claws clicked on the marble floor as he cantered the length of the hall to our office. He did his hurry-up spin in front of the office door while he waited for me to get there and open up. Once inside, Jake ran around to inspect both offices and the bathroom to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. He would have inspected the supply room but the door was shut.
When Jake was convinced all was as it should be, he went into my office to his favorite spot, circled three times and plopped down on his dog bed.
I went through my early morning office ritual. I turned on all the lights in the front office that were supposed to be on, omitting the glaring overheads. Then I made coffee. As the coffee brewed and the aroma filled the office, I turned on the lights in my office and all the computers and the printer that they shared. There were two desks in the larger outer office with computers and plenty of workspace. There also was a refrigerator, a microwave, a toaster oven, a fax machine, mostly empty filing cabinets, and two large tables for additional workspace should we ever need them. One desk was Billy’s and one desk was for a yet-to-be-hired receptionist. Hiring a receptionist was not so much a question of money but a question of the moral principle of hiring someone knowing they would die of sheer boredom in a few weeks. I was not optimistic that we would ever have a receptionist but it’s the thought that counts.
As I heard the coffee machine sputter to a stop, I grabbed my favorite cup off my desk and headed to the outer office, inspecting the cup along the way. There was a light brown film in the bottom. I momentarily debated going to the bathroom and washing it but the aroma of the fresh brewed coffee was too tempting. I blew hard into the cup to remove any dust that might have settled there during the few days I had been gone. Clean enough, I thought. I poured my coffee and headed back to my desk and began playing solitaire as I pondered Sandy’s news. I was surprisingly depressed and was confused at my depression. Was I not Mister Love ’Em and Leave ’Em? Solitaire was not so kind today either. One ace up was all I could manage from the first game. The next game I managed to get all four aces and a deuce up, but there were three deuces down and that wrecked the hand. I gave up and logged on to AOL to check the market.
The bell had not sounded on today’s action as yet and the market was down almost two hundred points from yesterday’s opening. A few years ago this would have constituted a mini-crash. In today’s market it was a common occurrence. I knew the market was heading for thirteen thousand and beyond. It was only a matter of time. Who knew where the ceiling was? Certainly, not I. I did know the waters of the Street were shark-infested and unless you were willing to watch your investments on a daily or even hourly basis, you best stick to good mutual funds and leave stocks to the players. To be a player you had to have good timing, good instinct, lots of money, and the nerves of a bank robber.
I looked at my portfolios and was pleased to see minimal losses compared to yesterday’s downslide. Three of my stocks even gained. I navigated from finance to sports and checked the latest odds on Saturday’s college football action. Tennessee was still a six-point underdog to the Georgia Bulldogs. Good, I thought, we play better as an underdog, having won twice in that role already this year. I looked at the baseball playoff lineup. The Reds weren’t there and so I had only a passing interest. My mind was wandering as I surfed around aimlessly. I gave up and called Sandy.
“Cassandra Smith,” she answered.
“Want to join me for dinner tonight at Big Bob’s?”
“Sure. What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
There was a pause. Dead air brought about by unfinished business.
“Can you take a few days off next week?” I asked.
“I think so. What do you have in mind?”
“I have to go to New Orleans. Want to join me in the French Quarter?”
“Sounds promising. Count me in,” Sandy purred in her sexiest voice.
“Great. See you tonight.”
“Tonight,” she said and hung up.
The outer door to the office opened and Jake raised his head for a moment, then resumed his snooze. I knew it was Billy. Anyone else, other than Sandy, and Jake would have been on his feet in a defensive posture. Jake could not see the outer door and I was constantly amazed at how he could distinguish one person from another. Dog radar, I concluded.
Billy walked in and sat down.
“How was Knoxville?”
“Enlightening,” I said. I proceeded to tell Billy everything I had learned from the trip.
“Sounds like Ed Sanders’s death might not have been an accident,” Billy said. “Too many coincidences.”
“I agree.”
“What’s next for you—Hoffman?”
“Hoffman,” I confirmed. “What did you learn?”
“Not much. Woman I know works for East Tennessee Travel. I bought her dinner Tuesday night and then we went back to her office and spent hours on her computer looking for possibilities that would match the Fairchilds flying out of any airport within a three hundred mile radius. Anything that fit we tracked down. Confirmed home addresses and made a few phone calls pretending to be customer service. Everything checked out. If they flew out then they probably flew separately, which would make sense because it would be almost impossible to track down that many possibilities. Wednesday I drove to Tri-City Airport and checked the parking lot for their white Jeep Cherokee. No luck. Then I followed my hunch and drove to Atlanta and checked all their parking lots for a white Jeep Cherokee Limited. I found ten, none with Tennessee tags. I’m convinced that they didn’t fly anywhere.”
“Maybe the Cherokee didn’t have Tennessee tags.”
“Figured you’d get around to that,” Billy smiled. He reached into his hip pocket, pulled out his wallet and extracted a folded piece of paper.
“Tag numbers,” he said, obviously pleased with himself.
“Smart,” I said. Billy smiled.
I picked up the phone and paged Roy Husky. He called immediately.
“Speedy Gonzales, I assume,” I said as I picked up the phone.
“You got anything better to do than try to be funny?” he snapped.
“Not really. I do have a question though. Were the tags on Ronnie’s Jeep Tennessee tags?”
“Probably, but I’ll check to make sure. And it was Sarah Ann’s Jeep, not Ronnie’s. Call you back,” Roy said.
Billy went to get coffee and I followed to get a refill. He poured mine and then his and we both added sugar and half-and-half. I remembered the first time I saw Billy drink coffee. Didn’t know Indians drank coffee, I had teased.
This Indian does was Billy’s rumbling response.
The phone rang and I put it on speaker. I was sure it was Roy.
“Youngblood,” I answered.
“Tennessee tags,” Roy barked. “You guys getting anywhere?”
“Yes and
