Part 37 (2/2)
”These folks are not great correspondents. They get the usual personal greetings addressed to 'Occupant,' and the utility bills, of course, but that's it. Owens has no box, but there could be a drop under another name. I staked the post office briefly, but didn't recognize any of the flock.”
A student appeared in the doorway and I shook my head.
”Were there prints on your key chain?”
”Three beauties, but no hits. Apparently Dom Owens is a choirboy.”
Silence stretched between us.
”There are kids living at that place. What about Social Services?”
”You're not half bad, Brennan.”
”I watch a lot of television.”
”I checked with Social Services. A neighbor called about a year and a half ago, worried about the kids. Mrs. Joseph Espinoza. So they sent a caseworker out to investigate. I read the report. She found a clean home with smiling, well-nourished young'uns, none of which was of school age. She saw no cause for action, but recommended a follow-up visit in six months. That was not done.”
”Did you talk to the neighbor?”
”Deceased.”
”How about the property?”
”Well, there is one thing.”
Several seconds pa.s.sed.
”Yes?”
”I spent Wednesday afternoon going through property deeds and tax records.”
He went quiet again.
”Are you trying to annoy me?” I prompted.
”That piece of land has a colorful history. Did you know there was a school out there from the early 1860s until the turn of the century? One of the first public schools in North America established exclusively for black students.”
”I didn't know that.” I opened a Diet c.o.ke.
”And Baker was right. The property was used as a fis.h.i.+ng camp from the thirties until the mid-seventies. When the owner died it pa.s.sed to her relatives in Georgia. I guess they weren't big on seafood. Or maybe they got fed up with the property taxes. Anyway, they sold the place in 1988.”
This time I waited him out.
”The purchaser was one J. R. Guillion.”
It took a nanosecond for the name to register.
”Jacques Guillion?”
”Oui, madame madame.”
”The same Jacques Guillion?” I said it so loudly a student turned in the corridor to peer in at me.
”Presumably. The taxes are paid . . .”
”With an official check from Citicorp in New York.”
”You got it.”
”Holy s.h.i.+t.”
”Well put.”
I was unnerved by the information. The owner of the Adler Lyons property also held t.i.tle to the burned-out house in St-Jovite.
”Have you talked to Guillion?”
”Monsieur Guillion is still in seclusion.”
”What?”
”He hasn't been located.”
”I'll be d.a.m.ned. There really is a link.”
”Looks that way.”
A bell rang.
”One other thing.”
The hall filled with the commotion of students pa.s.sing between cla.s.ses.
”Just to be perverse I sent the names out to Texas. Came up empty on the Right Reverend Owens, but guess who's a rancher?”
”No!”
”Monsieur J. R. Guillion. Two acres in Fort Bend County. Pays his taxes . . .”
”With official bank checks!”
”Eventually I'll head out that way, but for now I'm letting the local sheriff snoop around. And the gendarmerie can flush Guillion. I'm going to hang here a few more days and turn the heat up on Owens.”
”Locate Kathryn. Sh called here, but I missed her again. I'm sure she knows something.”
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