Page 108 of Luck of the Devil
Larkspur had purchased Hugo Burton’s residential property when it went into foreclosure shortly after his disappearance. The land had sat vacant since Burton’s disappearance five years ago. We’d tried to discover who was behind it, but Larkspur had been incorporated in New Mexico, a state that helped hide the true owners.
“Obviously your father had something to do with Larkspur,” James said. “The question is whether he was working for them, or if he is Larkspur.”
I didn’t respond, unable to find the words.
“Never heard of Copper Ridge,” James said, reaching across the table for his laptop. “Have you?”
I shook my head. “No.” But the word came out in a croak.
He entered the name of the business, but nothing came up in a simple Google search. I swung the laptop in my direction and pulled up a PI site to repeat the search. A few seconds later, the name popped up.
“Copper Ridge was created five years ago, then sold to Larkspur two years ago,” I said. Unlike Larkspur, it had been incorporated in Arkansas. Two names were listed as principals: but one name was familiar from our investigation of Hugo Burton’s disappearance.
“Brett Colter,” James said with a tone of satisfaction. “Fuckin’ liar.”
Colter was a local land developer, and his name had kept coming up during our investigation. At the time, he’d denied knowing anything about Larkspur.
“Do you recognize the other one?” I asked.
“Clive Norwood.” He studied the screen for a moment, thinking. “He’s from Little Rock. I’m pretty sure he had ties to J.R. Simmons.”
“Wow,” I said. Another thread tying my father to Simmons. “Simmons died several years before this sale.”
“Your father drew up the paperwork,” James said as he started a search for Clive Norwood. “Maybe Simmons gave his name to a few friends.”
The results showed Norwood owned a small chain of furniture stores in Little Rock, Bentonville, and El Dorado.
“A land developer and a furniture store owner own a consulting firm,” I said, mulling it over. “What would they consult on?”
“Good question,” James said with a grim smile. “Since they don’t have a website and there’s no mention of them on LinkedIn, I suspect it was a shell corporation.”
“A shell corporation for what?”
“Anything,” James said. “Drugs, money laundering, arms dealing. We’d need to see more, like their financials, to know for sure.”
The next document in my mother’s stack was a copy of the sale of a building in north Jackson Creek seven years prior. The contract had been drawn up by my father, and the purchaser had been one of my early suspects in Ava Peterman’s kidnapping.
“Ricky Morris,” I said, my stomach dropping. “This is for the laundromat, isn’t it?”
“Suds and Duds,” James said. “Yep.”
The laundromat was a suspected drug front, and Ava Peterman’s father, who was on the city council, had been trying to shut it down.
“Was Morris known for criminal activity before he opened the laundromat?” I asked.
“I wasn’t here seven years ago.”
I gave him a pointed look. There was no way he didn’t know the man’s history.
A smug look lit up his eyes. “He’s been dabbling in drug dealing for a good twenty years. It’s no secret.”
“Then my father must have known.”
“Unless he lived under a rock.”
The next set of pages showed contracts for land and business purchases going back over twenty years. James said most of the people involved had ties to criminal activity.
We were down to the last few pages in the pile when we found paperwork for the formation of an LLC, Hollow Ridge Development, with three partners—my father, a man named Richard Bell, and Dale Ambrose.
