Best Laid Plans(68)

He’d also pulled her credit report and a list of all the property she owned, and had started to run down her known associates. She owned the apartment building free and clear in her own name. A car—again, completely paid for—and a boat that was docked at Canyon Lake.

He ran businesses and other entities and almost shut down that avenue of approach. Then he ran businesses on Ramona Jefferson. The connection between Hill and Jefferson was extremely thin. Most people would assume they were different people. In fact, the chances anyone would connect the two were slim to none because—as a person—Ramona Jefferson had ceased to exist after the age of eighteen.

Ramona Jefferson existed on paper. It wasn’t easy to find, and Sean wondered if Mona Hill herself had created this paper trail, or if she had had someone do it for her. It was pretty damn good.

But he was better. Unfortunately, not all the records he wanted were online.

Still, he found an extensive trail of small entities that led him down a path to a company that held one property in Houston. The company was listed as a consulting company and had filed all the appropriate tax forms with a small income, but Sean immediately saw it for what it was.

Companies set up like this were generally laundering money. They took in reasonable fees, paid taxes, and reported properly, but would often have one large account that would buy property and other tangible items to hold and retain until the cash was needed. Then they’d liquidate, report, shut down the business, and have clean money.

But … there were no large accounts. The only large purchase was for a house in Houston that was worth just over half a million and bought eight years ago for less than half that.

The company paid a consulting fee to another paper company in the amount of five thousand dollars a month—almost identical to the fees the company took in. If Sean didn’t know better, he’d think that this was set up to keep a mistress. Buy her a house, give her an allowance, keep her beholden to her lover who was unwilling or unable to leave his wife.

Mona Hill was a girl. Didn’t mean she wasn’t keeping a guy—or a girl—but that would be unusual.

There were only minimal records on Mona Hill in Houston, and nothing before the age of eighteen. Ramona Jefferson was also difficult to track, and tracking juveniles was a lot harder—they usually didn’t have a paper trail, especially if they were on their own.

He considered the house in Houston. If he had the time, he would fly up there and check it out himself, but it would take all day, and he needed to finish his assignment with HWI and pick up Lucy later. Searching his contact file, he pulled the number for Renee Mackey, a longtime PI out of Houston. She was semiretired and Sean hoped she was around, because he didn’t have anyone else he could call locally.

“Yep,” Renee answered. Over the phone, Sean heard the long drag of a cigarette.

“Renee, it’s Sean Rogan.”

Renee barked out a laugh. Her rough, deep voice responded warmly. “How’s my favorite computer hacker doing these days? I heard you’d relocated to Texas. Following a girl. Way I remember it, the girls were always following you.”

“I’ve grown up.”

“She better be treatin’ you right.”

“More than right.”

“So I guess you’re not callin’ me to run a background check on the woman.” Another drag on the cigarette, or maybe it was Sean’s imagination. The woman was seventy and smoked a pack or three a day. Sean had met her years ago, while he was still in college at MIT, and his brother Duke had asked him to spend his summer setting up a complete security system—physical and computer—for a high tech company. Renee had been hired to do background checks. She was old school, Sean was new school, but they’d hit it off immediately.

“Though,” Renee continued, “I’m none too happy you’re livin’ a couple hours from Houston and you didn’t pop over to visit.”

“My loss.”

“It certainly is.”

He smiled. “You’ll never change.”

“God, I hope not. So this ain’t a social call. You want something.”

“I do.”

“I should be offended and hang up, but I love your voice.”

“At least I have something going for me.”

She laughed, a deep, genuine laugh. “You know I’m retired.”

“You’ll never retire.”

“Whadya want?”

“A house. Occupants. Anything you can dig up on them.”

“Sounds boring.”

“You know I pay well.”

“I don’t need the money.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t need the money so bad I’m willin’ to take a boring job. Tell me why.”

“Will you take it if I do?”

“If you tell me the truth.”

“Always.”

She snorted out a laugh. “What’s so important about the house?”

“I don’t know. A known prostitute—a madam, I guess you’d call her—owns it free and clear. It’s worth half a million.”

“Shit, I went into the wrong business.”

“I want to know who lives there, how long, what they do, a full rectal exam—without letting anyone know you’re looking.”