Page 48 of Gem Warfare

“I’ll get it cleared up. You might want to think about leaving a set of clothes here permanently.”

“I’m not planning on this happening again.” I paused. “I can’t see how anything like this could ever happen again.”

Solomon smiled. “We’ll see,” he said.

We parted ways on the next floor and I headed to the small suite the agency had set up in a former interview room. The idea was that we had a place where we could put up the occasional client that needed a secure place to stay; but primarily, it had been used by the staff when working long hours that prevented them from going home. There was a bedroom with a queen-sized bed and bunkbeds, a small couch and a coffee table. Off that was a compact shower room, equipped with a variety of travel products, although I noted someone had left their toiletry bag by the sink with half-used men’s products inside.

I showered, washed my hair until it squeaked clean, and wrapped a towel around myself. When I stepped into the bedroom, my bag was on the bed. I grabbed the jeans and a blouse, socks and sneakers and dressed quickly. The only thing we seemed to have forgotten to add to the suite was a hairdryerso I settled for combing out my hair, hoping it would dry quickly in the summer heat. Gathering my wet things, I returned to the PI’s office, cleaner, drier, and ready to pursue the new lead.

“Let’s go,” said Garrett, rising and beckoning me to follow. “My contact says our forger is very prompt. I don’t want to miss this opportunity.”

“What do we know about him?” I asked as we headed down the stairs.

“Name’s Owen Weaver, he’s sixty-five years old, sentenced to fifteen years, paroled in ten. Apparently, he’s very well behaved in prison and spent time teaching some of his fellow inmates to read and write. Hopefully, not so they could help him out in future forgeries but who knows? Maybe he just has a heart.”

“Or else he was bored.”

“Or that. Single, no kids. Currently works in a small retail shop. Absolutely not allowed near computers, printing presses, commercial photography equipment, or the internet.”

“How does he get through the day?” I wondered.

“Old school style. His parole is in effect so long as he doesn’t re-offend and the restrictions are supposed to ensure that, along with him being a law-abiding, productive member of the community. In reality, the parole officers can’t monitor everything he does and neither can we.”

“So he could have returned right back to forging?”

“Sure, but then he runs the risk of someone finding out and getting sent back to prison. A sensible parolee doesn’t risk that. Certainly not on his sentence. Better to do those years outside than inside.”

“How sensible do you think he is?” We reached the parking lot and Garrett pointed to his unmarked police pool car in the visitor parking spot.

“We’ll soon find out. If he’s dry, that’s a good sign.”

“Dry? Oh, very funny.” I thwacked my brother’s arm andGarrett laughed.

~

The man walking towards us looked friendly, if not strained around the eyes. He bore a wide smile, thinning blond hair, and his forehead held deep frown lines. His checkered shirt sleeves were rolled haphazardly, one sleeve slightly higher than the other.

“Don Kempner. I kept Weaver as long as I could,” he said, shaking Garrett’s hand, then mine. “He’s one of my few clients whose appointments I can set my watch by. In on time, out as fast as he can. Always prepared to prove anything I want to know.”

“Sounds ideal,” I said.

“I want to agree with you, but his compliance is so rare, it’s suspicious. All the same, he’s ticking all the boxes and there isn’t a whiff of anything alarming so I’m prepared to give him an easy ride.”

“Your other clients are very different?” I asked as Don headed down the hallway, leaving us hurrying to catch him.

“We get them from all walks of life. Some are compliant, some aren’t. Some disappear as quickly as they can. Others have just had a bad lot in life and need guidance in turning their lives around. I do what I can but…” Don looked around and threw his hands in the air. “Budgets,” he said simply. “We could do more if we had more. It would save money down the line but it’s hard to get the powers that be interested once the person you want to help is an official felon.”

“Understood,” said Garrett. “What else can you tell us about Owen Weaver?”

“Not a lot. Always polite, keeps to himself. Speaks well and is articulate. I don’t see him chummy with any other felons although his prison record said he was an unofficial teacher to a number of them. Helped them get into educational courses,things like that.”

“What about his residence?”

“Halfway house. He has his own room, shares a living room and kitchen with five others, keeps curfew. No reported issues. I’ve done a couple spot checks and I’m satisfied with it. He’s only been there a couple weeks as the last one had a termite issue and the whole place needed fumigating. In my opinion, it should be condemned. That said, he didn’t have any issues there either.”

“Has he spoken about his crimes at all?”

“We spoke about them at the initial meeting when we went over what he could and couldn’t do. After that, no. If he’s interested in taking up forging again, I’m sure I’ll be the last to know.” Don paused outside a door, his hand on the handle without turning it. “I know you said your case involves a dead body but, for what it’s worth, I just don’t see Owen Weaver as a murderer. He’s not the type.”

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