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Isaiah's Song

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By William StinsonPublished 3 years ago 60 min read
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The air conditioner went out two hours ago. The ceiling fan was spinning furiously, moving hot air from one location to another. No A.C. in Houston in the middle of summer was a death sentence, and I meant that literally. I checked the temperature on a digital sign across the street. The readout said 102 degrees Fahrenheit and 39 degrees Celsius, humidity 85 percent. That was a blessing; it could have been over 90 percent.

At five-ten, two hundred pounds, I was more comfortable with A.C. than the average person. I also had a little beer belly that I was trying to keep at a manageable circumference. Most of the time, I was clean-shaven; I liked showing off my Kirk Douglas chin. My typical attire was a tan khaki suit, blue dress shirt, red tie, and two-tone brown-and-tan Madison lace-up Stacey Adams. My hair was dirty blond and kept in a buzz cut.

My office—a converted loft my parents had left me—was in downtown Houston on Main Street, close to Texas Street. I still used part of it as an apartment. It was about three thousand square feet, two bedrooms, a den, living room, two full baths, and a half bath. I converted the den into an office and partitioned it off from the rest of the place. It was worth over five hundred grand. The monthly maintenance was more than most people paid for their house notes. Fortunately, my parents had left a trust fund to take care of it. I couldn't afford it on what I made off my clients. Most of the time, I didn't make anything on them. If I weren't careful, the IRS would soon classify this ] as a hobby.

The building had five other lofts and several offices. There was a cute chiropractor three floors down and some oil and gas promoters down the hall from me. There were a lot of oil and gas promoters in Houston. Unfortunately, most of them were shady. My lawyer friend told me that most oil and gas deals in Texas were crooked, but that was the only way deals got done.

The view from my office window was mostly the light-rail tracks. However, I could see the Preston Street station to the left and the Flying Saucer Pub to the right. Good selection of beers, although I was mainly a pear cider man.

If I hadn't mentioned it before, I was a detective. I'd been in the business for ten years. I wasn't a native Texan, but my parents were. I was born in Seattle. My father moved there to work for Microsoft in the seventies. He got in on the ground floor as a systems programmer. He didn't get super-rich, but he had made enough for me to do what I wanted. And I always wanted to be a detective.

I graduated from the University of Washington in geology. I studied geology because I enjoyed the field trips. It was a lot better than being stuck inside a classroom. After I graduated, my father retired, and he and my mother moved back to Texas. He was originally from Plano, Texas, and Mom was from Houston. She hated Plano, thought the people put on airs. So that was why I had this loft in downtown Houston. She didn't like anyone from the Dallas area in general.

I didn't want to go with my parents when they moved back to Texas, so I opened an office in downtown Seattle in the Smith Tower. I loved it and had very good success with several high-profile cases. I'd even earned a minor rep as an excellent forensic scientist in soil analysis. I gained experience during the summers when I worked as a technical aide for the US Forest Service. We had to locate limestone quarries for the loggers to use for roads and take portable seismic readings to determine how much overburden was present. The upshot was that I could identify any soil and tell you its genesis. I could also identify ancient streambeds and how far downstream a particular rock was washed. Another skill that came in handy on a case.

I had a good working relationship with the Seattle PD. I didn't try to get cute with them or rat hole them on information that was of interest to a case we dovetailed on. In return, they would give me information not available to the public, including reporters. That was important because a lot of my analyses were statistical. You could never have enough data. Lieutenant Ben Levi was accommodating. I had his eternal gratitude after I'd helped him solve the Everett Strangler case.

They would have never found that young woman's body if I hadn't matched the obscure soil sample to the killer's shoes. It wasn't the soil; it was the pollen contained in it. The pollen was from a group of experimental cedars the US Forest Service had cultivated for over thirty years. It was all confined to one acre on the outskirts of Everett, Washington, some sixty miles north of Seattle.

An intense search of that one acre with cadaver dogs revealed the location of the woman's body. Once you got him on one body, the rest of the sites fell like dominoes.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, gentle and steady. Before I could say, "Come in," he did. A thin, well-built, older black man stepped into my office. He had short hair that slightly grays at the temples and a well-trimmed mustache—a good-looking older guy. If I could look like that at his age, I'd be ahead of the game. His eyes were hazel. They made me uncomfortable the way they seemed to look right through me as if they were probing my innermost secrets. One thing for sure, I'd better not try to snow this guy. He'd know it right away.

He wore the standard "old man" outfit—a green short-sleeved knitted shirt, tan pants, and black lace-up shoes. In addition, he wore one of those old-time stingy brim hats with a matching tan belt. He removed the hat. Definitely old school.

"Mr. Elliott?" he asked in a startlingly deep baritone that made me want to sit up abruptly and say, "Yes, sir." He was nowhere near James Earl Jones's size.

"Yes, but call me John," I said. I extended my hand, and he shook it gently. At least he wasn't a knuckle-buster. "Have a seat," I said. He sat down, crossed his legs, and rested the hat on his kneecap.

"My name is Isaiah Perry. You don't see it around here much anymore, but my family and I are native Houstonians. My people have lived in the Fifth Ward since it was founded in 1866. My ancestors were the first freemen to settle in the area."

I was impressed. Early in its history, Houston was divided into six wards. Although the nomenclature was still used today, it was just a civic device for geographical and political purposes. All the wards were now part of city council districts. The Fifth Ward was bounded by the Buffalo Bayou, Jensen Drive, Liberty Road, and Lockwood Drive, close to downtown. The Sixth Ward was just northeast of the Fifth; its southern boundary was the Buffalo Bayou. One of its most notable residents was a young George Foreman. My mom said he had a reputation for being tough, even as a kid.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Perry?" It piqued my curiosity why he wanted a private detective.

"Call me Ice. Everybody does, except my kids."

"What can I do for you?" I knew a lot of Isaiah's, but most of them went by Izzy or Zay.

"I need a detective," he said slowly, "but I don't have much money."

"How much you got?" I said. I knew where this was going. Fortunately, I didn't have to take cases based on my client's ability to pay. I mainly took them based on whether I liked the client and if they had to have something that stirred my interest.

"Nothing," he said. The guy had chutzpah; he didn't seem nervous or embarrassed about it.

"What makes you think I'll take your case for nothing?" I said. Most pro-bono cases were time-consuming, so I didn't take many. I wanted my clients to have some skin in the game, no matter how small.

"John," he said slowly and evenly, "I'm a pretty good judge of character. I've studied you a bit before I came. If you don't like it after you've talked to her, walk away. All I ask is that you visit her."

"Who is she?" I asked. "And where do I find her?"

"Miss Sandra Carter. You can find her in the county jail. She's being tried on a charge of murder."

"Her lawyers in over their heads?" I asked. I'd heard of the case. It was high profile and in the news. This case had gone to the jury.

"No, she's got a good lawyer. What she needs is someone who can prove her innocence. The jury is coming back in tomorrow; she's gonna be convicted."

"How can you be so sure? Also, I'm not sure what a private detective can do in this at this stage."

"Just go see her, John," he said. "I worked for her father for thirty-five years as a handyman. That was nine years before she was born. He was a good man. He treated you like a man. Five years ago, there was a fire in his house. He came home late one night from a business trip to find his house in flames. He ran in looking for his wife and found her on the floor in the kitchen. She had tried to make it out the back door. He took her pulse; she was dead. He loved that woman more than I ever saw any man love a woman,' cept for my Mabel and me. He wrote a note on a piece of paper and lay down beside her. The smoke from the fire eventually took his life."

"What was in the note?" I asked.

"It was a letter to his daughter. He explained in the note how he'd found her mother dead. He said he wasn't going to live the rest of his life without her. He told her he loved her and that he was sorry to leave her, but she was old enough to take care of herself. He said if she ever got into trouble or needed anything, Isaiah would take care of it. And that's what I aim to do. Go see her, John. It'll do you a lot of good."

"Okay, Ice, I'll go see her, but I can't promise anything. I'll talk to the detective in charge of the case and see what he says. I'll do what I can, but if they're bringing in a guilty verdict tomorrow, it may be too little, too late."

"I know you'll do your best. I'm in transit, so I'll check back with you when I think you've got something. The place I stay at is crowded; it's like a cracker box, and phone privileges are non-existent." Isaiah got up, opened the door, and gently closed it behind him.

I sat there wondering what had just happened. The day started bad and was getting worse. He seemed like a nice guy but a little strange. If I had a "Spidey sense," it would be going crazy right now. I hoped I wasn't going to cross over into the Twilight Zone. I picked up my cell and called Captain Brett Halsey with the HPD.

"Halsey," the gravelly voice answered, the result of twenty years of smoking. To his credit, he'd quit two years ago in place of the cigarettes, a Rubik's cube. He was good at it too. I could hear him working it as he talked.

"John Elliot," I said.

"Oh, Christ!" He sounded like he meant it. "Look, I know I owe you a couple of favors, but now's not a good time to collect."

"Hal, favors don't come with pre-set venues. That's why they call them favors."

"Okay sport, what can I do for you?" he said with a slight chuckle.

"Who's working the Sandra Carter case?"

"Johnny Renfro."

"Can you get me in to see her?"

"In what capacity?"

"Her private detective," I said.

"She doesn't have a private detective. Her lawyer hired one earlier, but he let him go. It's probably a moot point now. The DA is positive about a conviction when the jury comes back in tomorrow. You sure you want to waste a marker on this?"

"I'm doing this as a favor for a friend."

To quote Oscar Wilde, 'True friends stab you in the front.'"

"It can't be that bad."

"Really? Come down to my office. I'll show you how badly you got rooked. And by the way, this is going to move you into negative territory, so bring those markers in with you so I can transfer them over to my wallet."

"I'll see you in fifteen minutes," I said and hung up. I deliberated on whether to walk the short distance over to Halsey's office or drive. I knew I'd be sweating like a pig if I walked. I needed the exercise, so against my better judgment, I headed into the hot, stifling Houston air.

***

Halsey's office was on the third floor of the HPD Headquarters building on Travis Street. He was sitting at his desk in his office going over paperwork when I knocked on the door and entered. His office looked like a rat's nest. To his credit, he was probably the best detective they had. His bosses let him work any case he wanted. As a result, he contributed to the department's list of solved crimes significantly. His jurisdiction cut across homicide, drug enforcement, and just about any area he wanted to work. Even the internal affairs people were not immune to his meddling, as some of his colleagues called it.

He looked up from a sheath of papers and motioned at me to a sit. He knew I hated that seat; it was hard and uncomfortable. But he did it on purpose; he didn't want his bosses sitting too long.

"I'm going to ask you again after I give you the case details if you want to use your markers on this, and I did use the plural. I told you on the phone; one is not going to cover it. You're going way into negative territory." Halsey picked up his Rubik's cube and began working it. He was my total opposite. Six-three, one hundred ninety pounds of solid muscle. He was clean-shaven and wore his dark hair in a European crew cut. It was turning slightly gray at the temples. Unlike his office, he was always impeccably dressed and only wore designer suits. He was about ten years older than I was and unmarried. That was why he could afford designer gear.

"Yeah, but it won't be for long," I said, laughing.

"Okay, here you go," he said, opening a file. Although his office was a mess, his files were meticulously organized. "Sandra Carter, twenty-six years old. Both parents died in a house fire five years ago. The entire house was destroyed. The father found his wife dead and just lay down beside her and died. They were well off. Her grandfather was a partner in several oil deals with James Howard Marshall II."

"Anna Nicole Smith's husband?"

"The same. The family was Houston royalty. She was an only child, and she's worth a bundle. Her father was also in the oil business, and he expanded the family fortune way beyond what the grandfather made. The murder charge against her is for killing her boyfriend."

"I didn't hear about a grand jury indictment."

"You were in Europe at the time chasing down your Scottish forebears. How did that work out for you?"

"I found I come from a long line of scallywags who served multiple life sentences on the prison barges on offshore England. Magwitch would have been royalty in my family."

"So, you were as surprised as young Pip was?" he said.

"Even more so. It was a good trip, and the beer was excellent."

"Play St. Andrews?" he asked.

"Four times." I could tell he was a little jealous. He was a scratch golfer. All the brass wanted to play a round with him. On four-person scrambles, I'd seen deputy chiefs threaten their commanders to get him on their team.

"I'll get there pretty soon. It's not the money; I just can't find the time," he said. "Anyway, Ms. Carter is on trial for the murder of her boyfriend, Wilfred Manley."

"How'd it happen?" I asked.

"We think she stabbed him several times at his condo. You were working on the Jorgensen case when it happened."

The Jorgensen case brought back vivid memories. It consumed me. It was the closest I'd ever come to losing a case. It stretched even my formidable skill set to the limit. After that case, everything else was a turkey shoot. Slim Jorgensen had a similar skill set to mine. You might say we were equals. Unlike me, his skills were not used for the public good.

"Any witnesses?" I asked.

"If any of the neighbors heard anything, none came forward. Manley also comes from a wealthy family. He was the only son of Rebecca and Kerrigan Manley. They want us to throw the book at her. Here's the kicker: there was a butt-load of blood found all over her condo, but no body. She was found passed out. A bloody knife was found in her garbage. It had her fingerprints on it. A DNA test using Manley's parents showed it was Manley's blood."

"You didn't think it looked like a setup?" I said.

"Didn't matter what I thought. I didn't like it, but what can you do? Toxicology showed no drugs in her system and only a small amount of alcohol. Do you want to talk to her or not? I got ahold of her attorney, and he gave his permission to see her. He hired the Benson Detective Agency at the beginning of the trial. They couldn't come up with anything. We can head over to the county and see her now. Also, you'll probably want to talk to the Manleys. They're a nasty piece of work, and I swear, Rebecca Manley reminds me of Dolly Parton."

***

Halsey and I signed in at the county jail and were led to a small reception room. We didn't go through the usual routine. I admired Halsey more and more. We were in the part of the jail they call Big Baker. It housed the most high-risk inmates. I wondered how they determined Ms. Carter was high risk.

Twenty minutes later, Sandra shuffled through the door with two officers behind her. Halsey immediately excused himself and left me alone with her. She was without question one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen. Of course, I'd seen her in the news, but she was more beautiful in person. She had that Maureen O'Hara red hair with dark green eyes that did not waver as they stared into mine. At five feet seven inches tall, her face was cross between Jenifer Beale and Victoria Principal. She was true Texas royalty and made me believe my father's constant rants about Texas women being the best-looking in the world. If her mother was this beautiful, I understood why her father lay down and died with her.

I got up and extended my hand toward her. "Ms. Carter, I'm John Elliott." She extended her hand slowly and shook my hand gently. Her eyes became unfocused, and she reminded me of a sleepwalker. She sat down in the hard vinyl chair across from me.

"Mr. Elliott, I'm not sure why my attorney wanted me to see you. We had a private detective, one of the best, look into this. But unfortunately, they could find nothing to vindicate me."

"I understand they found no body," I said.

"That's correct, but they found a knife with my fingerprints on it and blood all over the place that matched Wilfred's blood according to DNA results."

"Can you recall anything?"

"The last thing I remember is sitting on Wilfred's couch in his condo. We were having a glass of wine. The next thing I knew, a police officer was shaking me awake at my condo. He asked me what happened. I didn't remember a thing." She didn't seem nervous as she told her story, and I could detect no increase in her pulse. That was a good sign; I was sure she was telling the truth as she knew it.

"A friend of yours, whose identity I'm not at liberty to reveal, asked me to take a look at the case."

"Do you think you can find anything that would help?" she asked. "My attorney thinks I'll get convicted. He wanted to plea bargain, but Wilfred's parents opposed it. I didn't want a plea bargain either."

"I can't do anything before the verdict comes in tomorrow, but I'll get on this right away. And don't worry, I'm very good at what I do, maybe better than anyone else on the planet. So, if you're innocent, I'll find out. If you're not, I'll find that out too."

"You've got a pretty high opinion of yourself." The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. I thought it was a slight smile.

"Ms. Carter, I've worked over two hundred cases. I've never failed to find the truth. I don't cherry-pick them either. I take them as they come. And, yes, I do have a high opinion of my talents. I'm sure the private detectives who first investigated this were pretty good. You've got the first team on it now." The slight smile on her face turned into a full-blown grin as she stood up and took my hand.

"Are you telling me I won't have to spend much more time here in jail?"

"Not if you're innocent," I said, slowly shaking her hand as I stood up. Then, as she walked out of the room, Halsey walked in. He tipped his hat to her as he passed.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked.

"Gut reaction? I said. "I think she's innocent."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Can you prove it?"

"Like truth, superior detecting skills will out," I said. Halsey snorted. "Can I visit the crime scene?"

“Which one, the first or the second?

“The first, that’s where I think the crime actually took place.”

"Sure, it hasn't been cleaned up yet. The boyfriend's parents wanted it to remain the same, even after getting all the evidence we needed and telling them they could clean it up. So, they've turned it into some sort of shrine. I've still got a key." I told him I'd meet him over there tonight. He gave me the address.

***

I sat in front of my laptop and did a few Google searches. The first rule of good detecting was to find out everything you could about the victim and his family. Somebody wanted him dead. If one person did, there were probably a whole slew of folks.

According to a bio, Wilfred was thirty-two years old. He graduated from Rice ten years ago with a degree in non-linear programming. He was brilliant; non-linear programming problems were challenging to solve. He came into his trust fund when he graduated. The author speculated it was several million.

On a hunch, I called Shirley Jackson over at Rice. She was an African American woman who worked in administration. She was in her late forties and divorced. I hadn't spoken to her since I'd got her son out of a scrape a couple of years ago. He was a good kid. He eventually got into Rice and was in his sophomore year.

She remembered Wilfred Manley. "How could I forget?" she said. “His late grandfather was an alumnus and a big donor to the school. When the school needed money for projects, he always stepped up large. But unfortunately, his parents weren't so generous. They even tried to cut down the size of the endowment the grandfather had left for the school.” When I asked her about Wilfred, she went silent for a few seconds and lowered her voice.

"He was a handsome bastard," she said, "with that dreamy look in his eyes." She said his manners were impeccable, and all the girls liked him. But there was something not quite right about him. A couple of harassment cases were quietly swept under the rug. I asked her for a name. She gave me one, but she didn't want to say anymore. At the rate I was going, I wouldn't be holding anyone's marker.

In my experience, if a man had two harassment cases, there were probably ten more that didn't make the cut. This guy was an "A" student, rich, and handsome if the pictures did him any justice. He was the catch of the year. Women would have been throwing their panties at him, so why would he need to harass them?

It was getting late, and I had to meet Halsey for a walk-through of Wilfred's condo. The car was at the garage door by the time I got out of the elevator. Wilfred's condo was in the Camp Logan area of Houston, which was five or six miles northwest of downtown by the Memorial Park Golf Course. It was a public course, but I doubt if Wilfred played there. His parents were members of the River Oaks Country Club just to the south. The Camp Logan area was originally a World War l training camp. Most of the area was now covered by Memorial Park.

I turned right on to Main Street. I looked at the Flying Saucer Pub wistfully as I drove by. Over a hundred different types of beer. They made an excellent Rueben too. I turned right on Capitol, drove three blocks, and turned right on Louisiana Street. That took me right into the I-10 West onramp. It was late, so the traffic wasn't too bad. Fifteen minutes later, I got off on the Washington Avenue exit and turned left onto Westcott. Then I took a right on Prague and came to Taggart Street, where I took another left.

The condo was the second building on the right from the corner. It was a white stucco three-story job in a Mediterranean style with two front balconies and a two-car garage. It had plantation-style shutters. You could bet he had a wine cellar and a gas fireplace. This place was easily worth over three million. Halsey was parked in front of the condo. I got out of the car and walked toward him. He stared at his watch.

"Don't give me that," I said. "I'm early."

"I know, but if I don't hassle you a bit, you'll take me for granted," he said. "Anyway, let's go on in. All the tape is down, but like I told you, the parents left it like it was."

Halsey stuck the key in the door and slowly opened it. The door opened onto a sitting room. It was gorgeous. The floors were all hardwood. It was tastefully decorated. Several paintings with a southwest theme by local artists hung on several walls, along with a few others I didn’t recognize. One I particularly liked was a cowboy breaking in a wild bronco. The detail was remarkable. I could see the muscles of the horse knot as he tried to shake his unwelcome burden. Another was of a desert scene. There were three men in the foreground in various riding positions. In the background, there was a cloud of dust. The first impression was a group of riders in pursuit, maybe a posse. However, when you looked at it from another angle, it could have been a dust storm.

There was a spiral staircase. There was blood all over the tan flower-print couch and floor—the tan oriental rug with dark brown inlay and frills on the floor was bloodstained. I gave Halsey a signal with my head, and we went up the winding staircase. The staircase opened onto a formal dining room with hardwood floors. There was a fancy wet bar at the far end. It led to a massive kitchen with stainless steel appliances and an ash wood kitchen island in the middle with five drawers. The kitchen had a breakfast nook with a table that seated four.

I didn't see any use going through the bedrooms. There were three of them, along with three full baths, but nothing happened there. We went back downstairs and out the front door. I was lost in thought.

"What's bothering you?" Halsey asked.

"You bastard." I laughed. "You think I'm going to get shafted on this. My oldest and dearest friend," I said sarcastically.

"Uh, uh, uh," he said. "I used the three-times rule when I asked if you wanted to use your markers."

"Yeah, you did, so you're technically clear. But you don't like this case either. You felt the same thing I did about the crime scene. What are you not telling me?" So, he did.

***

I was lost in thought as I sat on my favorite stool at the bar in the Flying Saucer. I was having an Ace pear cider and a Reuben. It was nowhere near as good or as big as the one at Katz's deli, but it wasn't bad. Halfway through the sandwich, Halsey came in. He liked the beer here too. More of a purist than me, he turned his nose up at cider, preferring heavy British ales. I waved him over.

"So, you mulled over what I told you?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'm going up to Hearne to check on a source tomorrow."

"You better get cracking. After tomorrow it's going to be hard even for me to get access to her."

"You seem pretty sure of a conviction."

"Almost positive. I didn't hear anything at the trial that would give me any reason to think otherwise. It ain't gonna be like the Casey Anthony case." The bartender placed a Mikkeller Single Hop Stateside IPA in front of Halsey. He offered me a sip, but I declined. I'd never been an Indian Pale Ale fan. "What are you going do?"

"Follow a lead up in Hearne tomorrow," I said. "One of Wilfred's classmates, or victims, lives up there. Her name is Elisabeth Mathews."

"She know you are coming?"

"Nope, I don't want to give her time to prepare her story, good or bad." I stood up and laid a twenty on the counter. The bartender brought me my change, and I left a five. "I'll let you know what happened."

"Please do," he said.

I left the bar, turned right, and walked across the street to my loft. When I got inside, I turned on the lights. I found myself wishing I had someone to come home to. Maybe Sandra could rectify that shortly. Getting somebody out from under a murder conviction should count for something.

I didn't turn the T.V. on; I just sat down on the couch and thought things over. I didn't have to take notes on any of the information Halsey gave me. I had an eidetic or photographic memory, my superpower. Mine was better than Stephen Wiltshire's. I had a 165 IQ, and I wasn't autistic. I went over to the bookshelf and took down a sketchpad and some charcoal. I drew the interior of Wilfred's condo to scale, complete with every bloodstain. Then, for some reason, I drew an inset Sandra Carter's face. I couldn't help myself. I drew several different angles of her, concentrating on the lines of her face. This woman was innocent.

In addition to my eidetic memory, or maybe because of it, I had one other ability. I could make recognition-primed decisions. Some people called this intuition. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I could rapidly choose the correct course of action when faced with complex situations. That was why Halsey put up with me.

I went back to studying the drawings of Halsey's condo. I was scanning the drawings when I saw it. To confirm, I'd have to return for another look. I'd never been wrong with my drawings, but no sense in being arrogant.

***

The following day I was reading the Houston Chronicle sports page. The Astros' season was all but over. In another column, Obrien explained which quarterback he would use this season. I was sipping my fresh-squeezed orange juice and reading the last of John McClain's column when my cell phone rang. It was the personal secretary for Kerrigan Manley, Wilfred's father.

"Mr. Manley would like to see you at his house this morning at 11:35," he said. It was not a request; it was a summons. A lot of detectives with higher levels of testosterone would have retorted with some little quip. Not me—I had planned to talk to them either later today or tomorrow. I just mentally shifted some things on my schedule around.

"Tell Mr. Manley I'll be there," I replied in my most formal tone.

"The address is—"

"I know the address," I interrupted. "After all, anyone who doesn't know where the Manleys live is just trailer-park trash."

"Right you are, sir. Very good, I will tell Mr. Manley to expect you then," he said. He sounded a little miffed I didn't let him finish.

The Manleys lived in the River Oaks area of Houston. River Oaks was the geographic center of Houston. The wealthiest people in Texas lived there. My parents were rich enough to live there, but my mother preferred the Copperfield area in northwest Houston. She grew up in that area and went to Cyfair High school.

River Oaks was just south of Wilfred's condo. The community was established in the 1920s by brothers William and Michael Hogg. They built it around the River Oaks Country Club. I had a membership there. I inherited it from my father and mother. I took Halsey there to play golf often. River Oaks, at one time, was a national model community. It was perfectly planned, and although there was nothing written, there used to be a gentleman's agreement to exclude African Americans, Jews, Hispanics, and other minorities.

It was an elite Southern suburban enclave. There were a couple of famous murders there; one of the most famous was the Doris Angleton murder in 1997. Doris Angleton's husband, a prime suspect, was a bookie. Also, the Dr. John Hill murder in 1972. To me, that remained one of the most spectacular murder cases in Texas, even more so than the T. Cullen Davis murder case in Fort Worth. Jeff Skilling of Enron fame lived there before he went to jail. You had to admire the sense of grandeur high-society criminals had in Texas.

I tidied up the kitchen. I left the drawings of Wilfred's condo spread out across the living room. Finally, I called for the car and headed down to the garage. I left the garage turned right on Main Street and headed south. After a half-mile, I took a right on Gray Street. After four or five miles, Gray Street turned into Inwood Drive. Ah, the magic of Houston. It wasn't like L.A., where a street could run for sixty miles with the same name. Houston had schizophrenia; a street name could change five times in a mile. I stayed on Inwood for almost half a mile until I reached River Oaks Boulevard and turned right. The Manley house was halfway down the block.

I pulled into the circular driveway and parked in front of the house. A valet opened my door, took my keys, and took off with the car around the house. The exterior of the home was beautiful. Mediterranean-style seemed to be popular throughout the area. It was on about an acre and beautifully landscaped. It was a light brown color with six massive rectangular columns in front. I guessed it was a fifteen-million-dollar house. This estate would easily be worth double the price in a place like New York or Beverly Hills. There was good value for money in Texas.

The door opened, and a short, middle-aged Hispanic woman came out and asked me to come in. I thanked her in flawless Spanish. That brought a slight smile to her face. She showed me into the living room.

A man and woman were sitting on a light tan Jackson sofa. My mother had that model. It retailed for $7,000 back then. The room was huge, at least twelve hundred square feet. It was decorated tastefully, with several expensive end-chairs and Asian-themed standing lamps. There was a fireplace I could stand up in. A huge George III Architectural Pier mirror with a Renaissance gilt finish hung over the mantle. These people were money incarnate. A man, thin, and weasel-looking rose from the sofa. about sixty years old, with thin gray hair, got up and extended his hand. His short gray hair was immaculate.

The woman sitting next to him was about fifty-five. Halsey was right; she did look like Dolly. She was somewhat plump and sported an all-gray big-hair style like Dolly Parton used to wear in the eighties. She played the spoiled, rich Texas socialite character to perfection. I didn't like her instantly. I took Manley's hand; his grip was surprisingly firm.

"Kerrigan Manley, Mr. Elliott," he said. "Call me Kerry; this is my wife, Rebecca Lynn. We call her Becky. She likes that." Becky extended her hand. I expected her to get up and curtsy, but she controlled the impulse. I shook it gently. What a coincidence, Dolly's middle name was Rebecca.

"Thanks for coming so promptly."

"My pleasure," I said. "What can I do for you?"

"You know the jury came back this morning with a guilty verdict?"

"No, I didn't." I knew they were coming back, but it wasn't pertinent to what I was doing.

"They did. About nine-thirty this morning. My sources tell me you are working for Ms. Carter. Is that correct?"

"I haven't decided," I said. So, he was keeping track of Sandra's movement. He had someone on the inside. No matter, it was still not going to be a fair fight.

"At this stage of the game, anything you find out will be a moot point, don't you think?" he said, smiling. Nice probe: he had skills.

"Maybe," I said. "It doesn't hurt to have a fresh pair of eyes go over it."

"As a favor to Becky and me, I'd like you to drop this case. The right person has been found and brought to justice." He was good; that really sounded sincere.

"Just making sure," I said.

"I've looked into you a bit; you have never lost a case. So why jeopardize that?"

"Call me greedy," I said. He didn't take that well. He turned red, and there was a reproachful frown on Dolly's face. The rich could give you the best looks of disapproval than any of the classes. Kerrigan and Becky pulled one out of their private reserve for me.

"I can't offer you money," he said. "Your father left you enough, but I can make your life intolerable."

"I know," I said, trying to sound as humble as I possibly could. "You have a lot of powerful friends. I only have a few. I'm in the pee-wee league compared to you politically and socially. If my group were to explode, yours wouldn't hear the sound for at least a week. I'm still going to look into this a bit more, win, lose, or draw." I was mad, but that was no reason to be impolite.

Kerrigan stood up abruptly. "Then we have no reason to take up each other's time anymore," he said coolly and evenly. It would have sent a chill down my spine if I had been faint of heart. Becky looked really angry. I noticed Kerrigan did not proffer a hand this time. On cue the maid came in and stood by the entrance. At least her gaze was neutral. I followed her out.

“Qué clase de gente es sus patrones?” I asked her at the door.

“Ellos están culeros,” she replied sweetly. I knew they did not understand Spanish. They wouldn't bother.

"Eso es lo que yo pensaba, adios," I said with a little laugh. My car was waiting for me in front of the door. Probably wouldn’t be invited back. The keys were in the ignition, and the engine was running. I slowly drove out the long driveway.

I drove for about half a mile and pulled over. I reached in the back and got my sketchpad. After ten minutes, I had a replica of the Manley living room. I was looking over at the wall left of the fireplace when saw it. I was sure I was not mistaken. I would revisit that later when I needed it.

I got on I-10 West, then the Sam Houston Tollway North until I came to the Northwest Freeway; I got on and headed north. Forty-plus miles later, I came to Hempstead. I looked to the right and saw the enormous vacant lot, formerly the Lawrence Marshall car dealership. A victim of the economy. Their front man was Ray Childress, an all-pro defensive tackle who played for Houston and Dallas in the eighties and nineties. In Hempstead, I picked up Highway 6 North and headed to Hearne.

Hearne was some seventy miles. I would pass through Aggie-land in forty-five miles. Thank God it was a weekday, and no home football game was going to on. I was going to see Matty, a former Rice student who went out with Wilfred Manley. She left abruptly in the middle of her junior year. According to Shirley Jackson, she was one of the women involved in a Manley incident that was swept under the rug.

I pulled into Hearne some fifty minutes later. Shirley wouldn't give me Ms. Mathew's address, but she did tell me she was working at Penny's Diner. I'd eaten at Penny's a few times before on the way to Fort Worth. A diner in the Texas tradition, it featured traditional diner food, real milkshakes and malts, and my favorite, chicken-fried steak. It also had the round stools that swiveled and old-time booths.

The building itself had the shape of the original style diners, narrow and elongated. It reminded me of the kind that allowed roadway transportation, a carry-over from the first true diners that were never intended to be stationary. Like the originals, Penny's had a polished aluminum exterior. And their burgers were some of the best in Texas. So, I grabbed my sketchpad and went in.

The diner was packed. Martha Reeves was belting out "Heatwave." There was an empty stool at the far end of the counter. I was perusing the menu when the waitress behind the counter came up with a pot of coffee and cup. She was an older African American woman, dark-complexioned and thin. She had her hair pulled back into a bun and a pencil in her ear.

"Coffee, honey?"

"Yes, please," I said. She put a mug in front of me and poured. I shook a generous helping of the sugar in my cup. I looked around for the cream. I saw the little packets of creamers.

"What happened to the bell-shaped cream dispensers?" I asked.

"Oh, honey, we haven't had those for years," she said. "How long has it been since you last ate here?"

"About three years," I said.

"People complained for the first year, then they got used to it," she laughed.

I dumped three of the little packets of cream into my coffee. It didn't look like it did much, so I added two more. I took a slow sip. It was good coffee. Being from Seattle, I was very sensitive to the quality of coffee. There were all kinds of devices for brewing coffee. Penny's was the standard Mr. Coffee setup. The best way to brew coffee was vacuum brewing. That used two chambers. Water was heated in the lower chamber, and expansion forced it into a narrow tube of the top chamber that held the coffee. I guarantee that once you tasted vacuum-brewed, you wouldn't want to drink it any other way. The coffee was clean, rich, and smooth. No other method came close. But I was in Rome, so I had to drink it the Roman way.

I ordered the Monster burger; it had bacon, grilled onions, cheese and weighed in at about two-thirds of a pound. It came with fries or onion rings. I got the onion rings. About nine or ten minutes later, my meal came. I tore into it, occasionally stopping to sip the chocolate malt. I had my sequence down to a fine art—a bite of the burger, a sip of the malt, and a bite of onion ring. If I thought they had this in heaven, I'd kill myself. I finished and wiped my mouth with a napkin. I took one last pull off the malt. Who said you couldn't mix business with pleasure?

The waitress brought me the bill. "You didn't like that at all, did you, honey?" she said as she took my empty plate. Someone was a big Martha fan; "Come and Get These Memories" came on next.

"Not a bit," I said as I put a twenty on the counter.

"I'll bring you your change," she said.

"Keep it," I said. "What time does Elisabeth Mathews get in?"

"Are you some kind cop?" she asked suspiciously. A frown appeared on her face.

"Sort of, I'm private." I removed my I.D. from my wallet and handed it to her. "I'm not here to harm her. On the contrary, I'm here to help her. She had a bit of trouble at Rice a while back. The higher powers sent me here to redress it for her." I stuck out my hand. "Call me John." She stuck out her hand slowly, still not knowing what to make of this. Fortunately, I had that look that inspired confidence.

"You can call me Mabel. You sure talk funny. You from somewhere up north, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm originally from Seattle, but I live in Houston now," I said. She put the dishes in the sink and came back with a conspiratorial look on her face.

"Are you really going to help Matty?"

"I've never failed to get results," I said, trying to keep a modest tone to my voice. She stared at me for a second.

"No, I don't believe you have," she said, nodding her head. "Matty will be here at one-thirty. She works from one-thirty to nine-thirty."

"What can you tell me about her?" I asked.

"Matty is a smart girl. She was born and raised here in Hearne. Most of the people around here are Mexican or African American. Although Matty's a white girl, she fits right in. The town is poor; most people make less than $25,000. The rest of Texas is over $48,000. We don't have much to be proud of around here, but we were proud of Matty. She beat out thousands of students nationwide to get that National Chamber of Commerce scholarship to Rice. The sweetest girl you ever met."

"What happened to her at Rice?" I asked.

"Remember the old days when a few powerful families controlled a town?"

"Yeah, but that was years ago." She stared at me in disbelief.

"John, I can tell you're an educated man, and you seem to have common sense about you too. Even though they're great philanthropists, do you think if the Bass family or Alice Walton wanted you out of Fort Worth, you'd be allowed to stay?"

"Touché," I said.

"After the grandfather passed, that Manley family never gave a dime to anyone but themselves. They're mean and stingy, and the apple didn't fall far from the tree with their son. He was real snooty. Matty thought he was Prince Charming when she first met him, and he probably was. There were rumors that he was rough on women. You know what I mean?" I told her I did. "He tried it on Matty one night. She lit into him like a cat protecting her kittens."

"I understand she scratched him up pretty good and reported him to the university authorities."

"They were about to call a hearing, but Matty suddenly dropped out of school and told the university people that it had all been a huge misunderstanding."

"Was it?"

"No," she said. "Matty told us that three men came around to her room. One was an average-sized man in a dark-gray pinstripe suit. The other two were dressed in designer sweats. She said those two were bigger than any football players she ever saw. She knew bone breakers when she saw them."

"Bet she was scared," I said.

"No," Mabel said. "Matty was raised around us. She's seen and met real badasses before. I think that's what pissed Pinstripe off. He told her real bad things would happen to her and her family back in Hearne if she didn't leave town. He said he could wipe Hearne off the map. She wasn't scared, but she believed them."

"So, she left Rice?"

"Yeah, she left and came back home. She cried every night."

"What about the junior college or transferring?" I asked.

"Matty was a junior. She'd taken enough classes to be a senior. She would have to transfer to another four-year college, but she couldn't afford to go without a scholarship. You blow one of those Chamber of Commerce scholarships, and no one will touch you. We had so much hope for her. She was carrying the whole town on her back. You know how people in the olden days would send out their champion to take on the world? That's what we did; Matty was our champion."

"Matty must be really special," I said.

"No one else like her."

I looked at my watch; it was 1:15. She'd be here in fifteen minutes.

"How come you know so much about her?" I asked.

"This is a small town. Besides, her mother was one of my best friends in High school. Her father was a drifter from Montana. He knocked her mother up and left town. A single, pregnant woman in those days was scandalous. So her mother turned her out, and she came to stay with my family until Matty was born. She's around; I still talk to her now and then."

Matty came in at 1:25. For the second time this week, I was in love. About five-eight, her curly blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had high cheekbones and thin lips. Her eyes were a deep brown. As she swiveled her head, surveying the restaurant, our eyes locked. She didn't turn away. She held my gaze as she walked past and went to the back. That got her a lot of street cred with me.

She came back out at exactly 1:30 wearing a clean white apron. She was punctual, another point for her. Mabel walked over to her and whispered something in her ear for over a minute. She was staring at me while Mabel whispered. She came walking over.

"Mr. Elliot?" she asked.

"Yes, but call me John, Ms. Matthews," I replied.

"Call me Matty. I understand you wanted to talk to me about Rice," she said softly.

"Only if you want to," I said gently. She nodded at Mabel and pointed to a booth. The Foundations were blaring "Build Me Up Buttercup" from the speakers. We slid into an empty booth in the middle of the restaurant.

"Mabel said you wanted to talk about Wilfred?"

"I do," I said. "I'm working for Sandra Carter. I don't believe she killed Wilfred Manley. I'm going to get her off."

"When did you get on the case?" she asked.

"Yesterday."

"You realize she was convicted today?"

"And probably will be sentenced to death row," I said.

"You must be the kind of guy who hangs his pants on the hanger before he takes them off," she said with a deadpan look.

"Yeah, I realize it looks a little backward," I said, chuckling. "However, I do have a few clues. I want to find out from you what kind of man Wilfred Manley was."

"He was handsome, rich, and utterly charming," she said. "I never met a man like him in real life. He reminded me of a convivial Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"Pride and Prejudice," I said.

"You're well-read," she said.

"High school English," I said. "Who would have thought it would stick?" I was quiet for a moment, trying to circle my prey. There was no better way to approach it, so I went at it head-on. "What happened between you and Wilfred?" I opened my sketchpad and started sketching the restaurant's interior, including the people, without looking up.

"Wilfred wanted more from me than I was prepared to give him at the time. I went on a few dates with him. I knew from talking with the girls around the dorm that he was somewhat of a ladies' man. I didn't care. He took a little girl from Hearne to some of the finest restaurants in Houston. He was dazzling. I wanted to marry him after the second date. Then it came time to pay the piper."

"And you were unwilling to pay the toll?"

"It's not that I was unwilling. He approached it as though it was his right. I might have done it anyway if he had asked nicely."

"He didn't ask nicely?" Tears well up in her eyes. She shook her head.

"He raped me," she said softly. I put down the pencil and gently put my hand on top of hers.

"You told the university police?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "They brought the rape kit and did the whole nine yards."

"What happened after that?" I asked.

"Some men visited me. An average-sized man in a suit and two big athletic-looking guys. The man in the suit had a sheet of paper he wanted me to sign. It said the encounter between Wilfred and me was consensual. The suit also advised me to go back to Hearne. I told him I had to finish school. He told me that school was out of the question and showed me recent pictures of my mother in front of her house in Hearne. He told me that he could wipe Hearne from the face of the earth."

Matty was openly weeping now. Mabel looked over at me sharply. I shook my head; she nodded and went back to talking to a customer. I took out my handkerchief and gave it to her.

"Take it," I said. Then, I opened my sketchbook and gave it to her.

Her eyes grew wide. "You drew that while we were sitting here?"

"Yep."

"The detail is stunning; I've never seen anything that good. You didn't even look up."

"I can do even better than that, I said. "The last time I was last here was three years ago. Watch this."

My hand flew on the paper as I sketched the diner how I remembered in three years ago. She casually watched me, her mouth dropping over in astonishment when I was finished.

"That's the most amazing thing I ever saw. You're one of those human cameras."

"Sort of, my skills go much deeper than that. Being able to render any scene I've ever seen is only a small part of my talent."

"That woman in the drawing standing by the counter is Debbie Pearson," she said. "She died of cancer two years ago. Also, we haven't used those creamers in three years."

"What would you say if I cleared your name and got you back in school on a full scholarship?"

"Mr. Elliott, after what I just saw, I'll believe anything you say," she said, nodding her head.

"Good, I'm going to need you to help me. I want the names of the other girls Wilfred tried to violate and some more background on him."

Matty gave me a whole hour of her time. When she finished, I got up and said goodbye to her and Mabel. As I walked out the door, "My Boyfriend's Back" by the Angels came on. I started humming it. It was old but still a catchy little tune. It was from the era of arguably the greatest girl groups of all time. And like the song said, I was going to give somebody a beating.

I had a good starting point. I knew for certain that little skunk Kerrigan Manley was in this up to his eyeballs. I had to do a little more digging into his past. But I had a hunch what I would find.

***

A week later, I'd done the research and made the connections. I had to hire a landman for one day, but it was worth it. This was so easy I wouldn't have charged Isaiah anyway. Kerrigan wasn't that smart, and he made at least five mistakes so far. I thought he was responsible for two murders, and he was trying for a third. As I was mulling things over, my cell rang. It was Johnny Renfro. He seemed a bit agitated.

"Halsey wanted me to give you a heads-up. They're moving your client to the Mountain View Unit in Gatesville tomorrow. So, if you want to see her, this is your last chance without a God-awful amount of paperwork."

"Oh, I don't know," I chirped. "Gatesville's got the largest spur collection in the world. It might be worth the hassle just to see that."

"Yeah, right," he said sarcastically. "I was born on a ranch and rode horses all my life. Looking at a spur collection is a dead heat with watching the Cubs. You in or out?"

"Out," I said. "I've got this case solved."

"How's that?" he asked.

"Get Halsey and meet me over at Wilfred's condo at seven p.m.," I said. He said he would. That was the good thing about having a perfect track record. When you talked, everybody listened.

***

Renfro and Halsey were prompt as usual. Halsey knew what this meant, but Renfro didn't.

"I take it you're ready to turn those markers back over to me and write me a few additional?" I said. "To quote an old friend, 'By the way, this is going to move you into negative territory.' So reach a little deeper into that wallet."

"We'll see," Halsey said unconvincingly. He knew the other shoe was about to drop.

"Did you bring the sledgehammer?" I asked

"Yeah," Renfro said. "What are you going to do with it?"

"A little deconstruction," I said.

We entered the condo and went up the stairs. I flipped open to a page in my sketchbook. "I've got two drawings here. This one I made when we were here last; the other is a sketch I made was from the original architect drawings. They're both perfect in every detail."

I showed the sketches to them. They studied the sketches carefully.

"Okay," Halsey said, "what's the big deal?"

"Johnny, take the sledgehammer and hit the wall here." I pointed to the spot on the hallway wall.

"Hey, the city is not going to pay for this!" he said. "This is your dime."

"Duly noted," I said. "Now, hit the wall hard. Hal, draw your gun."

The wall easily buckled under Johnny's blow. It collapsed into a hidden room. A startled, unshaven, and unkempt Wilfred Manley jumped up from a couch. The room smelled of stale beer and food.

"Son of a—" Halsey shouted as he turned his gun on Wilfred. "You're alive, you bastard! Wilfred Manley, you're under arrest for fraud, conspiracy, impersonating a corpse, and anything else I can think of." He shoved Wilfred to the ground and cuffed him." Manley looked furious.

"How the hell did you know?" Renfro said.

"The dimensions of the hallway were off by six and a half inches from the original pictures and drawings. That meant something major happened, like an earthquake, foundation settling, or a good old-fashioned remodeling. There are no expansive clays or compressible fill soils in the area, so foundation settling is not an option. Neither are earthquakes. I checked the county records, and Comco Interiors Inc applied for a building permit for a safe room at this address last year. Wilfred has been planning this for a while. He just needed time to line up his victim. He stalked and hunted down Sandra. He's been hiding here for several months."

"That means his parents were involved," Halsey said. "He couldn't have done this by himself."

"You betcha," I said. "You won't be able to prove that though. You may be able to get them on obstruction of justice, but even that's unlikely."

"What was the point of all this?" Halsey asked.

"Old-fashioned greed," I said. "I did some checking on the Manleys' finances and where their money came from. Did you know old man Kerrigan and Sandra's father were business partners?"

"I didn't see that in any documentation," Halsey said.

"No, and unless you got a copy of Sandra's father's will, you wouldn't see it. There are about 150,000 acres of Eagle Ford Shale oil and gas leases that Kerrigan and Sandra's fathers have in escrow in Live Oak County; each one has fifty percent. I had a landman check it. If something happens to Sandra, the last remaining Carter heir, those interests revert to the Manleys and vice-versa. Those leases are worth several hundred million dollars."

"So, it was a two-pronged attack," Halsey said.

"Yep," I said. "Old Kerrigan knew Sandra was the last heir. The agreement states that if the last remaining heir on either side dies, the surviving side gets the leases. The Texas courts will not let you inherit by murder; Pritchett versus Henry, 1955. I'm guessing old man Kerrigan would have already filed the papers to that effect to nullify Sandra's claim on the lease."

"What would Wilfred get out of all this?" Renfro asked.

"I suspect Wilfred would have changed his identity and quietly slipped down to South America or Thailand. Somewhere where his unusual proclivities would not get him into trouble. He had no interest in the business. I think he was an embarrassment for old man Kerrigan. Kerrigan might have even had him killed eventually. He thinks he's going to live forever. He's a nasty piece of work."

"Still, I don't think Wilfred will roll over on his father," Halsey said.

"No, he won't," I said." So, there's something else also."

"What's that?" Halsey asked.

"Kerrigan killed Sandra's parents, but we'll never be able to prove it. You know my skill set. If I say that, it's etched in stone."

Halsey nodded his head. "So that bastard gets clean away?"

"I didn't say that," I said. I have a little surprise for Kerrigan."

***

I drove over to see the Manleys that evening. Like before, I pulled into the circular driveway and parked in front of the house. A valet-type came to my door and opened it. I knocked on the door. The same Hispanic woman opened it.

"Aye Caramba!" she said. "You got some cajones coming back here."

"I know," I said, "but I just had to see you again." She giggled and told me to wait in the hall. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, before she finally came back.

"Mr. Kerry will see you." She ushered me into the living room. He and Dolly were sitting on the couch. Dolly had a look on her face like someone broke wind in the Celebrity Theatre in Dollywood. Kerrigan looked pissed.

"I'm sorry to spoil your evening," I said, "but there are a few things we need to talk about, and in the interest of justice, you need to straighten out."

Kerrigan stood up. "You've got the unmitigated gall to come here and make demands. Forty years ago, I would have had you tarred and feathered and then hung."

"I know," I said unperturbed, "but let me tell you how this thing is going to play out. First, you're going to drop any claim you have on those Eagle Ford Shale leases. Next, you're going to set up a trust fund for Elisabeth Mathews. You probably don't remember her. You ran her out of town too. Protecting that scumbag son of yours has become an occupational hazard for you. You're going to set aside two hundred fifty thousand for her to finish Rice and send a letter to the administration clearing her record and apologizing for your son's behavior. I'll give you the name of the person to send it to."

He stared at me as if I'd just shot the major. "You're finished in this town, son," he said.

"I don't think so, Kerr. The police don't have anything on you that can be proven, but I do." I walked over to him and whispered in his ear. He jumped back startled.

***

I was sitting at my desk looking out the window, wondering whether I wanted to get a cider and a Rueben. It had been a month since Wilfred was arrested. Matty got a five-million-dollar settlement from the Manleys and re-enrolled at Rice. We went out on a couple of dates. It didn't gel like I thought it would, so we agreed just to be friends. It was mostly my fault; I was still thinking about Sandra. I hadn't seen her since she was released. Reporters were dogging her every footstep for a story. She ducked out of sight for a while. I had her number, but I didn't call.

The knock on the door was low but steady. Finally, I yelled, "Come in!" The door opened slowly, and Isaiah stepped in. He had on the same clothes he wore when he first came to my office. He took off his hat and sat in the seat opposite me.

"Thank you," he said. "Her father and mother can rest in peace now."

"You're welcome," I said.

"About the bill," he said. "I can't pay you anything right now, but what you’ll get out of this will outweigh any amount of money I can give you."

"You mean a heavenly reward?" I asked.

"No, I'm thinking of something more earthly. You haven't been to see her since she was released," he said.

"How'd you know that?" I asked

"I keep in touch."

"I was waiting for things to settle down for her," I said. That felt cowardly, but it was the best I could come up with.

"You've waited long enough. Go to her. She needs you, and you sure need her. I told her father I'd always look out for her. I think it's time I turned that job over to you." He stood up and put his hat on his head, walked over to the door, and paused. "Goodbye," he said quietly and walked out the door. I jumped up and ran to catch him, but he was gone. I dialed Sandra's number on my cell. She answered just as I was getting ready to hang up.

"Hello?" she said. Her voice was even more silky and smooth than I remembered.

"Hi, Sandra," I said. "This is—"

"John?" Her voice sounded excited.

I plucked up my courage. "I wanted to wait until things quieted down before I contacted you."

"Oh, John, after what you did for me? I was so afraid you would never call again. I've been crying myself to sleep almost every night."

I had pictured myself as the shy, bashful lad in this deal. Suddenly, I was transformed into a cad.

"When can I see you?" I said, trying not to sound too eager.

"How about right now?" There was a pause. "John, I want to know who your client was."

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt now. It was Isaiah."

There was a long silence, and then she spoke. "Isaiah who?"

"Isaiah Perry," I said.

"Ice?"

"Of course, how many Isaiah Perrys worked for your father for thirty-five years?" I asked.

"Ice died in the fire with my father and mother five years ago. He was the one who found the note my father wrote. He was overcome by smoke before he could crawl out."

"We can't be talking about the same guy," I said incredulously. I described him.

"That's what he was wearing when he died," she said. "He's buried in the Evergreen Cemetery in the Fifth Ward."

I was quiet for a few seconds.

"John?" She said. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes, I'm positive." I hung up the phone.

I had one more thing to do before I left. I had unfinished business with old man Kerrigan. I had to wait a month before I did it. I wanted to make sure Matty's settlement was irrevocable. I checked and found all the paperwork was in order. He couldn't touch it. It was time to put the wood to Kerrigan. The first time I went to his house, I took a mental picture of the living room. I dialed an overseas number. A woman's voice came on the line and said hello in heavily accented English.

"Hello," I said, "is this the Holocaust Era Asset Restitution Taskforce?"

"It is," the voice said.

"I may have located a Cézanne here in Houston. I believe it is a looted object that may have been stolen from a Polish family named Buchholz." I described it to her. "Do you have such a work on your list?" There was silence on the line, but I could hear her fingers on the keyboard.

"We do," she said. I could feel the excitement in her voice.

"I've seen it at a Houston, Texas, residence. I'll email you the address and give you a contact in the Houston Police Department who can confirm it."

"Sir, if this is true, there is a ten percent reward if the object is successfully recovered."

"No thanks," I said. "I'll give you my name and contact details, but I'd appreciate it if you could keep my name out of the paper. It's not good for my business." The Manleys were still powerful people and there was no telling how far the reach of a drowning man could extend.

"I understand, sir," she said.

I gave her the details. I called Halsey and told him to expect a call. I'd seen that Cézanne in a list of missing Nazi stolen art objects. I knew the one on Kerrigan's wall was the real thing. It was front-page news. A Houston oil magnate trafficking in stolen Jewish art. There were a couple of other pieces of art with undocumented pedigrees, but I wasn't going to do all their work for them.

Sandra lived in the Houston Memorial Village area just west of downtown in a large five-bedroom house on Crossroads Drive. I arrived at Sandra's forty-five minutes later. When I pulled into the driveway, she was standing there in the open doorway. She looked beautiful, as her hair fluttered in the breeze. I got out the car and walked slowly toward her. She held out her arms and said, "C'mere." And I ran.

The End

Mystery
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About the Creator

William Stinson

Consultant geologist. Seattle native now living in Texas. Have lived in Europe, Asia and Africa as a working geologist. Graduated from the University of Washington. married with three daughters and five grandkids.

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