A Chip and a Chair (Seven of Spades, #5)(25)
Fowler wasn’t married, and had no children or other close family, so there had been nothing tying him to Summerlin. His new practice was properly licensed, and as Levi already knew, he’d maintained his veterinary license and DEA registration without problems.
But the timing of his move coincided with the suddenly mysterious origins of his reported income, as well as the point at which he’d no longer had employees. The office phone number went straight to an automated answering service. Further, Levi couldn’t find a single record of anyone claiming to be a patient of the new practice. Fowler didn’t even have a page on Yelp.
The mortgage and utilities for Fowler’s home were always paid in full and on time-by cashier’s check. His personal bank accounts hadn’t been touched since the move, and there hadn’t been any activity on his personal credit cards in the same time frame.
The business credit card had been regularly used, but only to pay for insurance and regular orders of ketamine. His new practice hadn’t purchased any other medical supplies since it had first been established, nor had it ever purchased any other controlled substances.
Levi would bet everything he owned that Seth Fowler had been dead for years.
His hands trembled, and he closed his eyes, taking a few shaky breaths. He couldn’t get ahead of himself, not yet. Not until he went to Mesquite and saw the situation in person.
He texted Martine, who promised to meet him there, and then dialed a different number.
“Agent Marshall,” said Denise’s sunny voice.
“It’s Levi.” He jumped out of his chair, grabbing his bag from his desk drawer and slinging it over his shoulder. “Do you have time for a road trip?”
The local police were happy to cooperate, sending some uniformed officers to assist but otherwise conceding authority to Levi, Martine, and the FBI. Fowler’s split-level building was located on a picturesque suburban street; the door on the ground floor bore a discreet sign advertising the practice, and an exterior staircase led to the private home’s entrance on the second floor.
They canvassed the neighborhood while they waited for the search warrant. As Levi expected, none of the neighbors could recall ever seeing anyone go in or out of the house or office. Not one had ever met Dr. Fowler in person or could even describe what he looked like.
Levi grew increasingly agitated as the afternoon wore on, his body thrumming with caffeine and adrenaline-until Martine drew him aside, shoved a bottle of water at him, and glared with folded arms until he drank the entire thing.
The backyard of Fowler’s house was screened with tall brick walls that could easily conceal a person coming and going through the back door. That entrance looked easiest to force, so when the warrant came through, they climbed the rear staircase to the second floor in a single-file line. Two uniforms rammed the door open, then moved aside on the landing so Levi could go in first.
He stepped cautiously over the threshold, his gun drawn and his senses on high alert. “Police! We have a warrant to search the premises.”
There was no response, but he hadn’t anticipated one. He ventured further into the gloomy interior and immediately sneezed. Wrinkling his nose, he fumbled for the nearest light switch.
The house was blanketed in dust. As he took a few more steps, every footfall sent up another cloud. There was a dining table to his left covered in an undisturbed layer of dust that looked to be two inches thick.
He gestured for the people behind him to enter. The local uniforms and the FBI agents Denise had brought fanned out to clear the house, but Denise and Martine stayed with him in the main room.
Martine went into a coughing fit the moment she entered. “Damn,” she said once she recovered. “Nobody’s lived here for years.”
Levi agreed. The house was furnished, but in the bland, impersonal style of a rental unit. The blinds were drawn, there were no personal effects in sight, and a search confirmed that all of the cabinets, drawers, and even the refrigerator were empty. This wasn’t a home, just a facsimile of one.
He was reminded of a similar set-piece, a house the Seven of Spades had designed to lure him and Dominic into a harrowing trap. He couldn’t mention that, though, because not even Martine knew the truth of what had happened that day.
As they poked around the house, his attention was caught by a faint disturbance in the dust on the floor-difficult to see on the beige carpet, and nothing so distinct as individual footprints, but unmistakable nonetheless. The path led roughly from the back door to another door with a dust-free handle in an interior wall.
“Check this out,” he called to Martine and Denise. “It may be true that nobody’s lived here in years, but somebody’s been here.”
He was sure the door led to the office downstairs, and he was proven right when he eased it open to reveal a narrow staircase. He descended slowly, with the two women right behind him, and opened the second door at the bottom.
Like the house above it, the office was fully furnished and looked normal at first glance-until you noticed the thick layers of dust and the complete lack of personal touches. It was more like someone had done a Google Image search for “veterinary office” and popped in all of the necessary equipment and furniture like they were staging a play.
The flooring down here was hardwood, which made the path trodden through the dust much more obvious. They cleared the level before they followed that path down a side hallway and into a tiny office, where it terminated in front of an enormous, two-door metal safe with a keypad lock.