The Common Lawyer (27 page)

"Lorenzo?"

Still tapping on the laptop: "What can I do for you?"

"Ramon gave me your name. I'm Andy Prescott."

"The traffic ticket lawyer."

Some claim to fame.

"You sent me the rich boy."

"Yeah, I gave Tres your number."

Still typing away. "Gorgeous little gal, that one. I enjoyed tailing her … tail. You know she don't wear underwear?" He whistled. "That boy's got a lifetime of worrying whether she's cheating on him. Course, if it weren't for gals like her, I'd be out of business. Cheating wives, they account for seventy-five percent of my annual gross revenues. Easy money, or at least it used to be. Now with the new gun laws, job's gotten a little more dangerous—some wives can shoot. You know what I mean?"

Andy assumed that was a rhetorical question, so he didn't answer.

"So, Andy, wife cheating on you?"

"No wife."

"Girlfriend?"

Suzie? Or Bobbi? Cheating on him? He had never even thought about it. Or cared.

"Nope."

"I don't do boyfriends like that TV sports guy your buddy had me follow."

"Not that either."

"You need me to bond someone out of jail?"

Lorenzo smiled, revealing a set of bright white teeth.

"See, when I give a client the bad news about his cheating wife, he goes straight home and beats the hell out of her and gets arrested. So I bond him out. Then he finds the no-good bastard pumping his wife and beats the hell out of him and gets arrested again. So I bond him out again. My business is what they call 'vertically integrated,' like the oil companies."

"No bond."

Lorenzo finally stopped typing, removed his reading glasses, and looked directly at Andy.

"Then what services of mine do you require, Andy?"

Andy explained the efforts to find Frankie Doyle. After listening thoughtfully and stroking his goatee, Lorenzo said, "McCloskey's a good man. Knows what he's doing."

"He goes by the book."

Lorenzo gave Andy a bemused expression. "And you want something more than what's in the book from me, is that it?"

"I want you to find her and I don't care how you do it."

"Woman don't want to be found, Andy, that's gonna cost more."

"I'll pay whatever it takes."

"Why do you want to find this woman so bad?"

"I don't. My client does."

"Who's your client?"

"That's confidential."

"Why does your client want to find this woman?"

"Also confidential."

"Then my fee will be nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars. Cash."

"Why?"

"Risk management, Andy."

"No, why not ten thousand even?"

"Oh. You move ten grand in cash, you gotta fill out forms and answer questions at the bank, so the Feds can track your money. Which limits my tax-planning opportunities, if you know what I mean."

Andy knew what he meant.

The money laundering law was purportedly to prevent criminals from using the banking system to launder their illegal profits—as if drug lords were stupid enough to move cash through their local savings and loan. Only politicians paying for high-priced call girls were that stupid, which is how the Feds nabbed the former New York governor.

"Okay. But you can't breathe a word of this, understand?"

Lorenzo laughed. "Who am I gonna tell?"

"I guess you're right."

"You know I'm right. Now, you said her last known address was Hysham, Treasure County, Montana, then she split. Any idea where she might've gone?"

Andy was about to say no, but he thought of the black-and-white drawings by F. Doyle at Colleen O'Hara's house. One had been of the Montana landscape. The others had reminded Andy of—

"New Mexico or West Texas."

Lorenzo nodded. "Gives me something to work with. Come back in a few hours, I'll have something for you. And bring the cash."

Andy rode down to Cissi's Market and had a roast beef sandwich and a Brown Cow vanilla bean yogurt for lunch. Then he went to the bank and withdrew $9,999. Two hours later, he walked back into Lorenzo's storefront. He was waiting.

"Did you find her?"

"Did you bring the cash?"

Andy handed the bank envelope to Lorenzo. He thumbed the cash like a card shark thumbing a deck of cards. He smiled.

"I found her."

"How? Did you get her social security number? Her credit report? How'd you do it?"

"Now, Andy, you're asking me to share my trade secrets, to reveal my proprietary information, to disclose my—"

"I don't want to know."

"Correct answer. You don't want to know how, you just want results. And I got 'em right here."

Lorenzo placed a piece of paper in front of Andy. Two years ago, Frankie Doyle had changed her name to Rachel Holcombe in Hysham, Treasure County, Montana. One year ago, she had changed her name to Irma Bustamante—

"Irma Bustamante?"

Lorenzo smiled. "Irish girl got a sense of humor."

—in Mosquero, Harding County, New Mexico. Four months ago, she had changed her name to Karen James in Mentone, Loving County, Texas.

"She likes small towns," Lorenzo said. "Only a hundred twenty folks live in Mosquero, fifty-six in Mentone."

"Why would she change her name so many times?"

"She doesn't want to leave a paper trail, but she doesn't want to live off the grid. She's not using credit cards, but she wants a bank account. She wants to be legit, live a normal life, but she doesn't want someone to find her."

"Her ex-husband hit her."

"Good enough reason."

"He said he wasn't trying to find her."

"Asshole hits a woman, I'm not sure, Andy, could be he's a liar, too."

"I guess you're right."

"You know I'm right."

Lorenzo now placed a printout of a Texas driver's license with a photo of Karen James in front of Andy. He studied her image. It was the same face he had seen in the photo at Colleen O'Hara's house.

"That's her. That's Frankie Doyle."

"Check out the address."

Andy looked down the license then up at Lorenzo.

"Buda, Texas? All this and she's living fifteen miles down the road?"

"Rent house. But she's moving up: five thousand people live in Buda."

"Why would she live in unpopulated places in Montana and New Mexico and West Texas, then move just fifteen miles from Austin?"

"She wants to hide in plain sight. Figures she's covered her tracks, now she can live near a city, put her kid in a good school, enjoy things. She's ready to start her life over now, as Karen James."

Andy pedaled back to his office. He poked his head into the tattoo parlor and found Ramon at his computer.

"Ramon, can I borrow your car?"

Without turning from the screen, Ramon said, "Hey, Andy, listen to this email I got: 'Hello, I am pretty Russian girl, bored tonight. Would you like to chat and see my pics?' You think she's for real?"

"What's her name?"

"Candi. With an 'i.' "

"A Russian girl named Candi with an 'i'? I don't think so, Ramon. Can I borrow your car?"

"I don't think so, Andy."

Ramon Cabrera drove a metallic yellow 1978 Corvette convertible with mag wheels and wide white walls. It was in pristine condition with red leather seats, a stereo system with a subwoofer that shook the car with each beat, and a plastic Jesus magnetically attached to the dash. It was his prized possession—the Corvette, not the plastic Jesus—since his wife had left him. He would not allow Andy behind the wheel. But he wasn't inking anyone's body that afternoon, so he was now driving Andy down Interstate 35 to Buda, Texas. The top was down, the wind was whipping Andy's hair, and the volume on the Latino radio station was blaring. Sitting next to Ramon Cabrera in the low-slung hot rod, Andy felt like he was co-starring in a Cheech and Chong movie.

Buda, Texas, had long been a small farming town situated between Austin and San Antonio, nothing but cotton and cows and a cement plant. But over the last decade, developers had bought the farmland and subdivided the pastures and built homes for Austinites who could no longer afford the city. Buda—from the Spanish
viuda
—was now a bedroom community, home to five thousand residents who slept in Buda but worked in Austin. But tens of thousands of people regularly made the journey down I-35 to Buda these days, and not just for the "World Famous Wiener Dog Races." They came to shop at Cabela's, a 185,000-square-foot hunters' paradise, a place selling enough guns and ammo to satisfy any Rambo-wannabe. The chamber of commerce's slogan was "Have a
Budaful
time in Buda."

Or at least buy a gun.

Andy had printed out a map on Ramon's computer. The address on the driver's license was on Old Black Colony Road outside town where there was still some country left. A Toyota Corolla sat in the driveway. But they couldn't just park a yellow Corvette at the end of the driveway and takes photos. They would be easily spotted. So they parked down the road where they could see if she left.

Fifteen minutes after they had arrived, Frankie Doyle left.

Andy wrote down the Toyota's license plate number; no doubt the car was registered under her latest alias. They followed her to the Buda Elementary School where a cute girl with flaming red hair ran to the car and got in. She didn't appear sick. Andy took photos of the girl, but he couldn't get a clear shot of Frankie.

They followed Frankie and her daughter around town and then back to their house and again parked down the road. Ramon decided to take a nap. Andy leaned over to check the digital images on the camera in the dark under the dash and—

"Are you following me?"

Andy jumped and banged his head on the underside of the dash. He turned. Frankie Doyle was standing there. In real life.

"Jesus, you scared me."

Ramon opened his eyes and lowered his sunglasses. He gave Frankie a long admiring look. Her hands were now clamped on the window sill, and her face was no more than a foot from Andy's. She didn't have red hair. She had jet black hair, a smooth creamy complexion, and green glaring eyes whose dark pupils made him feel as if he were staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

In his oily Latin accent, Ramon said, "I am Ramon Cabrera. Your skin is magnificent. Have you considered body art?"

Her eyes moved to Ramon; she looked him over then said, "No." Back to Andy: "Did you really think I wouldn't notice a yellow Corvette?"

No sense in lying.

"I had a heck of a time finding you."

"I'm calling the cops."

Andy held his cell phone out to her.

"You don't think I'll call?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't think you want the cops or anyone else to know who you really are … Frankie Doyle."

She stared at him, but showed no emotion. Then she abruptly turned and walked fast toward the house.

"Nice looking lady," Ramon said. "I wonder what bar she goes to?"

Andy jumped out and ran to catch her. She was wearing a white long-sleeve T-shirt and blue jeans; from behind, she had a nice behind. Not like Suzie's, of course, but nice.

"Frankie, I know why you're running."

She kept walking. Over her shoulder: "How'd you find me?"

"Your mother."

She stopped and spun around. "You saw my mother?"

"At her house."

Hands on her hips. "Who
are
you?"

"Andy Prescott. I'm a lawyer in Austin."

She looked him up and down—the sneakers, the jeans, and the Kinky T-shirt.

"You're a lawyer? Wearing that and"—she pointed at the yellow Corvette—"riding in that?"

"Oh, that's Ramon's car. He's my landlord … and a tattoo artist."

"Your landlord drives you around?"

"I don't own a car. I ride a bike."

"You're a lawyer, you ride a bike, and you've got a tattoo artist for a chauffeur? Is this some kind of joke?"

"Uh … no."

"You went to see my mother in Boston, trying to find me?"

"I went to Boston to see Mickey, trying to find you."

"You met Mickey?"

"At his shop."

"How is he?"

"Probably the same as when you were married to him."

"God, I need a cigarette. See, you mention Mickey, and now I want to smoke again. How's my mother?"

"In and out."

She nodded. "It was hard to leave her."

"She showed me the photo, in Montana."

"How'd you find us here?"