“Yo.”
“Have you learned anything new?”
“I saw a great bumper sticker this morning.”
I waited.
“Jesus loves you. Everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.”
“Is that what you called to tell me?”
“That was the bumper sticker.”
“We are a religious people.”
I looked at the clock. Two-fifteen. I realized I was famished and reached for the banana and Moon Pie I’d brought from home.
“I’ve spent some time observing Dom’s little ashram. Not very useful. Thursday morning three of the faithful piled into a van and drove off. Other than that I saw no traffic in or out.”
“Kathryn?”
“Didn’t see her.”
“Did you run the plates?”
“Yes, ma’am. Both vans are registered to Dom Owens at the Adler Lyons address.”
“Does he have a driver’s license?”
“Issued by the great Palmetto State in 1988. No record of a previous license. Apparently the reverend just walked in and took the exam. He pays his insurance right on time. In cash. No record of claims. No record of traffic arrests or citations.”
“Utilities?” I tried not to crinkle the cellophane.
“Phone, electric, and water. Owens pays cash.”
“Does he have a Social Security number?”
“Issued in 1987. But there’s no record of any activity. Never paid in, never requested benefits of any kind.”
“Eighty-seven? Where was he before that?”
“An insightful question, Dr. Brennan.”
“Mail?”
“These folks are not great correspondents. They get the usual personal greetings addressed to ‘Occupant,’ and the utility bills, of course, but that’s it. Owens has no box, but there could be a drop under another name. I staked the post office briefly, but didn’t recognize any of the flock.”
A student appeared in the doorway and I shook my head.
“Were there prints on your key chain?”
“Three beauties, but no hits. Apparently Dom Owens is a choirboy.”
Silence stretched between us.
“There are kids living at that place. What about Social Services?”
“You’re not half bad, Brennan.”
“I watch a lot of television.”
“I checked with Social Services. A neighbor called about a year and a half ago, worried about the kids. Mrs. Joseph Espinoza. So they sent a caseworker out to investigate. I read the report. She found a clean home with smiling, well-nourished young’uns, none of which was of school age. She saw no cause for action, but recommended a follow-up visit in six months. That was not done.”
“Did you talk to the neighbor?”
“Deceased.”
“How about the property?”
“Well, there is one thing.”
Several seconds passed.
“Yes?”
“I spent Wednesday afternoon going through property deeds and tax records.”
He went quiet again.
“Are you trying to annoy me?” I prompted.
“That piece of land has a colorful history. Did you know there was a school out there from the early 1860s until the turn of the century? One of the first public schools in North America established exclusively for black students.”
“I didn’t know that.” I opened a Diet Coke.
