'Tres, this deal is definitely a ten on the Weird-Shit-O-Meter-of-Life all right, but I don't think I'm in danger or anything.' He pointed at the pedicab. 'Riding in one of those down Congress, now that's dangerous.'
'You read yesterday's paper?'
Andy shook his head. 'I was in San Diego.'
Tres reached to his back pocket and pulled out a folded-up page from a newspaper. He unfolded and smoothed the page on the table. It was a newspaper article about an Austin lawyer who had been shot and killed in Ithaca, New York, the apparent victim of a random robbery. He was only forty.
'What's he got to do with me?'
'Read the rest of the story.'
Andy read aloud: ' 'Laurence G. Smith had been a partner at Rankin Edwards amp; Phillips, a prominent Austin law firm whose clients include
… Russell Reeves.' '
NINETEEN
First thing the next morning, Andy Prescott rode his bike down South Congress, parked outside his favorite PI's office, and walked inside. Lorenzo Escobar looked up from his laptop.
'Don't tell me you lost her?'
' 'Fraid so.'
Lorenzo seemed amused.
'Oh, I checked out that Maureen O'Malley Reeves.'
Andy had asked Lorenzo to run a search on Russell Reeves' mother. He wasn't sure why.
'She's legit. Lives out in California in a high-end retirement place on the ocean. Got a son lives here. Russell Reeves, the billionaire.'
Russell had told the truth.
'What color is her hair?'
'Blue.'
Lorenzo motioned Andy over to his laptop.
'My West Coast associate, he took this photo, emailed it over.' On the screen was a color photo of four old women. 'One on the right, that's her.'
'She does have blue hair. They all have blue hair.'
Lorenzo shrugged. 'Old ladies do that. Anglos, anyway.'
'I need you to find Frankie Doyle again.'
'She don't want to be found.'
'I've got to find her.'
'Same fee?'
Andy nodded. Lorenzo faced the laptop. Andy sat and read the local paper. Ten minutes later, he heard Lorenzo's voice.
'Gotcha.'
Lorenzo wrote a note and handed it to Andy.
'That's her new address.'
Andy turned to leave, but Lorenzo said, 'You forgetting something?'
'I'll get the money, bring it back later.'
Lorenzo grabbed his keys. 'I'll drive you.'
Lorenzo Escobar drove a black 2005 Cadillac Escalade with blacked-out windows and black leather seats. Selena, the Latina singing sensation who had been murdered when she was just twenty-three by the president of her fan club, sang softly on the CD player. Lorenzo had driven Andy first to the bank for his $9,999, and then to San Marcos thirty miles south of Austin.
San Marcos is home to Texas State University and thirty thousand college students. If you're young and want to get lost in a crowd, it would be a good place. Two days before, Frankie Doyle had rented an apartment in San Marcos under her real name. She had signed a rental application; the application authorized the landlord to run a credit check.
'Must not have read the fine print in her tenant app,' Lorenzo said. 'Smart girl, she'd know we could track her that way.'
Lorenzo had pulled her credit report and found the landlord's inquiry, which included the address of the apartment complex on Aquarena Springs Road, the main drag through town. It was the first activity on Frankie Doyle's credit file in three years. She was desperate.
They knew the apartment complex where she lived, but not the specific apartment. So Lorenzo stopped at the manager's office and went inside. When he returned, he said, 'Apartment 621. Upstairs.'
'How'd you get the manager to-'
Lorenzo gave him a look.
'Never mind.'
They drove through the parking lot until they found Apartment 621. Frankie's old Toyota was nowhere in sight. So they parked and waited. Frankie Doyle had lied; the DNA matched. Russell Reeves was the girl's father. And like any good father, he wanted to find his daughter, test her for the cancer gene, and save her life. What's wrong with that? Nothing. Nothing at all.
So why couldn't Andy sleep last night?
They ducked down in their seats when the Toyota pulled up and Frankie and the red-haired girl got out. Frankie was smoking a cigarette. Lorenzo reached over to the glove compartment and retrieved a pair of binoculars. He put them to his eyes and whistled softly.
'Good looking lady. She wears underwear.'
'What, you got X-ray binoculars?'
'A trained eye. So your client really wants this woman?'
Andy nodded.
'She really doesn't want him.'
They watched Frankie and the girl climb the stairs and enter the apartment.
'Can we go home now?' Lorenzo said.
When they pulled out of the parking lot, Andy took one last glance back and saw Frankie standing in the window looking out.
'Harmon, can we go over to Sixth Street tonight? They've got live music.'
'Turn up the radio.'
They were sitting in the Crown Vic parked outside Andy Prescott's office. Harmon's cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and answered.
'Yeah, boss?'
'Harmon, we got his home address. Prescott.'
'What took so long?'
'It's a rental.'
'Must be a real successful lawyer.'
Harmon wrote down the address then hung up.
'Let's go.'
Cecil started the engine and backed out.
Lorenzo waited for the two white dudes in the black Crown Vic to back out of the parking space in front of Andy's office; when they drove off, he pulled in.
'Thanks,' Andy said.
'What about your bike?'
'I'll pick it up later.'
Andy got out and went upstairs to his office. He had called Russell from San Marcos. A few minutes later, his
