Page 27 of Dodge

“It’s agent.”

Even better.

“Second floor.”

Upstairs, Marlowe met the woman who presided over this operation. She was pleasant enough but unconcerned about criminal conspiracies and wanted to get back to a stack of birth certificates. Maybe nine months before, a period of bad storms had taken out the power for a few days and kept Harbinger couples inside with not much else to do.

This official let Marlowe do her own searching and after a brief lesson on how the computer system worked she was turned loose to dig.

With far less impressive fingertip velocity than theForensic Filesclerk’s downstairs, she typed in her request.

The only hit she had was that in 1939, Emma Offenbach, a resident of Harbinger County, married Nigel Cotter, also a resident, and became Emma Cotter.

Was this gold, or not?

It was back down to Deeds to find out. Now the target of the day was property owned by Nigel Cotter. “From the late thirties to date.”

“I’m on it, Agent.”

The cerulean nails tap-danced once more and soon there was an answer.

Cotter had sold a house in 1940 and bought another the same year. It was located at 1 Trail Ridge Road. When Cotter passed in 1964, the house went to another Cotter, who kept title in his name ... until it was transferred to an Illinois limited liability corporation ten years ago.

“Will there be a big arrest, like they show onSmall Town Homicide? They’re reenactments but they’re still pretty okay. You watch it?”

“It’s a good one.”

Constant Marlowe did not own a television set.

She stepped into a dim corridor, tugged out her phone and called a contact in the Illinois Secretary of State’s office. Two minutes later her friend said that Marlowe had been right in her assumption: managers of the LLC owning the house at 1 Trail Ridge Road were in Nassau, the Bahamas.

In the same building where Paul Offenbach had an office.

The puzzle was almost complete. One piece remained.

The most delicate of all.

“Travis.”

Offenbach nodded to the solidly built man, midthirties, in jeans and a gray tee. The garment was tight, showing off muscles and a potbelly. His hair was dark and thick, and his face round. Offenbach had known him for several months and in all that time he’d never seen him sporting an intentional beard, as Offenbach did from time to time, just stubble.

Maybe lazy.

Maybe a look.

The two men were outside a dilapidated shack on narrow, winding Trail Ridge, which was surrounded by pine and oak forests and dense tangles of a thousand species of plants. The men were two miles from the terminus of the road, where the Offenbach-Cotter family house was located.

Travis had just driven up from Illinois in a commercial van, the logo on the side reading HENRIETTA’SFLORIST, surrounded by colorful bouquets. This was at Offenbach’s request. He wanted a vehicle that would blend in, not a Tony Soprano black Escalade, his wheels of choice in Chicago.

“What’s the plan?”

Offenbach pointed the way the man had come. “Go back to 22, turn right toward Upper Falls. About four miles, there’s an outlet mall. Park there, facing out. You need a good view of the highway. Watch for an orange Honda Accord, coming this way.”

“That’ll be her?”

He didn’t answer. Who else would it be?

“Call me so I’ll be ready.”

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