First thing the next morning, Andy Prescott rode his bike down South Congress, parked outside his favorite PI's office, and walked inside. Lorenzo Escobar looked up from his laptop.
"Don't tell me you lost her?"
" 'Fraid so."
Lorenzo seemed amused.
"Oh, I checked out that Maureen O'Malley Reeves."
Andy had asked Lorenzo to run a search on Russell Reeves' mother. He wasn't sure why.
"She's legit. Lives out in California in a high-end retirement place on the ocean. Got a son lives here. Russell Reeves, the billionaire."
Russell had told the truth.
"What color is her hair?"
"Blue."
Lorenzo motioned Andy over to his laptop.
"My West Coast associate, he took this photo, emailed it over." On the screen was a color photo of four old women. "One on the right, that's her."
"She does have blue hair. They all have blue hair."
Lorenzo shrugged. "Old ladies do that. Anglos, anyway."
"I need you to find Frankie Doyle again."
"She don't want to be found."
"I've got to find her."
"Same fee?"
Andy nodded. Lorenzo faced the laptop. Andy sat and read the local paper. Ten minutes later, he heard Lorenzo's voice.
"Gotcha."
Lorenzo wrote a note and handed it to Andy.
"That's her new address."
Andy turned to leave, but Lorenzo said, "You forgetting something?"
"I'll get the money, bring it back later."
Lorenzo grabbed his keys. "I'll drive you."
Lorenzo Escobar drove a black 2005 Cadillac Escalade with blacked-out windows and black leather seats. Selena, the Latina singing sensation who had been murdered when she was just twenty-three by the president of her fan club, sang softly on the CD player. Lorenzo had driven Andy first to the bank for his $9,999, and then to San Marcos thirty miles south of Austin.
San Marcos is home to Texas State University and thirty thousand college students. If you're young and want to get lost in a crowd, it would be a good place. Two days before, Frankie Doyle had rented an apartment in San Marcos under her real name. She had signed a rental application; the application authorized the landlord to run a credit check.
"Must not have read the fine print in her tenant app," Lorenzo said. "Smart girl, she'd know we could track her that way."
Lorenzo had pulled her credit report and found the landlord's inquiry, which included the address of the apartment complex on Aquarena Springs Road, the main drag through town. It was the first activity on Frankie Doyle's credit file in three years. She was desperate.
They knew the apartment complex where she lived, but not the specific apartment. So Lorenzo stopped at the manager's office and went inside. When he returned, he said, "Apartment 621. Upstairs."
"How'd you get the manager to-"
Lorenzo gave him a look.
"Never mind."
They drove through the parking lot until they found Apartment 621. Frankie's old Toyota was nowhere in sight. So they parked and waited. Frankie Doyle had lied; the DNA matched. Russell Reeves was the girl's father. And like any good father, he wanted to find his daughter, test her for the cancer gene, and save her life. What's wrong with that? Nothing. Nothing at all.
So why couldn't Andy sleep last night?
They ducked down in their seats when the Toyota pulled up and Frankie and the red-haired girl got out. Frankie was smoking a cigarette. Lorenzo reached over to the glove compartment and retrieved a pair of binoculars. He put them to his eyes and whistled softly.
"Good looking lady. She wears underwear."
"What, you got X-ray binoculars?"
"A trained eye. So your client really wants this woman?"
Andy nodded.
"She really doesn't want him."
They watched Frankie and the girl climb the stairs and enter the apartment.
"Can we go home now?" Lorenzo said.
When they pulled out of the parking lot, Andy took one last glance back and saw Frankie standing in the window looking out.
"Harmon, can we go over to Sixth Street tonight? They've got live music."
"Turn up the radio."
They were sitting in the Crown Vic parked outside Andy Prescott's office. Harmon's cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and answered.
"Yeah, boss?"
"Harmon, we got his home address. Prescott."
"What took so long?"
"It's a rental."
"Must be a real successful lawyer."
Harmon wrote down the address then hung up.
"Let's go."
Cecil started the engine and backed out.
Lorenzo waited for the two white dudes in the black Crown Vic to back out of the parking space in front of Andy's office; when they drove off, he pulled in.
"Thanks," Andy said.
"What about your bike?"
"I'll pick it up later."
Andy got out and went upstairs to his office. He had called Russell from San Marcos. A few minutes later, his client arrived. Russell Reeves didn't sit.
"You found her?"
Andy nodded. "In San Marcos."
"What's the address?"
Andy wrote Frankie Doyle's address on a notepad and tore the page out. Russell reached out for it. Andy hesitated a moment-he wasn't sure why-then handed it to his client.
"Good work, Andy. I'll take it from here. How's Floyd T.?"
"He's good. What are you going to do?"
"Pay his bills."
"No. With Frankie?"
"Try to save my daughter's life."
"If she has the gene?"
"Yes."
"If the DNA was right?"
"DNA doesn't lie, Andy."
Russell reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. He dropped it on the card table in front of Andy and walked out. Andy opened the envelope and removed a cashier's check for $25,000 made out to "Andrew Paul Prescott." As if he had just sold out Frankie Doyle.
He turned and looked out the window; Russell was getting into his limo. He glanced up at Andy and gave him a little wave. Andy watched the black limousine drive off. Then he ran downstairs to the tattoo parlor. Ramon was engrossed in something at his desk.
"Ramon, I need to borrow your car."
Ramon held up a Big Chief notebook.
"Andy, you ever read Floyd T.'s stuff? He's good. This story's about Vietnam when he-"
"Ramon, your car."
"No way, dude."
"It's an emergency."
Ramon stood. "I'll drive."
Four blocks north, Harmon knocked on the door of a little house on Newton Street. There was no answer.
"Are you looking for Andy?"
A cute little broad walking her mutt was standing on the sidewalk. Harmon gave her a smile.
"Yes, ma'am, we are."
"He doesn't live here anymore."
"Do you know his current address?"
She shook her head. "Some loft downtown, but I don't know the address. Sorry."
Harmon and Cecil walked toward the Crown Vic, but Harmon stopped short and looked down. He sighed.
"Cecil, what are you wearing?"
"Cowboy boots. You like them?"
"No."
"I got them at the secondhand store down from Prescott's office. Good price."
"Those boots belonged to someone else?"
"Yeah. They're already broken in."
"Because some other guy's feet were in them."
Cecil shrugged. "So?"
"So they could have diseases."
"The boots? Like what?"
"Athlete's foot, for one."
"My feet do itch."
"There you go."
Thirty minutes later, Ramon parked the yellow Corvette in front of Apartment 621 in San Marcos. Andy didn't see the Toyota, so he got out and climbed the stairs. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He peeked in the windows, but saw no one. He went back to Ramon.
"Let's go to the manager's office."
When Andy walked into the office, the manager was watching a game show on a small TV behind a waist-high partition.
"I'm looking for Frankie Doyle."
"Popular girl. She left."
"She moved out?"
"Paid a month's rent for two days."
"Where'd she go?"
"Didn't leave a forwarding address."
Cecil parked the Crown Vic directly in front of 1514? South Congress Avenue. The bum was gone, the lights were off, and even the tattoo parlor was closed.
"People here work for a living?" Cecil said. "And we wonder why our economy's in the crapper. No one wants to work anymore."
"Except the Mexicans."
"And us."
"We're lucky, Cecil. Most men have to work at jobs they hate. My dad worked in that stinking factory till the day he died. But you and me, we're not stuck in a factory or an office. We get to be outside, do what we love to do. And make a hell of a nice living doing it. Not many men can say that."
"You're right, Harmon. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in the moment that we don't step back and realize how blessed we are. Smell the roses and all that shit."
"Amen to that, Cecil." He paused a moment, then said, "Now let's kill this target so we can get home to our families."
Ramon dropped Andy off at Lorenzo's office. Andy got his bike and rode straight to the hospital in downtown where he found Floyd T. resting comfortably and watching the television perched high on the wall of his private room. His hair had been cut, and he was clean shaven. Floyd T. was a handsome man.
"You doing okay, Floyd T.?"
Floyd T. shrugged. "For a homeless person just out of heart surgery."
Andy pulled Floyd T.'s notebook out of his backpack and handed it to him.
"Thought you might want this."
"Thanks, Andy. I need to catch up on my memoirs. Oh, did I tell you two men came looking for you Saturday?"
"No. What'd they want?"
"You. They weren't from here."
"How do you know?"
"Shiny suits, and they talked funny, with accents."
"Foreign?"
"Yeah. Maybe New York." Floyd T. gestured at the TV. "They just had a story about Reeves giving away money. He's quite a guy. Shame about his son."
Andy nodded. "He's a good kid."
"You know, Andy, being homeless is like being invisible. People talk like I'm not even there."
"And?"
"And I heard you and Russell talking, up in your office. You leave your window open. Andy, I don't buy it."
"What?"
"Seventeen girlfriends. Sending you all over the country to find them, give them a million bucks. Men don't work that way."
"You heard all that?"
"I'm only sitting ten feet below your window."
"So?"
"So Russell is a good man, Andy. But good men sometimes lose their way. I saw it during the war-buddies getting sniped every patrol, can't even find the enemy to shoot at, the pressure builds every day-the mind can snap. I saw it in soldiers' eyes, Andy, when they were about to snap. And when they did, good men did bad things."
"Russell's not like that."
"Every man's like that… under enough pressure. When we're desperate enough, we can all snap. On the TV, when he talked about his son, I saw it in his eyes." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I saw it in my own eyes, Andy, before I snapped."
"Russell saved your life, Floyd T."
Floyd T. nodded.
"And now I'm trying to save yours."
Andy walked to the elevator and pushed the button. He was thinking about what Floyd T. had said when the doors opened on Russell Reeves.
"Russell."
"Andy."
"I was here visiting Floyd T. What are you… Zach?"
Russell nodded. "He took a turn for the worse."
"Can I see him?"
"Sure. Come on up."
They went upstairs to the cancer ward and walked down the corridor. Andy followed Russell into a room. Zach Reeves was lying in the bed connected to oxygen and an IV and various monitors that beeped.
Shit.
The boy opened his eyes and smiled.
"Hi, Dad. Hey, Andy."
His voice sounded weak.
"Hey, buddy," Russell said then stepped over and checked his chart.
"Hi, dude," Andy said.
Zach slowly extended his hand to Andy and closed his fist. Andy gave him a fist-punch.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, Zach?"
"Can Andy and I talk? Alone? Just for a minute."
Russell glanced from his son to Andy and back.
"Sure, buddy." He walked to the door but stopped. "Andy, you want something to eat?"
"Thanks. I'm good."
After Russell left, Andy said, "Dude, what happened?"
"My blood counts went wacko again."
"Man, you gotta get well soon so I can have another shot at you on Guitar Hero."
Zach nodded.
"What's it like, Andy?"
"What's what like?"
"Kissing a girl."
"Kissing a girl? Where'd that come from?"
Zach pointed a finger at the TV on the wall. It was tuned to a preteen show on the Disney channel.
"I don't think I'm ever going to kiss a girl," Zach said.
"Dude, you'll have to beat 'em off with a stick."
Zach shook his head.
"My parents won't talk to me about it."
"Kissing girls?"
"Dying."
Andy sat down next to the bed.
"I'm not stupid, Andy. I hear the doctors talking. I understand cancer. I need to talk about it with someone."
"I'll talk with you about it."
"Does it hurt?"
"No. The doctors don't let it hurt."
"I heard my dad say your father is dying."
Andy nodded. "He needs a liver transplant."
"I hope he gets it."
"Me, too."
"Do you think dead people hang around, you know, where they lived? So their family still feels them around?"
"I hope so."
"Me, too."
They talked about life and about death for a while longer. When Andy walked out of Zach's room, Russell Reeves was sitting in a plastic chair outside the door with his face in his hands. He looked up.
"Thanks, Andy."
Andy wiped tears from his face. Russell walked him to the elevator. He punched the down button. When the elevator car arrived, Andy stepped in. The doors began to shut, but Russell stuck his hand in. The doors opened.
"She's gone, Andy. Frankie Doyle."
"I know."
"Find her, Andy. So my daughter doesn't end up like my son."