…... off the record?”"
“"Of course,”" Grace lied.
“"I was the only black agent in the agency. And …... I’'m not sure the broker was comfortable with that. And Dwight was black, too.”"
A potentially racist broker. A white supremacist van with a black agent’'s magnetic sign. Those puzzle pieces might fit together in some twisted way.
“"This …... Malcolm, was he hurt? What happened?”" Syndee Barlett sat down on her vastly blue sofa.
“"Would you mind telling us where you were Thursday night?”" Grace asked.
“"Oh, God, I was here,”" she said, paling. “"I was alone.”" Grace could observe her comfort level dissipating like water in a hot frying pan. “"I called my mother. I can verify that—--”"
“"You’'re not a suspect,”" Grace assured her, even though that might also turn out to be a lie. “"But if we could take a statement now, and we might need you to come downtown later …...”" She pulled her detective’'s notebook out of her belt. Slid out her pen and clicked it.
“"Yes. Yes,”" Ms. Barlett said. “"Of course.”"
Turned out she had worked for OKC Home Realtors for five years. It was a large group with a number of real estate agents. But she’'d gotten out of the business when the economy went south.
“"There weren’'t a lot of folks buying houses in my area,”" she said. “"And I didn’'t have the stomach for foreclosures.”"
“"That would be tough,”" Grace agreed.
“"Jim …... my broker, he wanted me to go after all the upside-down mortgages and snap them up.”" She blinked. “"Said I’'d be ‘'perfect.’'”"
“"In what way?”" Ham asked neutrally.
Ms. Barlett remained silent.
“"Anything you have to say, you can tell us,”" Grace assured her. “"Was it some kind of racial statement?”"
“"Look,”" the woman answered, not angrily, “"I never lodged a complaint against him, anything like that, and it would be …... unfair to say anything now.”"
So, yes, it had been racial. While Grace kept her game face on, her mind was processing information as it came in. The Sons had to have bought their land from someone. Say they went into the real estate office to deal with their bigoted friend Jim, and snatched a sign or two for later. It would be easy to do. Say they went in a lot of times to sign papers and shit.
“"Did you ever have any dealings with a man named Tommy Miller?”" Grace asked. “"Or see him in the brokerage office?”"
Ms. Barlett gave it some thought.
“"It would be a bunch of acres off the 270, mostly undeveloped but with a few buildings on it,”" Grace prompted.
“"No. I usually handled residential, simple stuff.”" She thought a moment. “"Jim had some ‘'boutique’' clients, he called them. He liked to brag about his deals to ‘'inspire’' us. After a while, I stopped listening. I knew I was getting out.”"
“"Could you give us a list of the other agents in the office?”" Grace asked. “"And the name of your boss? The actual broker?”"
“"Sure. He’'s James Morrison.”"
She got up and went to a laptop on her dining room table. Grace murmured softly, “"He’'s Jim Morrison.”"
Ham chuckled.
About a minute later, a printer started whirring down the hall. Wireless. Nice.
“"Are you working now?”" Grace asked her.
The woman nodded. “"For a nonprofit group. I help secure funding.”" She smiled sadly. “"Or make the attempt. It’'s called Get Out Now. We try to get kids off the streets. As you know, Oklahoma City has a terrible gang problem.”" She went down the hall, probably to retrieve the list from the printer.
“"Tell Kendra Burke that,”" Ham muttered.
Jamal’'s image blossomed in Grace’'s mind. Maybe once this case was over she’'d make a donation to Get Out Now.
Syndee Barlett returned with her business card and handed it to Grace. Grace and Ham reciprocated with their own cards, and Grace closed her notebook and put it away.
“"If you think of anything, please
“"Of course,”" Grace lied.
“"I was the only black agent in the agency. And …... I’'m not sure the broker was comfortable with that. And Dwight was black, too.”"
A potentially racist broker. A white supremacist van with a black agent’'s magnetic sign. Those puzzle pieces might fit together in some twisted way.
“"This …... Malcolm, was he hurt? What happened?”" Syndee Barlett sat down on her vastly blue sofa.
“"Would you mind telling us where you were Thursday night?”" Grace asked.
“"Oh, God, I was here,”" she said, paling. “"I was alone.”" Grace could observe her comfort level dissipating like water in a hot frying pan. “"I called my mother. I can verify that—--”"
“"You’'re not a suspect,”" Grace assured her, even though that might also turn out to be a lie. “"But if we could take a statement now, and we might need you to come downtown later …...”" She pulled her detective’'s notebook out of her belt. Slid out her pen and clicked it.
“"Yes. Yes,”" Ms. Barlett said. “"Of course.”"
Turned out she had worked for OKC Home Realtors for five years. It was a large group with a number of real estate agents. But she’'d gotten out of the business when the economy went south.
“"There weren’'t a lot of folks buying houses in my area,”" she said. “"And I didn’'t have the stomach for foreclosures.”"
“"That would be tough,”" Grace agreed.
“"Jim …... my broker, he wanted me to go after all the upside-down mortgages and snap them up.”" She blinked. “"Said I’'d be ‘'perfect.’'”"
“"In what way?”" Ham asked neutrally.
Ms. Barlett remained silent.
“"Anything you have to say, you can tell us,”" Grace assured her. “"Was it some kind of racial statement?”"
“"Look,”" the woman answered, not angrily, “"I never lodged a complaint against him, anything like that, and it would be …... unfair to say anything now.”"
So, yes, it had been racial. While Grace kept her game face on, her mind was processing information as it came in. The Sons had to have bought their land from someone. Say they went into the real estate office to deal with their bigoted friend Jim, and snatched a sign or two for later. It would be easy to do. Say they went in a lot of times to sign papers and shit.
“"Did you ever have any dealings with a man named Tommy Miller?”" Grace asked. “"Or see him in the brokerage office?”"
Ms. Barlett gave it some thought.
“"It would be a bunch of acres off the 270, mostly undeveloped but with a few buildings on it,”" Grace prompted.
“"No. I usually handled residential, simple stuff.”" She thought a moment. “"Jim had some ‘'boutique’' clients, he called them. He liked to brag about his deals to ‘'inspire’' us. After a while, I stopped listening. I knew I was getting out.”"
“"Could you give us a list of the other agents in the office?”" Grace asked. “"And the name of your boss? The actual broker?”"
“"Sure. He’'s James Morrison.”"
She got up and went to a laptop on her dining room table. Grace murmured softly, “"He’'s Jim Morrison.”"
Ham chuckled.
About a minute later, a printer started whirring down the hall. Wireless. Nice.
“"Are you working now?”" Grace asked her.
The woman nodded. “"For a nonprofit group. I help secure funding.”" She smiled sadly. “"Or make the attempt. It’'s called Get Out Now. We try to get kids off the streets. As you know, Oklahoma City has a terrible gang problem.”" She went down the hall, probably to retrieve the list from the printer.
“"Tell Kendra Burke that,”" Ham muttered.
Jamal’'s image blossomed in Grace’'s mind. Maybe once this case was over she’'d make a donation to Get Out Now.
Syndee Barlett returned with her business card and handed it to Grace. Grace and Ham reciprocated with their own cards, and Grace closed her notebook and put it away.
“"If you think of anything, please
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