site,” he said, “but here is the first strange thing. The address on the deed and the tax records is 100 River Lane. But there is no such street listed.”
Keller took the sheet from Sanchez and looked it over. “You said the first strange thing. What else?”
Sanchez took another sheaf of papers from the file. “There are many judgments and lawsuits concerning the property.”
“Ah,” Keller said. “Probably the developer went belly-up, ran out of money, and they never officially opened the street.”
“I see,” Sanchez said. “That explains much. Many of the lawsuits are for bills not paid. But one was from the United States government. The Environmental Protection Agency.”
“The EPA?” Angela said. “What’s that about?”
Sanchez looked apologetic. “I do not know,” he admitted. “Much of the language was not familiar to me.”
“Don’t worry, Oscar,” Keller said. “If it’s a lawsuit, it’s not in any form of English either of us would understand.”
“In any case,” Angela said. “It looks like this guy Randle is the only one who has any property out there.”
Nice little hideaway,” Keller said.
“Isolated,” Marie agreed.
“Glad you brought backup, huh?”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “Let’s go.”
Grace Tranh pushed herself away from her desk in the newsroom and rubbed her face in her hands. She had been working for three hours and she still didn’t have her piece finished for the eleven o’clock newscast. The problem was, there was only so much you could say about a county commissioner accused of misusing county funds to buy himself a bass boat.
Her eyes flickered at the clock on her desk. 9:40. Shit. Her producer was going to start screaming for copy soon. She wished she was doing a stand-up report somewhere, anywhere. She knew the promotion to anchor of the Eleven was a huge boost to her career. But it was hard to work up any enthusiasm for composing narration to run behind shots of the errant commissioner waddling from his house to his car, shaking his fist at the cameraman.
She decided she needed a cup of coffee. First, though, she needed to check e-mail. The station had thought it would be a good idea to give each anchor and correspondent a “public” e-mail address which was shown beneath their name on the screen as they appeared on camera. The e-mail address was made purposely easy to remember: the correspondent’s name and the station call letters. The idea was that it made them seem more accessible to the public. Besides, the station manager had said, beaming at them during the meeting in which he had announced the new policy, maybe they’d get some anonymous tips to big stories. So far, all Grace had gotten was a steady stream of proposals, some of them obscene; a fair number of poorly spelled racist diatribes directed at her Vietnamese heritage; and at least a dozen ads a day for penis enlargement.
She sighed as the number of messages mounted on the screen. Rapidly, she scrolled through the list. Delete. Delete. Delete. Then a message header caught her eye:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
RE: BIG STORY
There was a tiny icon of a paper clip next to the message header, indicating that the message contained an attachment, such as a document or picture file. She pulled down a menu on the screen. There were four attachments, all pictures: IMGOOI.JPG, IMG002.JPG, and so on. Grace sighed. Somebody probably thought their church ice-cream social should make the eleven o’clock. Still, she couldn’t just blow them off. Someone might complain. She clicked on the icon.
The picture came up slowly, scanning line by line from the top. It looked grainy, like it had been taken with a cheap camera. She saw the cross, saw the altar, and shook her head. She’d been right. Then the bottom half of the picture came into view.
“Holy shit,” Grace said.
CHAPTER SIX
“Huh,” Keller said. The headlights of the Crown Vic shone off the
Keller took the sheet from Sanchez and looked it over. “You said the first strange thing. What else?”
Sanchez took another sheaf of papers from the file. “There are many judgments and lawsuits concerning the property.”
“Ah,” Keller said. “Probably the developer went belly-up, ran out of money, and they never officially opened the street.”
“I see,” Sanchez said. “That explains much. Many of the lawsuits are for bills not paid. But one was from the United States government. The Environmental Protection Agency.”
“The EPA?” Angela said. “What’s that about?”
Sanchez looked apologetic. “I do not know,” he admitted. “Much of the language was not familiar to me.”
“Don’t worry, Oscar,” Keller said. “If it’s a lawsuit, it’s not in any form of English either of us would understand.”
“In any case,” Angela said. “It looks like this guy Randle is the only one who has any property out there.”
Nice little hideaway,” Keller said.
“Isolated,” Marie agreed.
“Glad you brought backup, huh?”
“Yeah,” Keller said. “Let’s go.”
Grace Tranh pushed herself away from her desk in the newsroom and rubbed her face in her hands. She had been working for three hours and she still didn’t have her piece finished for the eleven o’clock newscast. The problem was, there was only so much you could say about a county commissioner accused of misusing county funds to buy himself a bass boat.
Her eyes flickered at the clock on her desk. 9:40. Shit. Her producer was going to start screaming for copy soon. She wished she was doing a stand-up report somewhere, anywhere. She knew the promotion to anchor of the Eleven was a huge boost to her career. But it was hard to work up any enthusiasm for composing narration to run behind shots of the errant commissioner waddling from his house to his car, shaking his fist at the cameraman.
She decided she needed a cup of coffee. First, though, she needed to check e-mail. The station had thought it would be a good idea to give each anchor and correspondent a “public” e-mail address which was shown beneath their name on the screen as they appeared on camera. The e-mail address was made purposely easy to remember: the correspondent’s name and the station call letters. The idea was that it made them seem more accessible to the public. Besides, the station manager had said, beaming at them during the meeting in which he had announced the new policy, maybe they’d get some anonymous tips to big stories. So far, all Grace had gotten was a steady stream of proposals, some of them obscene; a fair number of poorly spelled racist diatribes directed at her Vietnamese heritage; and at least a dozen ads a day for penis enlargement.
She sighed as the number of messages mounted on the screen. Rapidly, she scrolled through the list. Delete. Delete. Delete. Then a message header caught her eye:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
RE: BIG STORY
There was a tiny icon of a paper clip next to the message header, indicating that the message contained an attachment, such as a document or picture file. She pulled down a menu on the screen. There were four attachments, all pictures: IMGOOI.JPG, IMG002.JPG, and so on. Grace sighed. Somebody probably thought their church ice-cream social should make the eleven o’clock. Still, she couldn’t just blow them off. Someone might complain. She clicked on the icon.
The picture came up slowly, scanning line by line from the top. It looked grainy, like it had been taken with a cheap camera. She saw the cross, saw the altar, and shook her head. She’d been right. Then the bottom half of the picture came into view.
“Holy shit,” Grace said.
CHAPTER SIX
“Huh,” Keller said. The headlights of the Crown Vic shone off the
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