumn. They walked companionably to the restaurant, ordered, and relaxed with a glass of wine while waiting to be served.
Noah searched for his missing backbone. He had some explaining to do. “I wanted to apologize for ignoring you at that Mexican restaurant last spring. I was working undercover as Paige Reimer’s bodyguard. Trying to protect her from a stalker who’d been harassing her.”
Laurel’s laugh was like flipping on a light switch in a room that had been dark for too long. “I figured that out the minute I saw your earring. Although, I didn’t know about the stalker until the news reports the morning after the concert. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. And Conner! I sent him a note, but what can you say? Sorry you had to shoot that bastard and the media’s accusing you of murder. Conner thanked me for my support. How’s he doing these days?”
She wrote to Conner but not to him?
“He’s fine now, but you’re right about the media. They don’t let the facts stand in the way of a good story. He hired an expensive lawyer who made it all go away.”
He shouldn’t have had to. If I hadn’t screwed up, I could have taken out the bastard before he pulled a gun and started shooting. I’m making up for it now, but a little late to spare him and Jeannie the anxiety.
“Yeah. I saw him musty TV last week. He’s so distinguished-looking.”
“Conner?” Okay, some women might consider him nice-looking, but not distinguished. And what was he doing on TV?
“No, not Conner. The other guy. The lawyer. I can’t remember his name but he has that beautiful premature white hair and always looks so elegant.”
Fuck it. Tom Meyers. The guy’s white hair wasn’t all that premature and he looked more pompous that dignified. Nothing like a little old-fashioned jealously to get the blood pumping.
Wait, wait, wait. Tom Meyers was on TV last week? A couple of days before he called asking for Noah’s help solving a problem?
Lately, he’d gone out of his way to avoid the news. Had he missed something important?
He didn’t want to blow this by sounding too excited. “What was Tom Meyers doing on TV, drumming up business? Promoting a political candidate?”
“Some big case here in Austin. I’m not sure what. They had to let a guy out of prison after ten years due to DNA evidence. It raised a big stink because the murder was so brutal. Strangled? Dumped? I don’t remember exactly. Some people were mad because they believe he did it. Others because the murderer is still out there loose.”
A young, black-clad waiter slipped a plate of trout almandine in front of Noah, and deep-fried catfish in front of Laurel. Without a word, they traded dishes.
“Is there anything else I can bring you? Another glass of wine?”
Noah glanced at his glass of Zinfandel. It was still half full. Laurel hadn’t drunk more than a couple of sips from hers. “We’re okay for now. Thank you.”
“How about a refill on your water. More bread?”
“We’re fine, thanks.”
“Do you have enough tartar sauce?”
What the hell? You couldn’t get a waiter when you needed one or get rid of one when you didn’t.
“We have everything we need for now. We’ll let you know if something changes.”
The waiter didn’t move. “It’s that… I’m going off shift in a few minutes and if you need anything, I’ll be gone and it’s too late.”
Too late? Was he the only waiter in the joint?
Laurel kicked him under the table, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I think he needs his tip,”
she whispered.
The kid didn’t answer. He just stood there.
Noah pulled a twenty from his wallet. “Thanks for your help.”
The bill disappeared. “Thank you, sir, ma’am. It was a pleasure serving you. Have a nice rest of your evening.”
Laurel bit her lip, holding in a laugh until the waiter had gone.
Noah looked at his empty hand, where a twenty had been moments before. Now he was down to $15 cash.
If this place didn’t take credit cards, he was in big trouble.
The walk to Sixth Street took less than ten minutes and would have been pleasant if Laurel’s left boot hadn’t pinched her little toe. The air outside was cool, but she didn’t need the sweater she was carrying, especially after they reached a dive bar with live music spilling onto the street.
She hadn’t remembered it being so loud and so crowded when she came here on weekends away from college. They sat on cracked-plastic stools and Noah ordered a dark ale.
“Do you have any specialty beers?” she asked.
The bartender had Paul Newman eyes, Orlando Bloom hair, and a body straight out of Men’s Fitness magazine. If she didn’t have the real thing sitting next to her, she might be interested.
“I’ve got a wheat beer a lot of women like. It’s light but full-bodied.”
“Sounds great. I’ll take one.”
They leaned back with their drinks and listened to the band. They sounded amateurish to Laurel, but Noah was the musician. “What d’ya think?” she asked.
“The back-up guitarist is carrying them. The drummer is okay but a little over the top and the keyboardist might be decent with a couple more years practice, but they need to ditch the lead singer and the bass player.”
Oh. She just thought they were loud and mediocre.
“How’d you like playing a concert with Paige Reimer? That must have been fun.”
He looked away. Took a long pull on his beer and she knew. Knew exactly what he was hiding.
He’d been more than a bodyguard for the country/western singer.
“It was okay. A lot of hard work. Hot, tiring, boring at times. Enough to assure me I made the right choice of professions.”
Autumn Secrets (Seasons Pass Book 4) Page 7
