Thunderbolt over Texas

Eight

It took Sydney the entire next morning to convince Cole they needed to split up. But she finally sent him to some antique dealers across town, freeing her up to walk to city hall.

Hunched over a microfiche reader in the bowels of the building’s basement, she discovered Irene Cowan had paid taxes on a little house at Risotto Beach for ten years running. But Irene’s trail disappeared in the early eighties. She could have started renting, or she might have moved away.

Sydney moved on to utility records. But she found nothing new. Then, two hours later, just when she was sure she’d hit a dead end, it occurred to her to check marriage licenses.

She moved to the State offices upstairs. There, finally, she had another lead. Irene Cowan had become Irene Robertson. She and her husband had paid taxes in Oceanside for a further fifteen years. Then they’d died in a car accident in the mid-nineties.

But they’d raised one son, Rupert Cowan. And according to the Oceanside Gazette, he’d graduated from Edison High School and won a small scholarship to Southwestern State Fashion Design College. The Southwestern State alumni newsletter revealed that he’d received his degree then taken a job in New York.

Then Google picked up a local fashion show from last year in Miami. Rupert Cowan’s company, Zap, had been a contributing designer.

It was a break. A huge break.

Rupert could be in Miami.

Sydney needed to get there just as soon as possible. She began formulating a plan. She’d approach him the way she approached any other potential seller. Not on the phone, not with a letter, but in person. She needed to see his expression, gauge his mood, his interests, his weaknesses.

This was the most important antiquity purchase she’d ever make. She was doing it step by careful step.

Her heels clicked on the floor of the cavernous, marble foyer while she dialed Gwen’s number.

“Hello?” Gwen answered.

“I need you to send us to Miami.”

“Sydney?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“What’s in Miami?”

“I can’t explain, but you need to give us some kind of a lead for Miami.”

“Whoa. A false lead?”

“Yes.”

“What’s going on?”

“You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“You’ve got something. What’ve you got?”

“I’ve got a name,” Sydney admitted.

“Who? Where? How?”

“I can’t tell you that. It would give away a confidence.”

“You have someone else working on this?”

“It’s, ah, complicated.”

“I’m reasonably intelligent.”

“I know.” But Sydney couldn’t tell Gwen. She couldn’t tell anybody Rupert’s name. She’d given her word to Grandma.

“So, what exactly is it that I’m doing here?”

“You’re sending us to Miami.”

Gwen’s tone hardened. “That’s not what I meant.”

Sydney sighed, not sure how to answer.

“So, what? I’m window decoration?”

“Right now. Yeah.”

Gwen’s voice rose, her exasperation coming through loud and clear. “You mean I can stop calling in favors from Edinburgh to Rome?”

“Yes.”

“Sydney!”

“I didn’t know until this very minute. I swear, I just found out-”

“Fine.”

Sydney felt like crud. “I’m sorry.”

Gwen’s voice was flat. “Call me if you need help.”

“I will. And, Gwen?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll tell you what I can later. But this is important.”

“I hear you.”

“I’ll call you from Miami.”

“I’ll be asleep.” Gwen disconnected.

Sydney snapped the phone shut and pushed open the glass door.

Out on the wide, concrete staircase, she swore under her breath. Gwen was a good friend, and a consummate professional. Maybe it would be safe to tell her…

Sydney trotted down the steps, rubbing her thumb over the keypad of her phone, trying to decide how much she could afford to tell Gwen. As she ran through the facts, Grandma’s stricken expression flashed through her mind. Sydney heard her own heartfelt vow, and remembered her determination to do right by the woman.

Good friend or no good friend, she knew she’d take the secret to her grave.

“I gotta ask myself…” came a familiar, mocking voice.

Sydney blinked the world back into focus and stared directly into the face of Bradley Slander.

“…what does the Oceanside City Hall have to do with our little search?”

A cold wave of fear momentarily paralyzed her.

“This is the best one yet, Sydney.” He chuckled. “Come on, tell ol’ Bradley what you’ve got.”

“Nothing.” She gripped her phone, cursing herself as she increased her pace in an effort to get him away from the building.

She frantically cataloged her movements over the past few hours. Had she covered her tracks? Would the clerks remember her? Had she written anything down? Tossed evidence in the wastebasket?

How could she have been so careless as to let Bradley sneak up on her? He could have overheard her phone call to Gwen. He might already know about Miami.

“We can go fifty-fifty,” he said, pacing along beside her.

“Get lost.”

“Now, that’s just rude.”

Sydney stopped on the sidewalk and turned to stare at him, a horrible thought crossing her mind. What if he’d talked to Cole’s grandmother? What if he’d gone to the ranch, lied about who he was and pumped the family for information.

“If you’re so damn good, why do you need me anyway?” she asked, fishing to see how much he knew.

He moved in closer. “Because we’re a team, Wainsbrook. It wouldn’t be near as much fun without you.”

“You mean, you don’t want the entire profit?”

His beady eyes narrowed. “Yeah, right. You don’t think for one minute I’m going to find it.”

“Frankly,” said Sydney, with what she hoped was an unconcerned toss of her hair, “I don’t think either of us is going to find it.”

“They why are you wasting your time?”

“It’s my time to waste.”

“What’ve you got?”