she doesn't have to sign an app.'
'A hotel? Motel?'
'Maybe. But they usually require a credit card, and she knows we can track that, too. And she won't stay at some dive 'cause of her kid. So she's looking for a mom-and-pop place that'll take cash.'
'A bed and breakfast.'
'Bingo.'
'Lorenzo, there's hundreds of B amp;Bs around Austin, out in the Hill Country.'
'That is a problem.'
Lorenzo stroked his goatee, a sure sign he was thinking. After a moment he said, 'Didn't you say she calls her mama up in Boston?'
'Every day.'
'Cell phone?'
'Calling card.'
'Smart girl. But now we got something we can work with. Call information up in Boston and get her mama's phone number. It'll be listed.'
'Why?'
' 'Cause she's old.'
'No. Why do you want her number?'
'I've got an associate who works at the phone company.'
Frankie Doyle had called her mother in Boston at nine Texas time. At eleven Texas time, Lorenzo parked the Escalade in front of the Gruene Mansion Inn bed and breakfast in Gruene, Texas. Frankie had used a calling card on the house phone.
Gruene, Texas, is a faux town located just off Interstate 35 between Austin and San Antonio. It had once been a real town, but the Great Depression had rendered it a ghost town. Today, Gruene is a tourist destination on the Guadalupe River with B amp;Bs, restaurants, and shops selling antiques, pottery, and souvenirs. It gives off the impression of a movie set.
But one place in town is authentic: Gruene Hall, an old-time honky-tonk that had been built in the late 1800s, survived the Depression without closing, and hosted the likes of Bo Diddley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Kris Kristofferson, and Paul Prescott. Andy was recalling the nights he had fallen asleep with his head in his mother's lap while his father performed on stage, when Lorenzo nudged him.
'The woman.'
Frankie Doyle and her daughter had walked out the front door of the inn. Frankie stopped and lit a cigarette. Andy stepped out of the Escalade and walked toward them. Frankie looked as if she had been crying. When she saw him, her shoulders sagged. He offered a smile.
'Those are bad for your health.'
'You're bad for my health. I had quit, until you showed up.'
'Sorry.'
She took a long drag on the cigarette, exhaled smoke, and said, 'What do you want from me?'
'Frankie, I need to talk to you-alone.'
She sighed then said to her daughter, 'Honey, go sit on that bench for a minute.'
The girl walked off.
'Frankie, you lied to me.'
'About what?'
'About not dating someone you met in the bar.'
'What are you talking about?'
Andy gestured at the girl. 'Her.'
'What about her?'
'She's his child.'
'Whose?'
'My client's.'
'I thought he wanted to give me a million dollars?'
'He was looking for his child.'
'He needs to be looking for a psychiatrist.'
'Frankie, she might have a cancer gene.'
'A cancer gene?'
'Yes. My client is a carrier. He passed a mutated gene to his son that gave him the rare cancer. He might have passed it to her, too. Frankie, your daughter might be dying.'
Frankie Doyle didn't flinch at the news.
'She's not dying. She doesn't have a cancer gene.'
'She might.'
'She can't.'
'How do you know?'
'Because he's not her father.'
'Why'd you run again?'
Frankie stared at the dirt.
'You saw us in San Marcos?' Andy said.
She nodded.
'Frankie, is it Mickey? Are you running from him?'
'Andy… Mickey's dead.'
' What? How?'
'Someone cracked open his skull, outside a bar. I called my mother this morning, she told me. I thought it was just her mind playing tricks with her, so I went online and read the Boston newspaper. It's true.'
First the Austin lawyer and now Mickey Doyle. What did they have in common? Russell Reeves. And Hollis McCloskey quit because he thought he was being used… and that Andy was too.
'Frankie, you ever heard of Russell Reeves?'
'No.'
'He's a billionaire.'
'Is he your client?'
'Yes.'
'And he says he's her father?'
'The DNA confirmed it.'
'What DNA?'
'Hers.'
'How?'
'Band-Aid in your trash.'
She suddenly had the look of a cornered ostrich.
'Andy, now they'll come.'
'Who?'
'Your client. The people who killed Mickey.'
'Russell Reeves isn't a murderer. He's just rich.'
She looked at Andy like he was a moron. Maybe he was.
'You really don't have a clue, do you?'
'A clue about what?'
She flicked the cigarette away and turned to her daughter.
'Come on, Jessie, we're leaving.'
She grabbed the girl's hand and pulled her away. Andy ran after them.
'Where are you going?'
They kept walking fast.
'Somewhere we can hide from your client.'
