When she looked up, I nodded.
“Byron?”
“It's a family name.” I smiled winningly.
“Do you have a gun?”
“Not here.” Not anywhere, but that would tarnish the image.
“Does this have to do with the airplane crash?”
I leaned close. She smelled of mint and overperfumed shampoo. “What we're looking for could be critical to the investigation.”
Behind me, I heard Ryan's feet shift.
“My name is Dorothy.” She handed back the card. “I'll get it.”
Dorothy went to a map case, pulled out a drawer approximately two inches high, withdrew a large sheet, and spread it on the counter.
Ryan and I bent over the map. Using township boundaries, roads, and other markers, we pinpointed the section containing the courtyard house. Dorothy observed from her side of the divide, vigilant as an Egyptologist displaying a papyrus.
“Now we'd like section map six-two-one, please.”
Dorothy smiled to indicate she was part of the sting, went to another case, and returned with the document.
Earlier in my career as an anthropologist, when I had done some archaeology, I'd spent hours with U.S. Geological Survey maps and knew how to interpret symbols and features. The experience came in handy. Using elevations, creeks, and roads, Ryan and I were able to zero in on the house.
“Section map six twenty-one, parcel four.”
Keeping my finger on the spot, I looked up. Dorothy's face was inches from mine.
“How long will it take to pull up the tax records for this property?”
“About a minute.”
I must have looked surprised.
“Swain County is not a pumpkin patch. We
Dorothy went to a rear corner in her “secure” area and lifted a plastic cover from a monitor and keyboard. Ryan and I waited as she fastidiously folded the plastic, placed it on an overhead shelf, and booted the computer. When the program was up and running she keyed in a number of commands. Seconds passed. Finally, she entered the tax number and the screen filled with information.
“Do you want hard copy?”
“Please.”
She unveiled a Hewlett-Packard bubble-jet printer similar to the first one I'd ever owned. Again we waited while she folded and stored the plastic cover, took one sheet of paper from a drawer, and placed it in the feeder tray.
Finally, she hit a key, the printer whirred, and the paper disappeared then oozed out.
“I hope this helps,” she said, handing it to me.
The printout gave a vague description of the property and its buildings, its assessed value, the owner's name and mailing address, and the address to which the tax bills were being sent.
I passed it to Ryan, feeling deflated.
“‘H&F Investment Group, LLP,’” he read aloud. “The mailing address is a PO box in New York.”
He looked at me.
“Who the hell is the H&F Investment Group?”
I shrugged.
“What's LLP?”
“Limited liability partnership,” I said.
“You could try the deed room.”
We both turned to Dorothy. A touch of pink had sprouted on each cheek.
“You could look up the date that H&F bought the property, and the name of the previous owner.”
“They'd have that?”
She nodded.
We found the register of deeds around the corner from the tax office. The records room was situated behind the obligatory counter, through a set of slatted swinging doors. Shelves lining the walls and filling free-standing cases held deed books spanning hundreds of years. Recent ones were square and red, their numbers stated in plain gold lettering. Older volumes were ornately decorated, like leatherbound volumes of first editions.
It was like a treasure hunt, with each deed sending us backward in time. We learned the following:
The H&F Investment Group was an LLP registered in Delaware. Ownership of tax parcel number four transferred to the partnership in 1949 from one Edward E. Arthur. The description of the property was charming,
