Ryan was on a roll. Ignoring him, I directed my response to McMahon.
“He found something while filtering the remaining soil.”
“What's that?”
“He didn't say. Just that the item might be useful. He's going to stop by Bryson City sometime later in the week on his way to Asheville.”
Ruby returned, cleared plates, left.
“So you're off to the courthouse?” Ryan.
“Yes.” Terse.
“Sounds like detecting.”
“Somebody's got to do it.”
“It can't hurt to know who owns that property.” McMahon drained his cup. “After today's briefing I have to shoot down to Charlotte to interview some asswipe claiming to have information about a militia group up here in Swain. Otherwise, I'd tag along.”
He drew a card from his wallet and placed it in front of me.
“If they're uncooperative at the courthouse, wave this. Sometimes the acronym induces a mood swing.”
“Thanks.” I pocketed the card.
McMahon excused himself, leaving Ryan and me and three empty mugs.
“Who do you think tossed your room?”
“I don't know.”
“Why?”
“They were looking for your shower gel.”
“I wouldn't belittle this. How about I poke around, ask a few questions?”
“You know that'd be a journey into pointlessness. These things are never solved.”
“It would let folks know that someone is curious.”
“I'll talk with Crowe.”
I rose to leave and he took my arm.
“Do you want backup at the courthouse?”
“In case of an armed attack by the recorder of deeds?”
He looked away, back at me.
“Would you like
“Aren't you going to the NTSB briefing?”
“McMahon can fill me in. But there's one condition.”
I waited.
“Change your phone.”
“Hi-Ho, Silver,” I said.
The Swain County Administration Building and Courthouse replaced its predecessor in 1982. It is a rectangular concrete building, with a low-angled roof of red galvanized metal, that sits on the bank of the Tuckasegee River. Though lacking the charm of the old domed courthouse at Everett and Main, the structure is bright, clean, and efficient.
The tax office is located on the ground floor, immediately off a tiled octagonal lobby. When Ryan and I entered, four women looked up from computers, two behind a counter directly ahead, two behind a counter to our left.
I explained what we wanted. Woman number three pointed to a door at the back of the room.
“Land Records Department,” she said.
Eight eyes traveled with us across the floor.
“Must be where they archive the classified stuff,” Ryan whispered as I opened the door.
We entered to find another counter, this one guarded by a tall, thin woman with an angular face. It brought to mind my father's old picture of Stan Musial.
“May I help you?”
“We'd like to look at the county tax index map.”
The woman put a hand to her mouth, as though the question startled her.
“The tax map?”
I began to suspect my request was a first. Taking Byron McMahon's card from my pocket, I walked to the counter and handed it to her.
Madam Musial eyeballed the card. “Is this, like, the actual FBI?”
