“Are you aware of the penalties for obstruction of justice?” Noah asked.
“I am not obstructing anything,” she said. “I’m simply telling you that your warrant does not cover my computer. If you want the files that are covered by your warrant, you will need to talk to the law office, which has access to all records of this company. I wish I could be of more help.” Her tone said anything but.
“Identification,” Noah asked.
Now she looked a bit flustered. She crossed over to her desk and raised an eyebrow at Nate, who stood behind the desk. “May I?” She gestured toward the bottom drawer.
Nate stepped aside but kept eyes on her hands. She pulled out her wallet and handed her Texas driver’s license to Noah. He wrote down the information and handed it back. “Phone number where we can reach you?”
“If it’s related to this company, you can contact me through the law office.”
Noah clearly wasn’t happy with the results of their efforts. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number on the card she’d handed him.
“This is Supervisory Special Agent Noah Armstrong with the Federal Bureau of Investigation with a warrant for two properties managed by Direct Property Holdings. I am at your business office and they claim they have no access to the files in question. I want all records including owner information, maintenance, rental agreements, finances, and copies of every check or transaction. And I want them ready immediately.”
He listened, then gave the two relevant addresses. He listened again and said, “Next week is not going to work. One hour … I don’t care if the lawyer who handles DPH is not in the office, I have a federal warrant.” He looked at his watch. “One hour.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Siobhan had the driver take her back to the hotel, then picked up her rental car to drive out to the address Eric had given her. She didn’t want to intimidate the midwife by driving up in a black Town Car. Now that she was alert, she was certain she wouldn’t put herself in a position of danger.
She appreciated Sean—though she suspected Kane had a lot to do with it—providing her with a secure hotel and transportation, but she’d been a photojournalist for more than a decade and had taken care of herself more often than not. She’d traveled through dangerous countries and was hyperaware of her surroundings. She admitted to herself that being in the States had lulled her into a false sense of security, but now that she was reminded that the States could be as violent as Mexico and Central America, she wasn’t going to be caught unawares.
The midwife Eric had identified, Cora Smith, lived in a small two-bedroom, one-bath postwar box house in the middle of a long line of two-bedroom, one-bath postwar box houses. It was late morning, and day laborers who couldn’t find work at dawn were now back in their yards, watching Siobhan with cautious, quiet eyes when she stopped the rental car in front of house number 1127. She walked up the short, weed-choked concrete walkway and knocked on the door. The scent of fresh tortillas and chili powder wafted through the air as the door opened. “I’ve been expecting you,” Cora said and opened the door wide.
“You have?”
“I heard a pretty redhead wanted to talk to me. That would be you, right?”
“I’m Siobhan Walsh,” she said. “I’m looking for two girls—the daughters of my best friend—and I heard you might have some information.”
“Come, I just finished making dinner.” In true southern fashion, she called her midday meal dinner, while supper would be a smaller, lighter meal.
Cora wasn’t what Siobhan expected. First, she was an octogenarian. And small—not even five feet tall and couldn’t possibly weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. Silver-white hair so short and straight she could have been mistaken for a man. Her house was immaculate but cluttered, with no television that Siobhan could see, and a crucifix over every doorway. An enormous paint-by-numbers of the Last Supper hung in the kitchen’s eating area, dwarfing the small room. From a distance, it didn’t look half bad.
Two young boys stood in the kitchen at attention. Cora finished filling a dozen lunch boxes with some sort of spicy stew, stacks of fresh tortillas, and small apples. She stacked six lunch boxes into each of two larger cardboard boxes. In Spanish she said, “Thank you, boys. When you return the boxes, I’ll pay you. And your lunch will be ready.”
The boys stared at Siobhan with wide eyes and nodded at Cora, then left through the back door, each carrying a box that seemed too large for him.
“Good boys,” Cora said with a nod. “I prepare meals a few times a week for some of my older neighbors who can’t get around so well. The boys help deliver for me. I’m not as spry as I used to be.”
Older neighbors? Must be the ninety-somethings, Siobhan thought.
“Sit, I’ll dish some stew.”
“You don’t have to—”