“Poor woman,” Death said. “Nice, too. How come her daughter can’t be more like her?”
“We’ve caught Sheryl at a bad time. Who knows what she’s like when she’s not having to leave everything she loves?”
Death didn’t look convinced.
“Are you coming?” Casey headed toward the back of the building, where Tom’s truck sat. Casey knocked on his office door. Death had disappeared, but Casey could hear a banjo playing from the grove of trees in the next lot. She knocked again, and heard a voice drawing closer. The door opened on Tom Haab, a phone at his ear. He hesitated, then waved her in.
“Yes, yes, I’m here,” he said into the phone. “But I’ll call you back. I don’t know, a little while. Okay.” He flipped the phone shut and laid it on his desk. “So, what can I do for you?”
“If you’re willing to help I’d appreciate it. But if you don’t want me here, I’m gone.”
“No, no, that’s fine.” He sat on his office chair and swiveled toward her, gesturing to another chair. “Dave seems to like you. Keeps asking if I’ve heard from you.” He gave a quick smile. “Up till now I’ve had to disappoint him.”
“I don’t want to get him in any more trouble. Or you.”
His eyebrows rose. “Am I in trouble?”
“I hope not. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“So why are you here?”
“Because I need a computer, and yours was the only one I could think of.”
“All right.” He got up from his chair. “It’s yours. I’m about ready to head out for lunch, anyway, so you can have the run of the office. I’ll lock you in. No one will bother you.” He went to the door and stuck his head out. “Kim, I’m going out, I’ll be back after lunch.”
Casey heard a woman’s soft voice, but couldn’t understand the words.
“One-o’clock?” Tom said. “I’ll be back in plenty of time. Thanks.” He shut the door and locked it. “Anything you need before I go? Oh, just a minute.” He went back out the door, being careful to shut it behind him, then returned with a bag. “Here.” He re-locked the door and dropped the bag on the desk. “Lunch.”
Casey smiled. “Thank you. You can’t imagine how grateful I am for that.”
“You’re welcome.”
“One question before you go—do you know anyone named Willie Yonkers?”
He grinned. “What kind of name is that?”
“A rich one, apparently.”
“Oh. No, I’ve never heard of him. If I had, I’d remember.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“That’s it? Nothing else? All right, then. See you in a while.” He went out the back door, and Casey heard the bolt slide home.
She looked at the computer, but something didn’t feel quite right. The room was too bright—too open. She closed all of the blinds, and turned out all of the lights except for a lamp sitting on Tom’s desk. Much better. And now…
She had the computer and the entire office to herself. She could get all kinds of things done. She sat down…and opened the lunch bag. Egg salad sandwich. Chips. An apple. Two homemade chocolate chip cookies. And a can of Coke.
She was in heaven.
Keeping the food away from the keyboard, she typed in Willie Yonkers’ name. Lots of hits, and they were all positive—working with a local Habitat for Humanity project, a celebration of his and his wife’s 25th anniversary—mustn’t have been a recent event, since Evan had said she’d left him—and his son Brad winning some big college debate. His daughter, Tara, was homecoming queen—wearing a dress Casey wouldn’t let her own daughter be caught dead in, Willie had been appointed to the town council, and he had made a top ten list of “best small businesses in north-central Kansas.” Business for what? Ah. Nothing even close to trucking. Flowers.
Flowers?
Not just a nursery. Fancy stuff. Orchids. Trees from South America. Even some special moss that was supposed to level off acidity in the soil. Things you couldn’t get down at the local greenhouse. According to the testimonials Hollywood folks and television evangelists landscaped their properties with plants and trees from Yonkers’ place, and there were several photos with NBA stars, politicians, and even one late night TV personality. In every one of the pictures, Yonkers stood smiling beside the famous customer, his expression smug, with a visible sense of entitlement. Casey hated him on sight.
Yonkers’ expertise, naturally, led to one last article. Willie Yonkers’ residence had a prestigious spot on the region’s home and garden tour. Casey clicked on the images of his home to enlarge them. Inside shots of amazing interior design. Outside shots highlighting trees, flowerbeds, and fountains. Even one aerial photo. Wow. Quite the opposite of poor Pat Parnell’s place. But then, Yonkers could afford the help of gardeners, housekeepers, and a whole slew of underlings Casey couldn’t even imagine. Employees hired with the money Yonkers made by blackmailing people like Pat Parnell.
Yonkers obviously enjoyed his position in the community. He had his fingers into a little bit of everything, and somehow always came out on top, looking good. Where were the articles about his destroyed marriage, or the broken relationships with his children? Not newsworthy, apparently. Or else he’d paid to keep them out of the papers.
Casey drummed her fingers on the desk. Had Evan gotten too close? Did he know Yonkers was involved? She pushed her fingers against her temples, trying to remember exactly what she and Evan had talked about before… She shook herself away from the horrible images of the crash. What had he been saying?
Willie and Evan had spitting contests in first grade, Willie had more money than he knew what to do with, Willie’s family hated him… But there had been no anger. Nothing to give even a hint that Evan had caught Yonkers in a criminal scheme. If anything, there was envy, and…admiration.
Casey closed her eyes and pictured Evan’s information. She wished now she’d brought it with her. He’d matched the names to the photos—he probably knew some, if not most, of the drivers. Perhaps he’d seen some of them on the road—truckers run into each other at truck stops, diners, rest areas—especially if they frequent the roads in the same general area. Pat Parnell had even mentioned seeing Evan. Most likely Evan knew some of the drivers weren’t supposed to be behind the wheel anymore and wondered what was happening. He’d found all their disqualifications. Knew they were driving illegally.
She thought about the manifests, all clipped together in a neat stack. Those papers—the physical papers themselves—were different. They, as compared to his notes and even the photos, were newly copied, all on the same pristine white paper. That’s when she realized—Evan had just discovered the fake names. The copied papers hadn’t had time to get bent and dirty and fingerprinted because they were brand new.
So why hadn’t Evan told anyone? Why was the information still squirreled away in his truck?
And this time? I’m staying for a good long while. I’ve been working my tail off and I need a break.
Evan’s words about home came back to her, as if he were sitting right there in the room. He’d known he finally had them cold, and he was going to turn them in. The problem was…someone else had known it, too.