The Common Lawyer (24 page)

"How about dinner at Threadgill's?" Andy said. "I'm buying."

Andy expected his father to decline; he no longer liked to be seen in public because his skin was now a shade of orange. But his father surprised him.

"Hell, don't see how I can turn down a chicken-fried steak at Threadgill's. Only way I'm gonna get meat."

Andy stowed the bike in the back of his mother's 1989 Volvo station wagon (she was terribly proud of the odometer that registered over 300,000 miles) and got into the back seat. They drove the short distance over to the restaurant on Riverside, located just down from where the Armadillo had stood.

"Breaks my heart," his father said, "every time I see that office building where the Armadillo used to be. Those were good times. Best times were opening for Willie."

"How old is Willie now? Ninety?"

His father chuckled, a sound Andy enjoyed.

"He's damn sure lived ninety years, but he just turned seventy-five back in April."

Willie Nelson was a poet, a singer, a songwriter, and a Texas icon who lived on a ranch just outside of Austin.

"He's still singing around town."

"Willie will sing and write his songs till the day he dies. That's what he is. That's what we all are—Willie, Billy Joe, Jerry Jeff, Kris—singers and songwriters." He paused and pulled out his little notebook and pen. "Singers and songwriters. Might be able to use that."

The Prescott men ordered the world-famous chicken-fried steak, Threadgill's specialty. Andy's mother ordered a salad.

"How's the loft?" she asked.

"Sweet."

"And your girlfriend?"

"The blonde or the brunette?"

His father leaned back and laughed. "Listen to him now. Two months ago he's dating Curtis and Dave, now he's got to beat the gals off with a stick."

"The blonde."

"Where'd you see us?"

"Whole Foods. She doesn't wear a lot of clothes."

"Would you cover up that body?"

"Hell, son," his father said, "you'd better eat two of those steaks. You need the protein." He drank his iced tea and said, "Reeves, he changed your life."

"For the better."

"Andy …"

"Yeah?"

"Don't get too comfortable with that new life."

"Are you still working on those SoCo developments?" his mother said.

"Renovations. I got three approved by the residents. Construction's already started on those. I've been traveling, so the others are on hold."

"Whereabouts?" his father said.

"Houston, Dallas, New Orleans, Seattle, Miami, Chicago."

"For Reeves?"

Andy nodded.

"Real-estate deals?"

"Not exactly."

"What exactly?"

"Dad, I can't say. It's confidential. But it's all good."

"If you say so." He grunted. "Damn, I'd love a cold beer with this steak."

" 'I'm looking for a friend. You cannot be a liar and must have a job.' "

Curtis looked up from the personal ad.

"That seems a little harsh."

Andy paid Ronda for another round of Coronas for the table. His folks had dropped him off at Güero's on their way back to Wimberley, Natalie had paroled Tres for the night, Curtis was reading personal ads aloud, and Dave was standing by the front door of Güero's waiting for his date to arrive. He appeared as nervous as a lawyer taking a polygraph.

"I can't believe someone answered his ad," Tres said.

"Gives me hope," Curtis said.

"Curtis," Tres said, "you'd do better looking for a date on Mensa-dot-com."

"Dave's wearing cowboy boots," Andy said, "to look taller. Still doesn't look six-two."

"He'd have to stand on a chair to look six-two."

Curtis turned to the next ad. "This girl says 'I strive to find justice and equality in life.' "

"And she's seeking casual sex?"

"How'd you know?"

Tres turned to Andy. "You've been gone a lot. Reeves?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"All over the country."

"What for?"

"Confidential. He swore me to secrecy."

"You're not in over your head, are you, Andy?"

"Nothing like that. Actually, I'm playing Robin Hood."

"She's here," Curtis said.

They all turned to the front door. A very attractive blonde—she wasn't Suzie or Bobbi, but then Dave wasn't Russell Reeves' lawyer—had just walked up to Dave. They exchanged a few words, then she kissed him on the cheek.

"Wow," Curtis said.

Curtis Baxter had never been kissed by a female unrelated by blood.

Dave and the blonde went inside and were seated at one of the tables in the first room where the bar was located. From their position on the front porch, they had a clear view of Dave and his date through the window. Ronda took their orders then returned with margaritas. They talked and laughed and ate Mexican food. Dave paid the mariachis to sing at their table.

"She's eating fajitas," Curtis said. "Beef."

"So?"

"So he's got a chance. She's a carnivore, too."

"She looks like she's having fun," Tres said.

"Wow," Curtis said again.

Dave and the girl had another round of margaritas, then Dave stood and walked through the double doors into the main dining room. She smiled and gave him a little finger wave.

"Restroom," Curtis said. "Margaritas go right through him."

The restrooms were at the rear of the restaurant. As soon as Dave disappeared from sight, the smile disappeared from the blonde's face. She pulled out her cell phone. She said something into the phone, stood, and downed her margarita then grabbed her purse and walked outside. Fast. She almost ran past them on the porch and down the sidewalk past the Oak Garden where Los Flames were playing. A car pulled up on Congress; she dove in and drove off.

"Aw, man."

They turned and looked back inside through the window. Dave had returned to their table; he was glancing around with a confused expression. He looked over at them; Andy waved him out. Dave came over.

"Did she go to the restroom?"

Tres and Curtis averted their eyes from this train wreck. That left Andy to deliver the bad news.

"She bailed."

"She left?"

Andy nodded. Dave's body deflated like a popped balloon. He fell into a chair.

"I thought we were having fun."

Andy waved an empty beer bottle at Ronda. Another round for the table. Curtis gave Dave a buddy pat.

"Sucks, dude."

Dave shook his head.

"Man, she smelled great."

FIFTEEN

"Why can't you find Frankie Doyle?"

"Because she doesn't want to be found."

"You found the first six women."

"They weren't hiding."

At nine sharp the next morning, Andy was sitting across the desk from Hollis McCloskey. Hollis leaned back in his chair.

"See, Andy, America's a transient society. A hundred million people move every year, across the street or across the country, usually for a bigger home or a better job. But that means two hundred million people don't move. Sue Todd, Tameka Evans, Sylvia Gutierrez—they hadn't moved from their last-known addresses. Amanda Pearce had, but to another house in Chicago. So those four were easy."

"How'd you find Beverly Greer and Pam Ward?"

"Beverly moved from Denver to Seattle, so I called her old neighbors in Denver. I got their names from the tax records—properties are indexed by address—then I called information and got their phone numbers. The first neighbor didn't live there when Beverly did, the second one did. She gave me Beverly's new address in Seattle."

"What about Pam Ward?"

"She moved from L.A. to Dallas. I couldn't get hold of her neighbors, so I called the new owner of her L.A. condo."

"How'd you get the phone number?"

"Criss-cross directory. You can search the physical address and get the phone number, if it's a land line. It was. Anyway, Pam had seller-financed the condo, so the new owner sent payments to her in Dallas. She gave me the address."

"I never realized how easy it is to find someone."

"It is, if you know what you're doing—and if they're not hiding. People who aren't hiding leave a paper trail—mortgages, leases, phone records, utility bills … but Frankie Doyle moved and didn't leave a paper trail. She's hiding."

"From whom?"

"Her ex-husband."

Hollis sat forward and opened a file on his desk.

"Frankie Doyle's last-known address was in Boston three years ago. She was twenty-five, married to one Michael aka Mickey Doyle, with a five-year-old daughter named Abigail. Worked as a waitress in a bar at a high-dollar downtown hotel, the Boston Grand. Then she and Mickey got divorced, and she and the minor disappeared."

"What makes you think she's hiding from him?"

"He hit her. Mickey—he's an ex-boxer, still lives at the same address in Boston—was convicted twice of assault, not on her, but everyone I talked to said he hit her. I figure she got fed up, divorced the bastard, and split with the kid." He shrugged. "Frankie Doyle doesn't exist anymore."

"What do you mean, she doesn't exist?"

"I mean her paper trail ended with the divorce. I figure she changed her name so Mickey couldn't find her. Problem is, we can't find her either."

"But she'd have to file a name change in the county court where she's living. Search those records."

"I did, the ones that are online. Problem is, Andy, there are over three thousand counties in the U.S., each with their own records, and the smaller ones, probably half those counties, their records aren't online. If Frankie Doyle's smart, and I think she is, she moved to a small county in the middle of nowhere, probably out west where there aren't many people, and changed her name there, where the records aren't online. Only way to find her is to do a manual records search in all those counties—fifteen hundred counties."

"Needle in a haystack."

"Exactly. And even if your client was willing to foot the bill for me to hire PIs in every state to do a manual search in every county, that'd take months. By then, she'd probably have moved and changed her name again. Then we'd have to search in every county again, under her new name."

"So she just fell off the grid?"

"Living off the grid, that's harder than most people think. You can't have a cell phone in your name, or a credit card, you can't buy a car or a home, you can't live in a reputable apartment complex, you can't have a bank account or a driver's license. People talk about living off the grid, but it's just that. Talk."

"So how are you going to find Frankie Doyle?"

"I'm probably not. Andy, I've run down every rabbit trail I could find. I searched all the online records—property taxes, voter and vehicle registrations, marriage and business licenses … she's not a lawyer, accountant, doctor, nurse, barber, PI, pest control technician, nothing that requires a license. She hasn't voted in any state, county, or local election, as least not as Frankie Doyle."

"What about her driver's license? She's got to be driving a car."

"I can't get driver's license records anymore. Federal law restricts access now, because of identity theft."

"What else?"

"I searched all my proprietary databases, fee services for PIs. Nothing. Usually I have a good phone number, and I'm looking for a physical address. But I couldn't find any phones, land lines or cell."

"But if she changed her name, it wouldn't be under Frankie Doyle anyway."

"Exactly. I searched the federal PACER system—a national federal court search for civil, criminal, and bankruptcy cases. Nothing. I searched the state criminal records available online, but I need her DOB—date of birth—to do a thorough search. I ran a prison inmate search—"

"Prison?"

Hollis shrugged. "You never know."

"And?"

"She's not an inmate in the federal system or in most of the state systems—I can't search them all. Hell, I even called Mickey." Hollis shook his head. "Now he's a piece of work. Lives in his deceased parents' house, drives their car, works at his dad's garage. Probably wears his old man's underwear."

"What'd he say?"

"Nothing. When I asked about Frankie, he hung up. So I called the bar she worked at, talked to the bartender, name's Benny. Said she worked there for seven years, didn't show up for her shift one night. Never saw or heard from her again. Didn't even collect her last paycheck."

"Maybe she's dead?"

"I ran her name in the Social Security Death Master File—she didn't come up dead. But that doesn't mean she isn't. Anyway, Benny told me her mother lived a few doors down from her, so I called her. Number's listed. Colleen O'Hara. Nice lady, but she didn't know her own whereabouts, much less Frankie's. Alzheimer's."