When Vicki fled and moved in with the Liquidator, a professor friend recommended Axel Sullivan as a divorce specialist. Axel proved to be a fine lawyer, but there wasn't much he could do on the legal front. Vicki was gone, she wasn't coming back, and she didn't want anything from Ray. Axel supervised the paperwork, recommended a good shrink, and did a commendable job of getting Ray through the ordeal. According to Axel, the best private investigator in town was Corey Crawford, a black ex-cop who'd pulled time for a beating.
Crawford's office was above a bar his brother owned near the campus. It was a nice bar, with a menu and unpainted windows, live music on the weekends, no unseemly traffic other than a bookie who worked the college crowd. But Ray parked three blocks away just the same. He did not want to be seen entering the premises. A sign
that read CRAWFORD INVESTIGATIONS pointed to stairs on one side of the building.
There was no secretary, or at least none was present. He was ten minutes early but Crawford was waiting. He was in his late thirties with a shaved head and handsome face, no smile whatsoever. He was tall and lean and his expensive clothes were well fitted. A large pistol was strapped to his waist in a black leather holster. : . _ ?-,,
"I think I'm being followed," Ray began.
"This is not a divorce?" They were on opposite sides of a small table in a small office that overlooked the street.
"No.”
"Who would want to follow you?"
He had rehearsed a story about family trouble back in Mississippi, a dead father, some inheritances that may or may not happen, jealous siblings, a rather vague tale that Crawford seemed to buy none of. Before he could ask questions, Ray told him about Dolph at the airport and gave him his description.
"Sounds like Rusty Wattle," Crawford said.
'And who's that?"
"Private eye from Richmond, not very good. Does some work around here. Based on what you've said, I don't think your family would hire someone from Charlottesville. It's a small town."
The name of Rusty Wattle was duly recorded and locked away forever in Ray's memory.
"Is there a chance that these bad guys back in Mississippi would want you to know that you're being followed?" Crawford asked.
Ray looked completely baffled, so Crawford continued. "Sometimes we get hired to intimidate, to frighten. Sounds like Wattle or whoever it was wanted your buddies at the airport to give you a good description. Maybe he left a trail."
"I guess it's possible."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Determine if someone is following me. If so, who is it, and who's paying for it."
"The first two might be easy. The third might be impossible."
"Let's give it a try."
Crawford opened a thin file. "I charge a hundred bucks an hour," he said, his eyes staring right through Ray's, looking for indecision. "Plus expenses. And a retainer of two thousand."
"I prefer to deal in cash," Ray said, staring right back. "If that's acceptable."
The first hint of a smile. "In my business, cash is always preferred."
Crawford filled in some blanks in a contract.
"Would they tap my phones, stuff like that?" Ray asked.
"We'll search everything. Get another cell phone, digital, and don't register it in your name. Most of our correspondence will be by cell phone."
"What a surprise," Ray mumbled, taking the contract, scanning it, then signing.
Crawford put it back in the file and returned to his notepad. "For the first week, we'll coordinate your movements. Everything will be planned. Go about your normal routine, just give us notice so we can have people in place."
I'll have a traffic jam behind me, Ray thought. "It's a pretty dull life," Ray said. "I jog, I go to work, sometimes I go fly an airplane, I go home, alone, no family."
"Other places
"Sometimes I do lunch, dinner, not a breakfast guy though."
"You're putting me to sleep," Crawford said and almost smiled. "Women?"
"I wish. Maybe a prospect or two, nothing serious. If you find one, give her my name."
"These bad guys in Mississippi, they're looking for something. What is it?"
"It's an old family with lots of stuff handed down. Jewelry, rare books, crystal, and silver." It sounded natural and this time Craw-ford bought it.
"Now we're getting somewhere. And you have possession of the family heirloom?"
"That's right."
"It's here?"
"Tucked away in Chaney's Self-Storage, on Berkshire Road."
"What's it worth?"
"Not nearly as much as my relatives think."
"Gimme a ballpark."
"Half a million, on the high side."
"And you have a legitimate claim to it?"
"Let's say the answer is yes. Otherwise, I'll be forced to give you the family history, which could take the next eight hours and give us both a migraine."
"Fair enough."
Crawford finished a lengthy paragraph and was ready to wrap things up. "When can you get a new cell phone?"
"I'll go now."
"Great. And when can we check your apartment?"
"Anytime."
Three hours later, Crawford and a sidekick he called Booty finished what was known as a sweep. Ray's phones were clear, no taps or bugs. The air vents hid no secret cameras. In the cramped attic they found no receivers or monitors hidden behind boxes.
"You're clean," Crawford said as he left.
He didn't feel very clean as he sat on his balcony. You open up your life to complete strangers, albeit some selected and paid by you, and you feel compromised.
The phone was ringing.
FORREST SOUNDED sober - strong voice, clear words. As soon as he said "Hello, Bro," Ray listened to see what kind of shape he was in. It was instinctive now, after years of phone calls at all hours, from all places, many of which he, Forrest, never remembered. He said he was fine, which meant he was sober and clean, no booze or drugs, but he did not say for how long. Ray was not about to ask.
Before either could mention the Judge or his estate or the house or Harry Rex, Forrest blurted out, "I got a new racket."
"Tell me about it," Ray said, settling into his recliner. The voice on the other end was full of excitement. Ray had plenty of time to listen.
"Ever heard of Benalatofix?"
"No."
"Me neither. The nickname is Skinny Ben. Ring a bell?"
"No, sorry."
"It's a diet pill put out by a company called Luray Products, out of California, a big private outfit t............