Fatal Connections

Chapter 39

Half an hour later, I was cruising past Mabel Forbes's house, which had a forest green front door that didn't quite jibe with the sky-blue color of the siding. I wondered if she took shit from the homeowners association over that somewhat incongruous mismatch.

The house sat atop a small hill and had a driveway that led to a one-car garage. Both driveway and garage sat low enough to suggest they led to the basement. No vehicles were parked in front of the house. In fact, the entire street was empty. But it was only 3:30. Maybe, as people returned home from work, I'd have better luck blending into the neighborhood.

I did stop once, pretending to check an old ADC map book of Howard County. This gave me time to do at least a pro forma reconnaissance on what might be Troy Fairchild's safe house. Who uses an old map book? A few people, probably. Besides, try hiding your face behind a cell phone.

The house was a recent model. Two stories, the lower level brick-fronted, the upper floor covered with the sky-blue siding. A set of steps crossed a steep slope of lawn, providing access to the non-matching door. I caught a glimpse of a low basement window gleaming from the rear corner of the building. As to access from the backyard, I wouldn't know for sure without taking a closer look.

Taking care to park a good distance from the place, I donned the lanyard with my veteran ID card tucked into a plastic holder clipped onto it. If anyone asked, I could say I was doing a door-to-door survey for a small nonprofit. A really small one.

I grabbed the clipboard and moved toward the house, trying to look purposeful. I hadn't yet decided what my nonprofit did. Save the whales? No. Save the crabs? Yes. That was closer to home.

As I neared the slightly nonconformist green door, a woman appeared from behind the rise of the yard and looked up at me. She might have been in her mid 40s. And she was dressed like a Brooks Brothers model in a tasteful black pencil skirt and a matching jacket over a light blue silk blouse. Apart from the fact that her hairstyle was a tidy helmet of monochromatic auburn hair of a slightly too-red shade, she actually matched the house better than the door did.

"Hi," I chirped, putting on a friendly smile as I went back down the steps, sporting my clipboard with an air of authority. She eyed me with thinly veiled curiosity in return. "Are you Mabel Forbes?" I asked. I noted the closed garage door and wondered if she'd been hiding behind the house.

The woman shook her head. "Oh, no. She moved out."

"You must be the new owner then." I said, raising the clipboard. "I'm doing a resident survey, so I need to talk to the owner."

"No, I'm not." Ms. Brooks Brothers paused, looking strangely perplexed, as if not quite sure what to say to me. "The house is on the market. I'm just looking after it."

"Oh, you must be a real estate agent then."

She stiffened slightly. "I work with an agency."

"I sure hope you can help me out. Because if Ms. Forbes still owns the property, I need to get some information from her. I assume you have a way of contacting her?"

Ms. Brooks Brothers glanced from my face to my midsection where my ID hung. I had positioned it just low enough that the clipboard could be used as a handy shield.

"Look," she said. "I really don't know. To be honest, I came by for a friend in the office."

That sounded reasonable. She didn't use any of the standard "obvious liar" tells—averting her eyes, fidgeting, crossing her arms, stepping back, and so on—so what she said was probably true. Or she was a great liar.

"Hey, I'm just a volunteer." I tried saying that in a real casual, empathetic tone. "But this is about a serious issue. If you're saying the house has been on the market a while, I won't go around telling everyone. But it would help me a great deal to know when Mabel Forbes moved."

She nodded once. "It's been at least six months," she said. "Probably longer."

I scribbled on a piece of scrap paper that I keep attached to my clipboard, along with the official-looking form beneath it, because I can't write everything on the form, can I?

"I take it six months is a long time for a property to be on the market."

Ms. Brooks Brothers looked resigned. "I said probably longer. Much longer."

"Why do you say that?"

She shrugged. "Just a feeling I get. Jokes around the office. That kind of thing."

"And Ms. Forbes current address?"

She shook her head. "Can't help you there. I only know that she was very old."

"How old?" I asked.

"I don't know." The agent shrugged. "Easily in her 70s, maybe 80s. Old enough to be tired of taking care of a house."

I wanted to ask a lot more questions, but I was fast approaching the kinds of questions that would sound weird in a neighborhood survey. "Is someone else handling the sale for her? Perhaps I could get more information from them."

She gave me a sharp look. It gave me the distinct impression that I had asked one question too many.

"I honestly can't tell you." She continued to look from my face to the spot where she assumed my badge was and suddenly she turned suspicious. "What kind of ID is that?"

She looked so wound up, I thought she might make a grab for the badge. Time to go.

"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'll take it from here." I held my identification badge up for a fraction of a second and then dropped it. "Military issue."

That was my exit line.