The Common Lawyer (34 page)

"Deal."

Lorenzo sat at his laptop and tapped on the keyboard.

"Now this time won't be as easy 'cause your girl, she's smart. She knows we tracked her with her credit report when she signed the tenant app, see, so she won't make the same mistake again. She's gonna stay where she doesn't have to sign an app."

"A hotel? Motel?"

"Maybe. But they usually require a credit card, and she knows we can track that, too. And she won't stay at some dive 'cause of her kid. So she's looking for a mom-and-pop place that'll take cash."

"A bed and breakfast."

"Bingo."

"Lorenzo, there's hundreds of B&Bs around Austin, out in the Hill Country."

"That is a problem."

Lorenzo stroked his goatee, a sure sign he was thinking. After a moment he said, "Didn't you say she calls her mama up in Boston?"

"Every day."

"Cell phone?"

"Calling card."

"Smart girl. But now we got something we can work with. Call information up in Boston and get her mama's phone number. It'll be listed."

"Why?"

" 'Cause she's old."

"No. Why do you want her number?"

"I've got an associate who works at the phone company."

Frankie Doyle had called her mother in Boston at nine Texas time. At eleven Texas time, Lorenzo parked the Escalade in front of the Gruene Mansion Inn bed and breakfast in Gruene, Texas. Frankie had used a calling card on the house phone.

Gruene, Texas, is a faux town located just off Interstate 35 between Austin and San Antonio. It had once been a real town, but the Great Depression had rendered it a ghost town. Today, Gruene is a tourist destination on the Guadalupe River with B&Bs, restaurants, and shops selling antiques, pottery, and souvenirs. It gives off the impression of a movie set.

But one place in town is authentic: Gruene Hall, an old-time honky-tonk that had been built in the late 1800s, survived the Depression without closing, and hosted the likes of Bo Diddley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Kris Kristofferson, and Paul Prescott. Andy was recalling the nights he had fallen asleep with his head in his mother's lap while his father performed on stage, when Lorenzo nudged him.

"The woman."

Frankie Doyle and her daughter had walked out the front door of the inn. Frankie stopped and lit a cigarette. Andy stepped out of the Escalade and walked toward them. Frankie looked as if she had been crying. When she saw him, her shoulders sagged. He offered a smile.

"Those are bad for your health."

"You're bad for my health. I had quit, until you showed up."

"Sorry."

She took a long drag on the cigarette, exhaled smoke, and said, "What do you want from me?"

"Frankie, I need to talk to you—alone."

She sighed then said to her daughter, "Honey, go sit on that bench for a minute."

The girl walked off.

"Frankie, you lied to me."

"About what?"

"About not dating someone you met in the bar."

"What are you talking about?"

Andy gestured at the girl. "Her."

"What about her?"

"She's his child."

"Whose?"

"My client's."

"I thought he wanted to give me a million dollars?"

"He was looking for his child."

"He needs to be looking for a psychiatrist."

"Frankie, she might have a cancer gene."

"A cancer gene?"

"Yes. My client is a carrier. He passed a mutated gene to his son that gave him the rare cancer. He might have passed it to her, too. Frankie, your daughter might be dying."

Frankie Doyle didn't flinch at the news.

"She's not dying. She doesn't have a cancer gene."

"She might."

"She can't."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's not her father."

"Why'd you run again?"

Frankie stared at the dirt.

"You saw us in San Marcos?" Andy said.

She nodded.

"Frankie, is it Mickey? Are you running from him?"

"Andy … Mickey's dead."

"
What?
How?"

"Someone cracked open his skull, outside a bar. I called my mother this morning, she told me. I thought it was just her mind playing tricks with her, so I went online and read the Boston newspaper. It's true."

First the Austin lawyer and now Mickey Doyle. What did they have in common? Russell Reeves. And Hollis McCloskey quit because he thought he was being used … and that Andy was too.

"Frankie, you ever heard of Russell Reeves?"

"No."

"He's a billionaire."

"Is he your client?"

"Yes."

"And he says he's her father?"

"The DNA confirmed it."

"What DNA?"

"Hers."

"How?"

"Band-Aid in your trash."

She suddenly had the look of a cornered ostrich.

"Andy, now they'll come."

"Who?"

"Your client. The people who killed Mickey."

"Russell Reeves isn't a murderer. He's just rich."

She looked at Andy like he was a moron. Maybe he was.

"You really don't have a clue, do you?"

"A clue about what?"

She flicked the cigarette away and turned to her daughter.

"Come on, Jessie, we're leaving."

She grabbed the girl's hand and pulled her away. Andy ran after them.

"Where are you going?"

They kept walking fast.

"Somewhere we can hide from your client."

"Why do you need to hide from him?"

"Because he's not her father."

"Why would he lie about that? Why does he think she's his daughter if she's not?"

"Andy, I don't know Russell Reeves. I've never met him, I didn't have an affair with him. He's not her father, he didn't give her a cancer gene. She's not dying."

"Then why does he want to help her?"

"He doesn't." She stopped abruptly. "Andy, the blood on that Band-Aid … it was mine."

She pulled the girl up the path to the inn. Andy followed.

"Frankie—wait!"

"You don't know what you've done."

Andy ran to her and grabbed her arm.

"What? What have I done?"

She said nothing.

"I'll talk to Russell, straighten this out."

"He's coming, Andy."

"Frankie, let me help."

"You've helped enough."

Andy Prescott did not scare easily, but he was scared now—because she was scared. He saw it in her face.

"I know a place you can stay, where you'll be safe."

Paul Prescott was fixing lunch when he heard the big birds squawking to raise the roof. Someone was coming through the front gate. He walked to the screen door at the front of the house. A small car was coming up the drive. He didn't recognize it, so he grabbed the double-barreled shotgun and loaded two shells. Then he stepped out onto the porch.

It was just after noon.

Max bounded up to the car, barking like the place was being invaded. The car stopped, and Paul's son emerged. Andy squatted to greet the dog; a red-headed girl joined in. A young woman exited the vehicle. His son stood and walked over to the porch.

"Didn't recognize the car," Paul said.

He unloaded the shotgun and dropped the shells into his shirt pocket and snapped the button.

"Dad, this is Frankie and her daughter, Jessie. They need a place to stay for a few days."

"Welcome to stay here."

"Thanks. Frankie, meet my dad, Paul Prescott."

"Hi, Mr. Prescott," she said, but her eyes took in his orange skin.

"Just Paul. Jaundice. Got a bad liver."

"He's waiting for a transplant," Andy said.

"Y'all hungry? I was just rustlin' up some lunch. Your girl like grilled cheese sandwiches?"

The girl named Jessie ran over.

"I love grilled cheese."

Paul held the screen door open for Jessie and her mother.

"Come on, Max, or you're gonna miss out on lunch."

Max bolted up the porch steps and into the house. Andy was the last one in. Paul stopped his son.

"What's up, Andy?"

"You were right. Working for Reeves, it's not all good."

"You in trouble?"

"Maybe."

"The law?"

"Not yet."

"What about them?"

"They're running, but not from the law."

"Then from who?"

"Me, at first. Now Russell Reeves."

"Your client?"

"Yep."

"And now you're hiding them from him?"

"Yep."

"Isn't that what you lawyers call a 'conflict of interest'?"

"Yep."

"That's not good."

"Nope."

Paul Prescott scratched his beard then said, "Well, let's get them fed and fixed up in the spare bedroom. Pull her car into the barn, then we'll figure this deal out."

"Thanks, Dad."

Forty miles north, Harmon Payne and Cecil Durant were walking down South Congress Avenue asking the freaks they encountered if they knew Andy Prescott. Everyone said no, which annoyed Harmon because he knew they were lying. But his driver was whistling like a kid, a sure sign that he had—

"You got a hooker last night, didn't you?" Harmon said.

"Does it show?"

"It probably will in a couple of weeks."

They stopped at the coffee joint called Jo's and ordered skinny lattes and deli sandwiches at the walk-up window.

"You know Andy Prescott?" Harmon asked the Mexican boy working the window.

"Andy Prescott? Nope. Never heard of him."

The boy wasn't a convincing liar.

They got their food, but Harmon lost his appetite when he turned and found himself staring at a bare butt walking past. A man's bare butt. Right there on the sidewalk fronting Congress Avenue, before God and everyone. A few folks stopped the guy and took pictures with him on their cell phones just as if he were a real star like one of the gals on
Jersey Shore
. From behind them, the Mexican boy said, "That's Queen Leslie. He's a local celebrity." This Queen Leslie was older than Harmon, with gray frizzy hair pulled back in a ponytail and a gray goatee; he was wearing only a pink thong, a black bra, and running shoes.

Cecil grunted. "You think he really jogs in that? Seems like it'd chafe your butt after a while."

"It's chafing my butt just looking at it."

Cecil gestured at the cell phone clipped to the Queen's thong.

"Who do you think he calls?"

"I keep having to look at his butt, he's gonna need to call 911."

Harmon's cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and answered.

"Hi, hon."

Cecil walked a few steps away so as not to obviously eavesdrop on Harmon's conversation. But he still heard Harmon.

"Yeah, we're wrapping up a meeting now … a few more days … his playoff game's on Saturday? At noon? … I don't know, this deal's dragging on … Sure, put him on … Hey, little man, how're you doing? … Three goals, that's super … I'm gonna do my best to be there, I promise … Okay, have fun at school … I love you, and tell your brother and sisters I love them, too. Bye."

Harmon tried to plan their trips around his kids' sports schedules. Four children, that wasn't an easy task, but Harmon seldom missed their games. Cecil hoped he was as good a father as Harmon, who hung up and turned to him.

"Cecil, we gotta find this guy fast. Between missing my son's games and guys wearing thongs, I'm liable to go postal."

Andy carried Frankie's stuff up the stairs to the spare bedroom. He opened the windows to let the breeze in.

"It's nice at night, sleeping to the country sounds, the breeze up from the creek. Bathroom's across the hall. Towels, toothpaste, whatever you need."

"Your dad's great."

"I like him."

"How soon does he need a liver transplant?"

"Soon."

"I like your skin."

Paul Prescott was showing the girl how to pet an ostrich.

"Aw, I look like a big ol' pumpkin."

They started walking down to the creek. The girl had told him about their travels and name changes. He had offered to show her the ostriches and the creek while her mother got settled into the spare bedroom.