I got back online and went to the website for the U.S. Postal Service. I punched in the zip code of the address Eloise had given me.
It came up as a Houston zip code.
I did a search for realtors in Houston, calling the first big one on the list.
“I’m interested in buying a home in Houston,” I said to a very grouchy woman named Belinda. “I have a particular address in mind and wonder if there’s any way you can look it up for me?” I started my mental lie tally for the day.
Belinda wasn’t nearly as helpful as Eloise. “Who’s the listing agent?” she asked.
“I don’t know the agent. Just the address. Is there some way you could verify the address for me?”
“What do you mean ‘verify the address?’” she said. “What’s there to verify?”
“I just want to make sure it’s the right house.”
“I don’t understand. You just want the address?”
“No, I already have the address. I need to know who owns the house.”
“I can’t give out that information,” she said. “All I can do is look it up on MLS for you and tell you who the agent is.”
I didn’t know what MLS was, but it sounded official. “That would be great. Would you do that, please?”
“What’s the address?”
I gave her the address, and of course it wasn’t listed. Dumb idea. I thanked her and was about to hang up when old Belinda redeemed herself.
“Have you checked the county?”
“The county? You mean have I found out what county it’s in?”
“The tax records. You can check the county tax records.”
“How do I do that?” I asked.
“The tax assessor’s office has records of every county address. You might have to go down there. Their site is always down.”
“Will it list the owner’s name?”
“Owner’s name, lot number, purchase price, date of purchase, assessed value,” she recited.
“Thank you very much, Belinda.”
I hung up and found the county’s website online, which mercifully was up and running. I typed in the address. Belinda was right.
It was a commercial address, owned by a company named Garret Industries, Inc. I wrote down the information and did a web search for Garret Industries. Garret Industries did not have a website.
I looked it up in the phone book. Another dead end.
I looked it up in the Houston phone book’s online business pages. No listing. I was stumped. I couldn’t figure out what to do next. I figured businesses must be registered somewhere. But I’m not a business person. I’m a shrink. And an academic. Thoroughly unfamiliar with the world of commerce.
So naturally, I decided to go back to the library. As an academic, I am firmly rooted in the belief that the answer to almost any question is at the library. It’s part of the creed.
Maybe I’d get the added bonus of running into Peter Terry. Now that I was properly outfitted, I intended to corner him the next time I saw him and make him give me some answers.
I packed up the gift shop receipt and my notes and loaded myself once again into my truck, stopping first to spray the hinges of my door with WD-40. The door became satisfyingly silent as I swung it open and shut, working the oil in.
Two victories in one day. I was starting to feel downright celebratory.
I parked my truck behind the library, showed my faculty ID at the entry desk, and headed straight for the reference section.
The reference librarian on duty was named Cynthia. She’d helped me many times before.
“Hey, Cyn.”
She looked up. “Dylan. How’s the shrink business? Plenty of people getting work done on their brains?”
“I have a question for you,” I said. “Do you know how to find out information about a corporation?”
“What sort of information?”
“I have the name and an address, but I don’t know what the company does or who owns it. Is there any way to find out?”
“Is it a local company? You could try the phone book.”
“Duh, Cynthia. Use your expensive library science degree. Help me out, will you?”
“Is it publicly traded?”
“No idea.”
“Incorporated?”
I checked my notes. “Yes. Garret Industries, Inc.”
“Then it would have to be registered with the state. Is it a Texas company?”
“Maybe. The address I have is in Houston.”
“Let’s start with the office of the secretary of state, then. All corporations have to be registered with the state through that office.” She looked up their website and recited from the page, “The secretary of state maintains a team of public information specialists to provide information from the agency’s computer database. Business organization name availability or information about a specific entity may be obtained from the secretary of state via telephone, surface mail, or e-mail.’”
“Cyn, you’re a genius.”
“I know.”
“What’s the phone number?” I asked.
She checked her watch. “I’ll write it down for you. But they’re closed.”
“Closed? On a Monday?”
“It’s ten after five.”
Sweet Moses. How could it be ten after five? I was supposed to meet with Helene and the lawyers an hour ago.
“Could you write all the contact information down for me?” I asked. “I’ll get in touch with them tomorrow.”
“Sure.” She scribbled it all onto a sticky note. “If it’s not a Texas corporation, you’ll have to go state to state.”
I took the sticky note and thanked her, waving behind me as I made a quick exit.
I arrived at the dean’s office a few minutes later, sweating from the heat and from my rapidly heightening anxiety. The meeting was just ending.
“Dylan,” Helene said crisply “So glad you could join us.”
I’d rarely seen her angry, and certainly never at me. I wilted. I can’t stand for Helene to be mad at me.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I got tied up.”
I ignored her glare and held out my hand to the attorney closest to me, an icy blonde in a pale pink suit.
“Dylan Foster,” I said.
“It would have helped to have you here,” she said.
I smiled sweetly. “Want me to go to ‘time out’?”
She didn’t smile back. She stood up and handed Helene a business card. “Let us know when you can both be available.”
She turned and walked past me, followed by the other attorney, a burly-looking man who clearly did not wear the pants on the team.
As soon as they were out the door, Helene turned her glare back on me.
“Inexcusable,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Irresponsible.”
“I know.”
She reached for her briefcase. “I’m going home.”
“You don’t want to tell me about the meeting?”
She froze and looked over her glasses at me.
“Don’t push me,” she said. “You want to hear about the meeting, call that ice queen lawyer yourself. It’s your rear end on the line.” She handed me the woman’s business card.
I pursed my lips and didn’t say anything.
She brushed past me with her briefcase and her paper bag full of empty Tupperware.
“Thanks for lunch,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” She started down the hall toward the elevator.
“I got something in the mail today,” I said, following along behind her.
“I’m riveted,” she said, without looking back.
“A receipt from the Vendome hotel.”
She stopped and looked at me.
“I’m going to Chicago,” I said.
She shook her head. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Dylan. Because I sure don’t.”
She turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the
hallway with the Ice Queen’s business card in my shaking hand.
17
THE DAY HAD LEFT ME over six hundred dollars in the hole and reeling rapidly toward unemployment. A trip to Chicago was a stupid idea financially, no question about it. And probably a stupid idea period. I’d be walking into the lion’s den.
But I felt compelled to go anyway, though I wouldn’t have been able to swear why under oath. It just seemed to me that the road signs were pointing north to Chicago. Maybe it was the radar thing. I didn’t know. And I didn’t particularly care. I was going. I needed to go. I figured I’d know why after I got there.
I went home, fixed myself some supper, and spent the rest of my evening sitting at my computer putting my trip together.
I toyed briefly with the idea of booking my ticket on Eagle Wing Air, but gave up the notion instantly. I had visions of Joseph Zocci somehow getting wind of my presence on one of his planes and having me ejected in mid-flight or something.
I booked my flight on American, using every last one of my hard-won frequent flyer miles to save myself some cash. I’d been hoarding them for a trip to Italy, but that fantasy would have to wait. At times like this, desperation took priority over dreams.
I found a Best Mid-Western Motel in the lower-rent section of downtown, thus bumping myself even further down the ladder from my Holiday Inn status, and rented the cheapest, crummiest economy car I could find from some local Chicago company named They’re Ugly But They Run. If I ate from vending machines, I could do the whole trip for less than three hundred dollars.
I was up with the dawn the next morning, once again hauling myself, my tea, and my Bible out onto my porch to summon my faith as the sun offered the first hint of the day’s light. I actually felt well-armed and at peace as I loaded my bag into my truck and made the drive to the airport.
I slept on the flight, safe from encroaching flies and sulfurous egg smells for the first time in days, and arrived in the City of Big Shoulders refreshed and ready for battle.
Providence was with me that afternoon. My flight actually landed on time. And though Chicago’s O’Hare is an enormous airport, it was surprisingly easy to navigate. A real, live, competent airline employee met the flight and directed me to the rental car area, which I found easily. I was batting a thousand.
I hit a glitch, albeit a small one, when I laid eyes on my rental car. The word ugly did not quite do that car justice. It was a ten-year-old purple Dodge Neon. The interior was gray vinyl, but in decent shape. The radio was A.M. only; no cassette, no CD player. The car’s antenna had a little yellow smiley-face flag on it, and the bumper sticker proclaimed in bold, lime-green letters, “I’m Ugly But I Run,” with the company’s web address and phone number. A big blow to my dignity to save twenty bucks a day.
I thought briefly about spending that twenty bucks on pride going with another company, but I decided against it. So I loaded my stuff, got behind the wheel, and turned the key. The engine buzzed to life, sounding much more finely tuned than my cool but crummy pickup.
The company’s name spoke truth. It was ugly, but that car ran like a top.
I followed the road signs out of the rental area and chugged along the simple route that the Ugly-But-It-Runs clerk had kindly highlighted for me on my Complimentary Local Map. I zoned out on the drive, lost in the mental mire of my life problems. Before I knew it, I found myself stuck in Chicago rush hour traffic. I crawled along listening to A.M. radio and getting crankier by the minute. At last I reached downtown, only to find myself stuck in a maze of one-ways and construction sites. I got lost twice. The second time, I rolled down my window (manually, of course) and asked a suited, briefcased businessman walking on Michigan Avenue for directions to the Vendome. The man knew the hotel and pointed me in the right direction, shouting “nice car,” as I drove away.
I drove around the block a few times looking for a parking place, saying my usual parking space prayer. This time, for once, I felt I could make a legitimate case at the feet of the Almighty. Not only because of the urgency of my mission, but because there was no way on God’s green earth I was valet parking this hideous car at the Vendome. I could take only so much humiliation in one day.
A spot opened for me just as I was about to give up, with the bonus blessing of a remaining forty-two minutes on the meter. I breathed a thank-you, fed the machine one more quarter for good measure, locked the car with the key (no handy alarm system here), and walked around the block to the Vendome.
I stood across the street from the hotel for a few minutes, taking in the sight.
The Vendome is a landmark. One of those old, historic downtown hotels with gargoyles on the parapets and flags flying over a columned portico. Uniformed bellmen paced the entryway, sweeping open the doors of arriving automobiles and offering white-gloved hands to the elegant patrons who stepped out of them.
Not one of whom arrived in a purple Dodge Neon.
I couldn’t afford a class-based shame attack right now. I needed to focus on the business at hand.
I summoned my courage and crossed the street, holding my head high and smiling at the bellmen. One of them pushed the brass handle of the revolving door for me. I swished around the circle in the little glass-pie slice and stepped into the lobby.
The lobby was filled with the scent of stargazer lilies and roses from enormous arrangements set atop inlaid wood tables. Oriental rugs hushed the footsteps of hotel guests. The hotel staff, wearing tailored black uniforms with brass name tags, walked silently, crisply, purposefully.
It didn’t dawn on me until exactly that moment, swept away as I was by all that elegance and that heady floral scent, that I had no plan. True to form, I had arrived on my mission completely unprepared. What was I going to do, walk up to the front desk and request the Zocci suite? Pretend to be a Zocci cousin? A reporter? I wasn’t even sure what I was doing here. What exactly did I hope to accomplish? I kicked myself for sleeping on the plane instead of obsessing properly.
Though I was just standing inside the doorway, dumbly rooted in place, no one seemed to be paying any attention to me. I decided to seize the opportunity to blend and began a slow stroll around the lobby to study the situation and to think.
I made a circuit, limiting myself to one time around the room, lest I convince security that I was a call girl or something. For once, I had dressed conservatively, so at least I looked semi-credible. I tried to look as if I belonged there and perhaps was waiting for someone. I screwed a puzzled look on my face, looked at my watch, and dug in my bag for my cell phone.
I held the phone to my ear and nodded as though I was listening to a conversation, almost jumping out of my skin when the phone rang loudly in my ear.
“Hello?” I was grateful to engage in a real conversation. I was no good at faking it.
“Dylan, it’s David.”
Pleasant surprise. “Hey, there. How’s the death business?” I asked. In our few conversations, I’d been relentless in teasing him about his occupation, and thus far he had proven to be a thorough sport about it.
“Smelly,” he said, not missing a beat. “We had a real stinker in here today. Want details?”
“Pass,” I said, laughing. I could feel myself settling into the easy sound of his voice.
“I left you a message yesterday,” he said, “hoping you’ll take me up on thick steaks, cold beer, and dancing on Thursday night. My intention is to sweep you directly off your feet.”
What an offer. The man had some charm.
“How about Saturday instead?”
“Keeping me waiting? I like that. Never sound too eager.”
I laughed. “It’s just that I’m not sure I’ll be back by Thursday. I had to leave town suddenly.”
“Okay. Saturday it is. But I may have to warm up your beer a little, just to maintain a little edge here.”
“I don’t like beer,” I said.
“Oh. Date’s off. Sorry. Where’d you jet off to?”
“Chicago.”
“You’re not dumping me for some Yankee boy, are you?”
“How could I dump you? We haven’t been on a date yet.”
“You’re not counting the pharmacy?” He faked incredulity.
“Definitely not,” I said.
“Define ‘date.’”
“You pick me up at my house, tell me I look beautiful and how could you possibly be so lucky, take me to a restaurant with cloth napkins, spend significant amounts of money on me, treat me like a lady, walk me to my door, kiss me on the cheek, and leave. Then you wait two days so you don’t sound needy, then call me and beg me for another date.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “I’m writing all this down. What comes after picking you up at your house?”
“The beautiful part.”
“Do I have to do it all in order?”
“Order is optional,” I said.
“This is complicated.”
“It’s part of the weeding-out process.”
“So are we on? Saturday?”
“Absolutely.”
“Pick you up at 7:00.”
“Make it 7:30.”
“Nice touch.”
“See you then.”
We hung up. I felt rejuvenated. Never hurts a girl’s confidence to have a funny, good looking guy ask her out. Even if he does own a funeral home in Hillsboro.
I turned my eyes back to the lobby and watched the hotel staff for a minute, looking for an opening. I needed someone amiable to talk to. Someplace to start. My eyes settled on a porter clearing tables in the seating area by the bar.
I watched him for a minute. He was a wiry little man with coal-black skin and hair the color of graphite. He could have been fifty years old or a hundred. It was hard to tell. He bent over his task with the solitary burdened efficiency of someone who had emptied the same ashtrays and fluffed the same pillows for decades.
He was perfect.
I walked over to an empty grouping of wing chairs and had myself a seat, sinking into the feathery cushion with a surprising sense of relief. I hadn’t realized until that moment just how tired I was.
I reached for a section of the newspaper that was scattered on the table in front of me.
“Let me get that out of your way,” a voice said.
When the Day of Evil Comes Page 12