Instead of going straight to WCJB, I did what I’d led Dylan to believe I wouldn’t. I drove back to Highland Heights. I didn’t plan to get out of my car. I just wanted to drive around and get a feel for the property I’d be researching. In front of the old school was a large FOR SALE sign. I recognized the realty company immediately: Entermann’s Realty, a client of Preston and Butler. I’d done some work on a case in which a woman sued Entermann’s because she’d tripped and fallen on property owned by the company. My job was to discredit the claimant. It wasn’t difficult; she was one of those litigious people with multiple cases pending. Apparently she’d been successful in more than a few of her endeavors, because without record of employment she was financially solvent. Following her from her meeting with the attorneys, I found her walking around the deck of her twenty-five-foot boat docked at the river. It was a beautiful Hydra-Sports with two motors and a lower cabin. It wasn’t the boat that interested Preston and Butler—it was the lack of the walking stick or neck brace she’d sported merely an hour earlier.
As I drove back to the building I’d watched weeks before, I longed for an open-and-shut case like that one. Externally the building hadn’t changed. It still appeared abandoned and the one beside it that looked like an old firehouse did too; nevertheless I wondered what the men did between the buildings. Though I drove slowly, the way the passage between the buildings was shaded meant I couldn’t see anything but light at the other end. I drove around the block again and parked at the far end of the building, away from the street. I wanted to get my Nikon out of my trunk, but hearing Dylan’s words, I opted for fast, and turned on the camera app on my phone. I stepped out of my car and tried to shut the door softly. Once I had, I shook my head. No one was there. I was just being ridiculous.
Birds squawked above my head as I moved toward the building. My low-heeled shoes weren’t especially good for walking through the taller grass, but I chose that direction to avoid the obvious path of the sidewalk. Approaching the gap from the rear, I peered around the corner. Closer to this end were two doors directly across from one another, one to each building. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the passage. The closer I came to the doors, the more audible voices became. I pressed my body against the rough brick and listened, trying to decide which building the sounds were coming from. Just as I determined it was the one that wasn’t the old firehouse, the sound of tires on the loose gravel in front of the buildings made my heart race.
With only the nose of a black SUV visible, I hurried in the other direction, out the passage, and toward my car. Once inside, I let out the breath and hit the “Lock” button. Before I could convince myself that it was Dylan’s fault I was so jumpy, a big dark hand knocked once on my window.
I recognized the man immediately: his picture was on my computer. He was the driver of the SUV I’d seen on my first stakeout. Of course, from behind the tinted glass I hadn’t gotten the full experience of his girth. His waist was higher than the bottom of my window, and he bent forward. His not-so-welcoming face was at the glass as I eased my window down a little bit.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Lady, you lost?”
“I may be,” I lied. “I’m supposed to take pictures of some real estate for my company. Do you know if these buildings are for sale?”
“Not to my knowledge. I suggest you get yourself out of here, and tell your boss if he sends you here again, you better have a gun.”
I nodded. “Thank you,” I mumbled, rolling my window up and backing away. I may not have taken a full breath until I was back on Woodward Avenue.
I was so lost in the money trail of the buildings that until my phone buzzed, I’d forgotten about my lunch with Tracy.
Tracy Howell: CHARLOTTE, I’M SORRY. INSTEAD OF LUNCH, CAN WE DO DRINKS, SAY FIVE? I’M WORKING THROUGH LUNCH AND WILL DEFINITELY NEED ONE BY THEN.
Shit!
Stella: YES! I’M KIND OF BURIED AT WORK TOO. SEE YOU AT FIVE . . . JUMBO’S?
Tracy Howell: I’LL BE THERE.
I turned back to the computer screen and rubbed my temples. Since I’d been back to WCJB I hadn’t left my cubicle or even stood up. The pages of chicken scratch I’d accumulated wouldn’t make much sense to anyone but me, and even I wasn’t sure what it all meant.