Page 22 of Redeemed
I honestly don’t know what to say. My lips move, but no sound comes out. Thank you seems like the lamest thing ever, but finally I manage to whisper the words.
“Come on. It’s not like Connor has been sitting around bored. He’s been trying to figure out which of Jacques’ houses is close to the beach.”
“Oh?”
David pivots so my arm is around his shoulder and we both look at Connor. His eyes are as tired as David’s, and my luck in having them at my side gets me choked up.
“Yeah.” Connor’s more relaxed, his arms at his side, and for a moment he smiles. “Have you ever heard of Clapton Industries?”
“Doesn’t sound remotely familiar.”
“Huh. Well, here’s what I’ve got so far.” He crosses to the desk and brings up a spreadsheet on the laptop, holding it so we both can see the screen. “The left-hand column is the list of Jacques’ houses you sent me, and the middle column are the hits with his name that I get from the city’s property records. There’s some overlap—those are the green highlights—but as you can see, each list has a couple that aren’t on the other.”
“He must have houses I don’t know about.”
“I figured. Some of them are in his own name, and some are in the name of Betancourt LLC, which makes sense.”
I nod, waiting to see where he’s going with this.
“So here’s the weird thing. The entries I’ve highlighted yellow are also listed under Clapton Industries, with a subtitle like Jacques Betancourt, CEO or thereabouts.”
I scan the spreadsheet again. There’s one yellow highlight in the list I sent him and another three or four in his second column. “What’s the third column?”
“Property listings for Clapton Industries alone, with no mention of Jacques anywhere I could find.”
“Really? I’ve known Jacques for almost a hundred and fifty years. Seems like we’d talk about him starting a new business.” I blink, trying to puzzle out the implications of what he’s saying. David takes the opportunity to steer me toward the bed, and we sit side by side.
Connor sits in the desk chair. “The really weird thing, though, is that I’ve seen the name Clapton Industries before.”
“Where?” Something in his expression makes me reluctant to hear his answer.
He sets the laptop aside. “Remember when we were in D.C., looking for David in those warehouses?”
David flinches and I pull him closer to me.
“Right before the troll sat on my knee, I was in an office. The desk was covered with invoices and packing slips, and I took a picture of one, so I’d remember the name and address of the business, Frank’s Magic Warehouse.”
“And?” David asks, always the impatient one.
“The invoice was from Clapton Industries.”
A coincidence on that level gives me chills. “Seriously?”
“I wonder if Dad knows anything about either of those businesses.” David’s sitting straighter than I like, but I stifle the urge to pull him closer. That was easily the worst day of his life. He probably needs the space.
“We did see some pretty suspicious stuff going on.” Connor’s quick nod says he agrees with me but also that he doesn’t want to dig into it any further.
“So, old-timer”—David’s laugh sounds forced—“did you google Clapton Industries and see if the name of their CEO is listed on their website?”
Connor sets the laptop back on the desk, giving David a pained expression. “Yeah, you smartass, and there’s no mention of Jacques.”
“So we have a mysterious business that may or may not be run by Jacques and that may or may not have some kind of tie—however loose—to the American Were Authority in D.C.”
Connor nods his head yes, lips pressed together grimly. “Or at least they operate in the same neighborhood as the Were Authority warehouse, and yes, said mysterious business owns at least three properties that are near the ocean.”
David flops back on the bed. “Well, isn’t that convenient.”
“What time is it?” I ask. My head has begun to ache, as if the spell that’s blocking Jacques has wrapped my mind in cotton.
