black circles of glass shielded eyes that Andre sensed were sweeping over him.
“Typical July in Houston,” the man replied, coming over to stand beside Andre.
“Right,” Andre replied, easing back a bit while rethinking his earlier conclusion. His mind whirled back to a recent news report about a well-dressed mugger who had been spotted hanging out in city parks, waiting for unsuspecting victims to beat and rob. It seemed that no one could be trusted nowadays, but Andre hated to automatically assume that every stranger he met was potentially dangerous.
“Are you Andre Preaux?” the man suddenly asked in a strong, official manner, as if he had been waiting for Andre all along.
The question shocked Andre, who stepped away several feet and leveled a curious eye on the red-faced man, whom he now could see was lanky and slightly stooped. His shielded eyes told Andre nothing, staring back at him as if they were simply two black dots pasted on a face for show. “Why? Who are you?” Andre wanted to know, certain he had never seen this person before.
The man reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a slim black wallet, which he flipped open with one heavily freckled hand. “Charles Frazer, FBI. Are you Andre Preaux?”
Too startled, and too cautious, to speak, Andre moved his head up and down.
“Good,” the man said, turning away from Andre to walk over to one of the metal picnic tables in the center of the pavilion. Once he was seated, he motioned Andre over. “Sit down, please. I want to talk to you.”
“About what?” Andre asked, slowly making his way toward the table as he tried to grasp the inference of the FBI agent’s presence in the park. The man knew him. Had called him by name. What could he possibly want?
“It’s about your brother, Jamal Preaux,” Frazer clarified, removing his glasses to reveal pale-blue expressionless eyes.
“Oh.” The word erupted from Andre’s mouth, flying out like a tiny dart. He digested the agent’s comment, fearful about what was coming next. After having pushed Jamal out of his mind and out of his life for so long, Andre had begun to believe that no one knew about his estranged sibling, but apparently, the FBI did, and the realization was disturbing. “My half brother, you mean,” Andre corrected, cautiously taking a seat across from Charles Frazer.
“Okay, fine. Your half brother,” Frazer conceded with a slight smirk. Barely moving his lips, he went on. “When was the last time you saw him?”
That was a question that Andre didn’t want to answer, and one that he had hoped no one would ever ask. He could feel his pulse begin to race as he considered whether to cooperate with this man before he knew what was really going on. After all, he was not obligated to answer any official’s questions without a lawyer present, and how did he know that this man was really an agent with the FBI? “Why do you want to know?” Andre ventured, stalling, groping for any reason to avoid this conversation.
“Have you seen or heard from Jamal Preaux recently?” Frazer pressed, toying with his sunglasses, his blue stare cutting into Andre’s brown eyes.
Slowly, Andre forced himself to calm down, deciding to answer as truthfully as possible because to do otherwise would only make him appear as if he had something to hide, which he didn’t. “No. I haven’t seen Jamal recently.”
“What about his wife, Kay Lamonde Preaux? Heard from her?”
Again, Andre replied, “No,” his voice unexpectedly dropping to a whisper.
“You were in Jamaica last September, weren’t you?” Frazer pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his limp white shirt, thumbed to a page and studied it, as if verifying his facts. “September 2005? Did you see your brother then?”
Knowing it would be stupid to deny that he had traveled to Jamaica because it was so easy to check travel and passport records, Andre had no choice but to confirm the agent’s statement. “Yes,” he confessed. “I went to Jamaica in September. I saw my brother then.”
“What was the purpose of your visit?”
“Vacation.”
“Where did you see Jamal?”
“He came to see me at my hotel in Kingston.”
“Are you two close?” Frazer asked.
Andre hunched his shoulders, beginning to feel cornered. “No, not really.” Biting his lip, he paused, and then added, “We’ve had our differences over the years. I’d like him to come back to the States, bring his family and settle down here.”
“You ever talk about that with him?” Frazer asked.
“Yeah, sure. But I guess he loves the island life too much to give it up.”
“What does your brother do for a living?” Frazer plodded along, his tone growing more efficient with each word, his manner more insistent.
“I don’t really know,” Andre answered in a constricted voice, praying that he sounded convincing. “Odd jobs. He told me he repairs houses, does fix-up stuff. His wife, Kay, is an artist. Sells her paintings in a local market.”
“I see,” Frazer said as he made a few notations on a page in his notebook before flipping it closed and taking out one of his business cards, which he slid across the picnic table to Andre. “You still live at Prairie Towers?”
With a jerk of his head, Andre confirmed the man’s question, a coil of apprehension forming in his gut. This man knew where he lived. Knew he had a half brother living in the Caribbean. He’d intercepted Andre in the park. How long had the FBI been watching him? “Yeah, that’s where I live and where I work. My office is in the same building.”
“You own the building, right?”
“Yes, I do,” Andre snapped, not liking the way this interrogation was going.
“Where’d you get the money to buy a piece of property like that?”
“Where anybody gets money to buy something they want. I earned it. I saved it. Borrowed some from the bank.” Now, Andre was really getting pissed. What right did this man have to ask such questions, which he certainly didn’t have to answer? “What difference does it make how I financed my property?”
“Just wanted to know. For the record,” Frazer calmly clarified.
“Well, is there anything else you want to know?” Andre tossed out, raising his chin in a defiant jut, ready to be finished with this vague interrogation.
“Not right now, but stick around. I may want to talk to you again.”
“Why?” Andre demanded, now suspicious. “Let’s dispense with this cat-and-mouse bull. What’s this about? Do I need to get a lawyer?”
Agent Frazer’s features turned even more solemn and his eyes lowered into hooded blue slits, the first sign of emotion that Andre had seen. “Do you think you need one?”
“No, not at all,” Andre boldly countered, determined not to waver.
“Then, you have nothing to worry about, okay?”
“Sure,
