Fatal Connections

Chapter 51

Okay, I thought. The Harcourts' attorney just happened to go to this . . . place that may or may not have anything to do with Troy Fairchild. I brought that train of thought to a screeching halt. I'm overthinking this.

But I definitely would take note of the photo. I picked it up and ran into the hallway, where the wall shielded me from view from outside. My phone glowed bright enough to see, but I positioned myself near an emergency exit sign for more light. Hoping to capture the image without disturbing the picture frame, I snapped a few shots of the photo, both with and without the flash. Fortunately, the simple frame had no glass. The results weren't perfect either way, but they were good enough for what I needed.

After returning the photo to its proper place, I performed a last sweep of the office. My investigative train was leaving the station. I could hear the conductor: Now leaving. Last chance for clues.

I took the risk of taking a wide shot or two of the general layout, just in case a clue popped out later. The city lights were just bright enough to give me a couple of murky abstracts using the now-ancient phone I purchased five years ago. Perhaps I could sell them as art photos online.

When I left the building, I realized how hungry I was, so I headed for an all-night diner. As I considered my next move over a stack of pancakes, a side of bacon, and some hot coffee, the jukebox sprang to life. There was only one middle-aged couple and one lone elderly man as fellow patrons, so I was surprised when "Yellow Submarine" began to play. The elderly man got up and performed a solo dance routine to it, which was a bit unexpected.

Then I caught a glimpse of what looked like metal tags swinging on a chain around his neck. I could see that they were dog tags. Old dude had probably served in Nam. Maybe he wasn't as old as he looked.

I nursed my coffee while I watched the one-man show. The woman behind the counter didn't seem to notice or care. She went about the business of wiping counters and making clattering noises with hardly a glance at the man. Maybe she had seen that act a hundred times before.

Before I left, I slipped an extra $1 from my billfold, along with what I had to pay plus tip for the counter woman. The old man was back in his seat, with his head down on the counter—his arms crossed underneath for a cushion.

I tucked the bill under one hand. "Hang in there," I muttered. He didn't move. But he was breathing.

Drinking coffee and stuffing my face diverted me for possibly a half hour or so. After leaving the diner, I still felt too wired to just go home. I should have been exhausted, but my encounter with Adams, plus finding that one clue, was like a shot of adrenaline.

It wouldn't be long before the sun came up. The air was still too nippy to lower my car windows completely, but I cracked them before I started my car and took a drive down the nearly empty streets. The chilly air was stimulating. The occasional car zipped past. Someone in a hurry. I wondered why at this hour.

My body was on auto-pilot. Beneath my conscious thoughts, one in particular poked through the surface. Who was the alleged witness to my arrival at the Harcourt house the morning of the murders? As if I had somehow automatically adjusted my course into the requisite route, I found myself turning into the Harcourts' neighborhood and drifting past their house. The crime scene tape was gone.

I doused the lights, drove to a point up the road from the house, backed onto a small side street, and parked at the corner. Then, I sat back and waited, but I wasn't sure for what. I was sure I'd know it when it came along.

Ever since Nick had mentioned that someone had witnessed my arrival last week, I had wondered who it was. I came here with the hope of getting a better sense of the neighborhood. Did anyone make regular pre-dawn visits here on Saturdays? Who would have the best view of the Harcourts' house? I suspected my instinctive attraction to this area was the byproduct of those questions percolating through my mind. I certainly couldn't expect to recognize a frequent visitor after one stakeout, but maybe I could note anyone suspicious or, given the low volume of traffic, just anyone.

I sat for a bit and listened to the car ticking as it cooled. I closed the windows and pulled up Google Earth on my phone. After I had zeroed in as closely as possible on the Harcourts' house, I maneuvered the screen to each house across from them. When I was sure I had reached the front door of each, I zoomed out just enough to see where all the windows were, circling the house and testing each one for the quality of the view. From inside one of the houses, it would have been hard to make out much of the Harcourts' front yard. The shrubbery—an incredibly tall hedge of arborvitae—blocked visual access enough to make it almost impossible for anyone to have seen me when I arrived that morning.

That left me with one house most likely to have a decent view of the Harcourts' frontage. I did a reverse look-up on the address, and gawked at the result. A listing for "Mabel Forbes." What was she doing here?