“And Baker was right. The property was used as a fishing camp from the thirties until the mid-seventies. When the owner died it passed to her relatives in Georgia. I guess they weren’t big on seafood. Or maybe they got fed up with the property taxes. Anyway, they sold the place in 1988.”
This time I waited him out.
“The purchaser was one J. R. Guillion.”
It took a nanosecond for the name to register.
“Jacques Guillion?”
“
“The same Jacques Guillion?” I said it so loudly a student turned in the corridor to peer in at me.
“Presumably. The taxes are paid . . .”
“With an official check from Citicorp in New York.”
“You got it.”
“Holy shit.”
“Well put.”
I was unnerved by the information. The owner of the Adler Lyons property also held title to the burned-out house in St-Jovite.
“Have you talked to Guillion?”
“Monsieur Guillion is still in seclusion.”
“What?”
“He hasn’t been located.”
“I’ll be damned. There really is a link.”
“Looks that way.”
A bell rang.
“One other thing.”
The hall filled with the commotion of students passing between classes.
“Just to be perverse I sent the names out to Texas. Came up empty on the Right Reverend Owens, but guess who’s a rancher?”
“No!”
“Monsieur J. R. Guillion. Two acres in Fort Bend County. Pays his taxes . . .”
“With official bank checks!”
“Eventually I’ll head out that way, but for now I’m letting the local sheriff snoop around. And the gendarmerie can flush Guillion. I’m going to hang here a few more days and turn the heat up on Owens.”
“Locate Kathryn. Sh called here, but I missed her again. I’m sure she knows something.”
“If she’s here, I’ll find her.”
“She could be in danger.”
“What makes you say that?”
I thought of describing my recent conversation about cults, but since I’d only been fishing I wasn’t sure if I’d learned anything relevant. Even if Dom Owens was leading some type of cult, he was not Jim Jones or David Koresh, of that I was certain.
“I don’t know. Just a feeling. She sounded so edgy when she called.”
“My impression of Miss Kathryn is that all her lobes may not be firing.”
“She is different.”
“And her friend El doesn’t look like a candidate for Mensa. Are you keeping busy?”
I hesitated, then told him about my own attack.
“Sonofabitch. I’m sorry, Brennan. I liked that cat. Any idea who did it?”
“No.”
“Have they put a unit on your place?”
“They’re doing drive-bys. I’m fine.”
“Stay out of dark alleys.”
“The cases from Murtry arrived this morning. I’m pretty tied up in the lab.”
“If those deaths are drug-related, you could be pissing off some heavy characters.”
“That’s breaking news, Ryan.” I tossed the banana peel and Moon Pie wrapper into the trash. “The victims are both young, white, and female, just as I thought.”
“Not your typical trafficker profile.”
