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“Is everything all right? You don’t sound too good.”
“I guess you haven’t heard, Dad. They blew up Sean King’s house last night, and now he’s missing.”
“My God, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She said nothing about the attempt on her life. Years ago she’d decided not to confide too much to her father about her professional side. His sons could walk into danger, and their father would consider it simply part of the job. However, he’d not take it well that his only daughter had almost been killed. “Dad, I need that info just as fast as you can get it.”
“I hear you. It won’t take long.” He hung up.
She arrived at the inn, grabbed Joan’s notes from her room and made a series of phone calls concerning Doug Denby, the last to Denby’s home in Jackson, Mississippi. The woman who answered would give her no information about Denby, not even confirming that he lived there. That wasn’t so odd, since Michelle was a stranger. And yet if Denby had money and no obligation to show up at a job every day, he could be anywhere. And no one she’d talked to could provide Denby with alibis for any of the critical times in question. His position in the Ritter campaign definitely made him a suspect, yet what would be his motivation?
The ringing phone startled her. She snatched it up. It was her father. He spoke succinctly as she wrote down the information.
“Dad, you’re the best. I love you.”
“Well, it would be nice if you visited more often. It’s your mother who keeps asking,” he added quickly.
“Deal. When this is all wrapped up, I’m heading home.”
She dialed the number her father had given her. It was the law office that had handled the sale of the property in Tennessee to Bob Scott. Her father had already called the lawyer and told him Michelle would be calling.
“I don’t know your father, but I’ve heard wonderful things about him from mutual acquaintances,” the attorney said. “Now, I understand this has to do with a sale of land.”
“That’s right. You handled the closing of that property from a decedent’s estate to a Robert Scott, I believe.”
“Yes, your father mentioned that in his call. I pulled the file. Robert Scott was the purchaser. He paid in cash; it wasn’t that much actually. It was just an old cabin, and while there’s substantial acreage it’s all woods and ridges and very remote.”
“I understand the previous owner didn’t know there was a bunker on the property.”
“Your father mentioned the bunker. I have to admit I didn’t know either. It wasn’t in the title search. And I had no reason to suspect there was one. If I had, I suppose I would have gone to the army. I really don’t know. I mean what do you do with a bunker?”
“Have you actually been to the property?”
“No.”
“I have. The bunker was accessed through a door in the basement.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Why?”
“There
was no basement. I have the floor plan for the cabin in front of me.”
“Well, there might not have been a basement when your client owned it, but there is now. Perhaps this Bob Scott knew of the bunker and built the basement to have access to it.”
“I suppose that’s possible. I was looking back through the chain of title, and there have been multiple owners since the army. In fact, when the army owned it, there was no cabin. One of the subsequent owners built it.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any photos of Bob Scott, would you? It’s really important,” she added.
“Well, we normally make a copy of the party’s driver’s license when we do a real estate closing—you know, to verify identities since they’re signing legal documents for recordation.”
Michelle almost jumped in her excitement. “Can you send me that picture by fax, like right now?”
“No, I can’t.”
“But it’s not privileged information.”
