Chapter Fifty-Three
Parker
Leanna calls a little after eight as we’re reviewing the very meager evidence we collected at the cabin yesterday.
“Captain Elmore, Judge Nesbitt reviewed the additional documentation you submitted yesterday, and signed the two outstanding warrants late last night. I’m emailing you the scans now.
The judge is out today, but I’ll be in the office until four p.m. if you’d like to stop by and pick up the paper copies,” she says.
“Thank you.” I try to keep my voice even, but we’ve hit a wall. Todd told us everything he knew and the only inspectors tied to the deficient buildings are Charlie Kessler and Roger Haight. Roger was cremated over a year ago, and Kessler is nowhere to be found.
“You’re welcome, Captain. She wanted me to pass along a message, though. ‘Tell your partner his constant sarcasm is not appreciated.’”
“Noted.” I end the call with zero intention of saying a word to Nate. He’s the best partner I’ve ever worked with, and I’m not about to ask him to change for anyone.
“Well? Is this a celebration coffee or am I drowning my sorrows in it?” he asks.
“It’s a coffee you’re gonna drink in the car. We need to pay a visit to Dale Pruitt.”
He scowls. “I’m not risking my upholstery by wedging a ceramic mug into the console. And neither are you.” He drains the cup in four swallows, and sets it aside.
“I hope you didn’t need the lining of your esophagus for anything.”
“Coffee hasn’t hurt me yet. Grab the good stapler and let’s go.”
I don’t know what that means or why we’d need any stapler, but some questions are better left unanswered.
Dale Pruitt’s office sits in the center of a strip mall off South Lamar, wedged between a nail salon and a vacuum repair place.
Pruitt Registered Agent Services stretches across the window in what might have, at one time, been gold lettering, but now looks more like a muted mustard yellow.
A bell over the door announces our arrival to a thoroughly depressing reception area.
The coffee pot has a thick layer of sludge in the bottom, and the seating is nothing more than three folding chairs.
“Can I help you?” A deep voice echoes from the hall, followed three seconds later by its owner.
Mid-fifties, salt and pepper hair, wearing an Austin Golf Club polo shirt that strains over his belly, he’s still staring at his phone.
“Dale Pruitt?” Nate asks.
“That’s—” His light gray eyes narrow. “Rangers. Let me guess. You’re the two who wanted access to my records.”
“Captain Elmore. That’s Captain Hardison.” I nod at Nate, who opens the folder he’s carrying and passes copies of the warrants to Pruitt. “We’re gonna need those records now.”
Pruitt scans the papers, his hands not quite steady. “I have to make a call.”
“Go ahead. If you refuse, we’ll just search for the information ourselves.” I offer him the barest hint of a smile and tilt my head to peek at Nate.
He shrugs. “No skin off my back. Though, the last time we had to execute a search ourselves, we left a hell of a mess behind.”
“I really thought the laptop was hidden behind a false wall. There was fresh paint and everything,” I add.
Pruitt stares at the warrants for a full minute, then sets them on the small receptionist’s counter and smooths them with his palm. “Lonestar Ridge Holdings and Apex Building Solutions. Okay, okay. Give me five minutes.”
“I’m afraid we’ll need to come with you, Mr. Pruitt. Standard procedure.” Nate steps forward, and Dale’s cheeks pale by several shades.
“Oh…okay.”
We follow him down the hall and into a surprisingly well-organized office. He unlocks his filing cabinet, riffles through the bottom drawer for a moment, and pulls out two folders the size of my old college textbooks. The ones I used as door stoppers.
“Every piece of paper I have from Lonestar Ridge Holdings and Apex Building Solutions. They pay me to file their annual reports and maintain their addresses of record. Nothin’ more.”
Nate stares him down. “You’re positive this is all you have?”
“Yep. Some folks scan everythin’. I prefer paper.” Pruitt says it like it’s a point of pride. Like being old school makes him more trustworthy.
Dale signs the custodial affidavit, then sinks back in his chair. “Are we done here? Havin’ a couple Rangers in my office ain’t good for business.”
“Oh, we’re done. It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Pruitt.” I flash him one last smile, turn on my heel, and follow Nate out of the room.
I spend the next twenty minutes trying to talk Nate out of ordering lunch from Om Acaí.
“Mario’s has salad. That’s healthy. And the conference room won’t smell like wet socks for a week.”
Nate scoffs. “My treasured Rejuvenation Bowl smells like sunshine and good cardiovascular health.”
“Mario’s smells like cheese and chicken and peppers. Isn’t that better?”
Nate’s already scrolling through the Food Dude app. “You want the chickpea and cinnamon bowl or the green curry jackfruit bowl?”
“Neither. I’m going to the vending machine. Peanut butter crackers sound a hell of a lot better than either of those.” I’m not hungry enough to argue with him, and with two thick folders of paperwork in front of us, we don’t have the time to waste.
Nate shakes his head. “Fine. It’s your heart attack. I’ll update my spreadsheet with the new projected date I’ll need to be available to visit you in the hospital.”
I scowl, but deep down, I know he’s right. The past three months, I’ve been ordering way too much crappy takeout. And while my vending machine habit keeps Kenny busy, vegetables won’t kill me.
“Fine. Order me the Berry Blast. But tell them to hold the chia seeds. Those damn things get stuck in my teeth.”
His triumphant smile lasts until we open the folders from Pruitt. The Lonestar folder might as well be War and Peace for how many pages of absolutely boring corporate bullshit it contains.
“This is gonna take all day. You want the first half or the second?” I ask.
Nate drags Eliot’s spreadsheet onto the wall monitor, then carefully arranges his pens in an order only he can make sense of. “Neither. Hot stuff has been busy.” He highlights three rows and scrolls over to the status column. Order to vacate posted sits in each one.
“What am I lookin’ at? Besides three more buildings that failed the inspection sweep.” I settle back in my chair. Nate’s got that look again. The one that tells me he’s about to launch into a data organization lesson that only he understands.
“All three of these buildings were inspected by… Go on. Take a guess.”
“Todd Ferris?”
He touches his index finger to his nose. “Got it in one.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re leaving this entire folder of the most boring corporate filings ever to me.”
“Because I am going to figure out who keeps changing these inspection records. The warrant gave me shell access to the county clerk’s system. And…” He drags another spreadsheet from his laptop to the wall monitor. “Take a look at this.”
“It’s the same spreadsheet. You need more carrots in your life, Nate.”
“This is my original data pull.” He lines the two files up side by side, sorts, hides a few columns, and I finally understand why he’s so excited.
“Someone’s changing these records now. As the buildings are being inspected.” My hands flex against the table, the last two fingers of my left hand tingling in a way that tells me I’ve been slacking on my PT exercises.
“Yep. So have fun with all that paperwork. Zephyr taught me a few of her tricks when we needed to find you and Grace. I’m gonna try them out.”
You and Grace.
Not Grace. Not Grace and you.
We’ve been partners for three years. And since the kidnapping, Nate really has been the world’s most protective big brother.
He’s settling in, lacing his hands together, turning them palms out, and stretching each finger with a gleam in his eye.
“Nate?”
“Yeah?” His gaze hasn’t left the screen, but when I don’t say anything for a few seconds, he looks up at me.
“Thanks. For…you know. Everything you did three months ago. Everything you’ve done since.” My voice wobbles, the lump in my throat swelling, and my eyes start to burn. “I don’t say that enough.”
He opens his mouth, closes it, and stares down at his hands resting on the keyboard. “Parker, you don’t need to say it at all. But…you’re welcome.”
Eliot
We’ve been at this since a little after nine. Kurt didn’t put up a fight when I told him I needed him here all day today. Not after I explained I couldn’t go through all the photos and reports from eighty-nine buildings by myself and get out of here before midnight.
I could skip knitting tonight. I should skip it. But Felton once told me I was no good to anyone if I made this job—any job—my entire fuckin’ world.
Plus, I haven’t missed a single Friday event in more than six years. If I don’t show up, Marlene will send out a search party.
Kurt sits at one end of the table, while I’m at the other. The inspectors from around the state certify their reports and upload the completed files to a secure file share the moment they finish a building, and one of us logs their findings into Nate’s spreadsheet.
The filters Nate built into this thing are next level. Occupancy, square footage, age, use, original certification date, original inspector, secondary certification date, secondary inspector, address, and more. All filterable. All sortable.
Kurt scrolls through the latest batch of photographs, stopping whenever something catches his eye.
From time to time, he’ll ask me for a second opinion or point out a deficiency we haven’t seen before.
But most of the problems are similar—steel columns with no coating, damaged or missing sprinkler heads, faulty water pressure, miswired fire alarms…
I’ve been comparing the latest reports with the checklists the Apex inspectors submitted originally—both on the deficient buildings and the ones that seem fine. It’s the only way we’ll be able to prove which inspectors are on the take.