She took a drink and closed her eyes.“I swear coffee fixes everything.”
“Hangovers.”
“Mostly.”
“Murder conspiracies?”
She laughed softly.“Still testing that one.”
I leaned against the edge of the table, and she went back to work.For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Pages turned, coffee steamed, pencils scratched, and then she froze.
“What?”I asked.
She didn’t answer.Instead, she reached across the table and grabbed another permit.Then another.Then another.
She spread four documents beside one another.
“What?”I asked again.
She leaned closer.“No...”
“What?”
She pointed.“I’ve seen this.”
I stepped around beside her.“I don’t know what I’m looking at.”
She tapped the bottom corner of one permit.“Signature.”
I squinted, and it still didn’t mean anything to me.
She slid another permit beside it.“Different year.”Another.“Different building.”Another.“Different project.”
I frowned.“So?”
She looked at me.
“These should all have different approving officials.”
“But...”
“They don’t.”She pointed again.Every permit carried the same signature.Gene Kettler.
I looked at her.“You know him?”
“No.”
“Then...”I still had no idea where she was going with this.
“I know the name.”She started digging frantically through another pile.Folders opened.Papers scattered.Maps slid across the table.“There.”
She yanked out another inspection packet and circled Gene Kettler.Then another, Gene Kettler.
She pointed her highlighter at me.“It’s actually the last name that I remember seeing.”She grabbed another.This time, the signature she circled was Hollis Kettler.
She pulled out at least four more permits with the Hollis Kettler signature.
