He had flown from Boston to Billings and rented a Lincoln Navigator. He had consulted a map and found the least populated counties near Billings: Golden Valley (population 1021), Petroleum (population 497), and Treasure (population 735). The latter county was located ninety-three miles east of Billings on Interstate 94. An easy drive.
Andy exited the interstate and drove into Hysham, population 330, the county seat of Treasure County. The Yellowstone River flowed through town; rolling land stretched in all directions as far as he could see. It was a stark and desolate landscape, and it was in one of Frankie Doyle's sketches at her mother's house.
He was in the right town.
Andy parked in front of the Treasure County Courthouse. He hurried inside-he wasn't dressed for thirty-eight degrees-and into the county clerk's office. He asked for name change filings from two to three years before for "Doyle, Frankie." The records were not online. The clerk had to search manually. But she found it.
Two years before, Frankie Doyle had changed her name to Rachel Holcombe.
Andy checked the tax records, but he could find no real estate or vehicles owned by a Rachel Holcombe. He found no Rachel Holcombe listed in the phone book for the greater Billings area. Andy bought a copy of the name change filing and went outside. He called Hollis McCloskey. When McCloskey came on the line, Andy said, "Frankie Doyle is now Rachel Holcombe. H-o-l-c-o-m-b-e. Find her, Hollis."
SIXTEEN
The cell phone woke Andy at six-thirty on the last day of October.
"Hello."
"Did you find Frankie Doyle?"
Russell Reeves.
"I found out she got divorced and moved to Montana three years ago. Changed her name."
"Why?"
"She's running from her ex-husband. He hit her."
"So you found her in Montana?"
"No. She moved again."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Hollis searched under her new name, couldn't find her anywhere in Montana, so I flew home last night. I'm going to see him this morning."
"Find her, Andy."
Two hours later, Andy walked into Hollis McCloskey's office. The PI smiled.
"You didn't have to dress up, Andy."
Andy was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a "Don't Blame Me-I Voted Kinky" T-shirt. Hollis was being sarcastic. Again.
"Nothing else was clean."
Hollis nodded. "Best thing about having a wife, Andy. Clean clothes."
Agent McCloskey was a romantic bastard.
"Tell me about Rachel Holcombe."
"She ceased to exist a year ago. Same deal."
"How can she do that?"
"Because she's smart. She knows what she's doing. Andy, this girl, she does not want to be found."
"So she divorced Mickey, moved to Montana, changed her name, moved again, and changed her name again?"
Hollis nodded. "She must really be afraid of him."
"He didn't seem that interested in finding her."
"Assholes like Mickey, they don't usually fess up."
"But he's working at his garage every day."
"Probably hired someone to find her. Like you did."
"But you didn't. Find her."
Hollis turned his palms up. "Look at the bright side, Andy: neither will Mickey. Oh, I ran criminal background checks on Frankie Doyle, Frankie O'Hara, and Rachel Holcombe with that DOB. No arrests or convictions. She's clean."
"Any luck on her social security number? That would follow her through her name changes."
"It would, but she's using a fake number."
"How do you know?"
"Because she hasn't gone to all this trouble only to be tracked down with her SSAN."
"Hollis, isn't there anything you can do?"
"By the book, Andy."
"Damnit, Hollis, we gotta find this woman!"
"Why? Why does your client want to find this woman?"
"I told you, that's confidential."
"Look, Andy, I'm getting a bad feeling about this assignment-I smell a rat."
"The woman?"
"Your client."
"He's not a rat, Hollis."
"Then why's he spending so much money to find these women?"
Andy and the ex-FBI agent stared at each other as if to see who would blink first. How much should he tell Hollis? How much information would allow Hollis to identify his client as Russell Reeves? He needed Hollis McCloskey to find Frankie Doyle. And he needed to find Frankie Doyle to keep his rich client happy. And he needed his rich client happy to stay in the life-the money, the loft and lounges, Suzie and Bobbi.
"These women, they're my client's old girlfriends. He wants to find them and help them because he didn't treat them right. He wants to make amends."
"How?"
"Money."
"How much?"
"A million."
"Each?"
Andy nodded.
"That sound reasonable to you?"
"Hollis, rich people are eccentric."
"No, Andy, rich people are connivers, cheats, crooks, conmen, and criminals-at least all the rich people I met when I was with the FBI were."
"Now you work for rich people."
Hollis shrugged. "I'm not with the FBI anymore."
"My client's not that kind of rich guy. He's just…"
"What? Troubled, delusional, psychotic, sick?" Hollis sat back. "Andy, this doesn't pass the smell test. I don't know what your client is up to, but I don't like it. I'm off the case."
"You won't try to find her?"
"Not unless you tell me what this is really all about."
Andy didn't think he should mention the sick kids. That might make the G-man suspicious; and he might connect the dots: sick kids… rich man in Austin with a sick kid… Russell Reeves.
"Hollis, it really is all about a rich guy finding his old girlfriends and giving them money. He wants to clear up his old debts, so he can have peace."
Hollis shook his head. "I don't buy it."
"Why not?"
"Rich people don't give their money away for nothing. They always want something in return."
"Hollis, I've personally handed cashier's checks to the first six women, for a million dollars each. He's never asked for anything in return. Will you at least look for the others?"
Hollis handed him a file. "This is the dossier on the eighth woman."
"So that's it?"
"I'm done."
"Why?"
"Because I think I'm being used, Andy… and I think you are, too."
Andy walked out of Hollis McCloskey's office and called Tres to ask a small favor: pull Michael and Frankie Doyle's income tax return from three years back then track her later returns. Get her social security number. Find her address. Tres laughed.
"Andy, did you get hit by a car and suffer a head injury?"
"No."
"Well, you're asking me to commit a felony. Jail time, buddy. They can track our computer usage, every keystroke. I type in her name, Big Brother will know it… and want to know why I did it. Sorry, Andy, but no way."
"Tres-"
"Andy, you're drinking the Kool-Aid."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you've had a taste of it, and you like it. The money. Reverend Russell gave you salvation, lifted you out of your old broke life and gave you a new and improved life, and now you'll do anything to keep it-even drink his Kool-Aid-so you don't have to go back to your old life. I told you, Andy."
Tres was wrong. Andy Prescott wasn't doing it for the money. He could walk away from Russell Reeves and his money-and the new life his money had given Andy-any time he wanted to. He wasn't doing it for the loft and the lounges and Suzie and Bobbi; he was doing it for Frankie Doyle… and for her sick kid. Okay, she might not have been sick three years ago, but she probably was now. And to find her and help her, he needed a more creative private investigator than some lame-ass by-the-book I-don't-wander-off-the-reservation ex-FBI agent.