returned to her desk.
They thumbed through it, the three of them huddling over the paperwork, scouring it as if it contained the highly guarded secret formula for Coca-Cola.
“Same PO Box,” Bledsoe commented.
“And nothing on the application to indicate he’d ever been in the slammer,” Robby noted.
“You didn’t really expect him to be an honest citizen when filling out his job app, did you?” Vail asked. “Would you hire a rapist who’d done time?”
“So we’re left with interviewing the employees,” Robby said. He turned to the receptionist. “Can we talk with the personnel director?”
“You’re lookin’ at her.”
“You have any employees who’ve been with the company longer than fifteen years?”
She looked at the ceiling, searching the exposed pipes and ventilation ducts. “We got four. No, three. Then there’s the owner.”
“They in?” Bledsoe asked. “We’ll need to talk to each of them.”
“They’re in. I’ll call them.”
Vail held up a hand. “Hold it. We’ll take the owner first. Then we’ll talk with the three workers.”
AL MASSIE WAS A SQUAT MAN in his early fifties. His thick, short legs rubbed together when he walked, causing a side-to-side gait that resembled a waddle. He had a flat pencil stuck behind his right ear, and frazzled gray hair interspersed with saw dust. His left thumb was missing its last joint.
“I’m Paul Bledsoe, Fairfax County Homicide. These are my associates, Special Agent Karen Vail and Detective Robby Hernandez.” Pleasantries were exchanged. “We were wondering what you could tell us about Patrick Farwell. Worked here three years, nineteen—”
“I remember Patrick. Good worker, kept to himself. Didn’t know nothing about what he was doing, though. I had nothing to do with it. I told the police everything, which wasn’t much.”
“We’re not here about that case,” Vail said. “We were just hoping you could provide some background for us on Patrick. Anything you could tell us would be helpful.”
“Don’t remember much. That was a long time ago.”
“How about friends he had?” Vail continued. “Was he close with any of the workers?”
“From what I remember, Patrick was a loner. There was one guy he used to work with a lot, Jim Gaston. Did a lot of finish work with him. Jim’s still here. You talk to him yet?”
“No, we figured we’d start with you.”
“Jimbo’s your man. If Patrick said anything to anybody, it woulda been to Jimbo.” He looked at Bledsoe and Robby, then took a step backward. “I’m in the middle of a wall unit, and yes, I may own the place but I still keep my hands in the sawdust. Don’t like running the business, that was my father’s job before he passed on. Anything else you need me for?”
Bledsoe shook his head. “That’s good for now. If something comes up, we’ll find you. Thanks for your help.”
JAMES GASTON NEEDED A DENTIST. His left front tooth was missing, and his lower teeth were crooked and caked with plaque. He had a receding forehead and a strong chin, giving him almost a prehistoric appearance. He, too, had a flat pencil tucked behind his ear, and his apron was covered with paintbrush strokes of stain.
“I remember Patrick, sure,” he said in response to Bledsoe’s question. “Strange guy. Didn’t like to talk much unless he had some beer in him. He’d sneak some during lunch, then he’d open up. Talked about these women he’d had, but I didn’t pay him much mind. Thought he was blowing his own horn, you know? Then when he got arrested I started thinkin’ maybe he wasn’t shit-tin’ me.”
“He ever say anything about where he lived, places he liked to go or hang out?” Vail asked.
“He lived on an old family ranch or something like that. Lotta land. Hunted fox in the winter, fished in the summer. ’Bout all I remember. We wasn’t friends or nothing, just worked together on cabinets. He was real good, though, had the gift.”
“The gift?”
“Good hands. Born with it, I’d say. You can just tell. Steady hand, good eye.”
Bledsoe asked, “When was the last time you saw him?”
“The day they put them cuffs on him and hauled him outta here.”
Robby blew on his hands to warm them, then asked, “You know anyone he may still be close with, someone we could talk to, maybe find out where he is, or where his ranch is?”
“Don’t know anyone. It’s not close, I can tell you that. Big drive to get here every day.”
“Hey Jimbo,” a man called from thirty yards away. “We gotta move this thing outta here!”
“I gotta go,” Gaston said.
Robby thanked him, then handed him his business card and asked him to call if he remembered anything else. Fifteen minutes after returning to the office, they had completed their interview of the remaining workers who had been at Timberland when Farwell was employed there. None of them knew much about Farwell, but all confirmed he kept to himself and did his work with extraordinary precision.
As they got back into their car, Bledsoe said, “Gaston said Farwell had a family ranch. But when you did your search, nothing came up.”
“He also said the ranch was old. If we take him at his word, then it’s possible the ranch was purchased before the cutoff date of the records I reviewed on microfiche. I think it was sometime around 1900. If they bought it in 1899, I would’ve missed it. The other records will have to be searched by hand.”
Bledsoe turned the key and started the engine. “Then I know where we’re headed.”
THEY ARRIVED at the County Department of Land Records at noon. It was a typical government building built decades ago, one story and sprawling with a sloping roof. They spoke with the clerk and half an hour later, Robby, Bledsoe, and Vail were sitting at a long wooden table with volumes of bound records dating back to the late 1800s laid out in front of them.
They each picked a volume and began searching for land owned by anyone named Farwell. The task was tedious, and as the hours passed, the combined effect of lack of sleep and stagnant blood flow began to creep into their bodies. They had each dozed off at least once, despite the cans of Coke they had bought from the lobby vending machine.
“I’d better go stretch my legs,” Vail said. “I’m not doing much good falling asleep. I think I’ve read the last entry on this page five times.” But as she stood, Robby stopped her.
“Eighteen ninety-one. Franklin Farwell purchased fifty-five acres in what looks like the southwest portion of Loudoun County.” He rotated the page and tried to get his bearings on the accompanying map. “I’d say that would qualify as a family ranch.”
Bledsoe rose from his chair with a grunt and leaned over the table to get a look at Robby’s find. “Got an address?” Bledsoe’s button-down oxford was ruffled, the sleeves rolled to the elbows. A large Coke stain adorned the front, dating back to sometime around 3 P.M., when he’d fallen asleep with the can in his hand. It had awakened him real fast.
“Got a plot number. Eighteen. Plat nine of county map four. Remember, this is from the nineteenth century.”
“We need a map,” Vail said, “one that’s up-to-date, so we can look that up.”
Bledsoe stifled a yawn as he lifted the bound volume that contained the Farwell ranch. “I’ll bring this to the clerk in there. Let her tell us where it is. She could probably locate it a hell of a lot faster than we could.”
After the records clerk spent five minutes triangulating the Farwell ranch on a current map, Bledsoe notified each of the task force members and set a meeting at the op center for one hour. His next call was to the Loudoun County Emergency Response Team, who was to prepare to mobilize in the next few hours.
The ride back to the op center was a long one, complicated by traffic caused by a motorcycle versus pedestrian accident. Ambulance and emergency response vehicles lined the shoulder, slowing the rubberneckers to a crawl.
Vail’s heart was beating harder than normal, and even though she felt herself daydreaming about her bed and
