Fatal Connections

Chapter 40

After speaking with Ms. Brooks Brothers, it seemed like a good idea to get in the car and leave. As I walked toward my car, I heard a garage door rattle its way up. On my way to my Fiesta, I stopped short and did a 180-degree turn as I heard the garage door rise. The rattling sound was followed by the slam of a car door.

Before Ms. Brooks Brothers hit the road, I hoped to catch a glimpse of her license. I could hide and take a photo, but where? The relatively barren suburban landscape didn't provide much cover, but I spied a nearby hedge that might do the trick.

My ears pricked up at the sound of a car backing up. As I crossed the road to the hedge and hid behind it, I heard the garage door rattle its descent. The car nearly shot out onto the street and motored by so fast I was barely able to see the tag or many other details. I did snap a few photos of the beat-up Hyundai Ms. Brooks Brothers drove. I guess she hadn't yet made Realtor of the Year.

And I hoped at least one of those shots had caught her license plate. I took a quick peek at my camera roll and was disappointed to find that none of them had caught more than a blurred one.

Now that Ms. Brooks Brothers was out of the way, I returned to the house for a look around the perimeter. I wondered if the house had a security system. Even an unoccupied house could have one. I snapped a photo of the house front. Google Earth images tend to run anywhere from one to three years old. If the house was for sale, where was the sign indicating same?

When I approached the front door, I saw a small lockbox. I circled around the house. The backyard gently sloped to a small buffer of trees. The house had two doors in the back: a downstairs sliding door to the lower level and a set of French doors that opened onto a raised deck. I also looked for windows and other potential points of entry. As I noted these things, I remembered that Ms. Brooks Brothers never told me her name nor did she mention that of the realty company she worked for. The fact that there was no "For Sale" sign out front bothered me a little. But only a little. There could be several reasons for that. Perhaps a contract on the place had fallen through, and they forgot to put the sign back up. Maybe they took it down because they didn't want the locals to see how long the house had been up for sale. Or maybe Ms. Brooks Brothers was actually Mabel Forbes and she had just pulled a fast one on me.

The more I considered these factors, the more convinced I became that this house would make an ideal hideout for Troy Fairchild. If that were so, I wondered if and how Ms. Brooks Brothers played a part.

After thoroughly casing the place and noting its vulnerabilities, I surveyed the grounds. Basically, the house was part of a line built atop a low ridge, the fronts facing the steeper side. The small clump of relatively young trees at the rear wouldn't provide great cover during the day, but at night it might. The rest of the backyard was a long stretch of grass.

The hum of an occasional passing vehicle floated my way as I thought about the situation. Eventually, the traffic picked up. Workers returning home. Good, I thought. Many of the houses here had a one-car garage, but I was pretty sure that most of the residents owned more than one car. So if I wanted to do a night surveillance, my car stood a decent chance of not being the only one parked on the street. While I was considering this, my phone rang. Delgado Bail Bonds. Mitch, of course. Probably nervous. After taking a deep breath, I took the call. "Yes."

"Erica." My name sounded like it had been coughed up like a hairball. "Are you anywhere close to finding Troy Fairchild?"

"I'm working on a lead right now." My voice was imbued with optimism and bursting with energy I only half felt.

Mitch Delgado's wheezing and coughing came over the line as loud, asthmatic explosions, followed by a wet, rattling noise that came from deep down in his lungs.

"I'm getting too old for this shit," he growled.

"Hang in there." My words felt lame, but I didn't have to fake my sincerity.

"I'm losing my touch." Mitch hacked out the words. "You know how many bail skippers I've had lately? Too fucking many."

The medical bills were obviously killing him. Along with whatever the fuck it was that made him cough. Probably cancer. Probably Agent Fucking Orange.

Don't even get me started about the VA hospital. Hey, I understand. They're understaffed and underfunded, so it's probably really hard for them to give a fuck about an endless number of head cases. So, once again, it comes down to politics and money. And everyone loves us, but no one wants to pay for us.

"Look," I said. "I really do think I'm onto something. Just give me a week. Probably less." I felt pretty confident, but I couldn't be sure. So I gave a conservative estimate that might give him some hope.

"The sooner, the better," he said. "Or I'm done. Busted."