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“Haven’t got one. Go on some kind of search engine, I guess. See if I can find this address. Start with city of Dallas, move to Dallas County, expand to the whole damn state if necessary.”
“Is that your top speed?”
He typed by hunting and pecking. He looked up at her over his shoulder. “Are you faster?”
They switched places. She sat in the desk chair. He braced his arms on the back of it so he could see the monitor. She was a much more proficient typist. “Manuelo didn’t write down whether it was Lavaca Street or Road or Lane,” she remarked. “We’ll have to try them all.”
“How many Lavaca Streets, Roads, et cetera do you think there are in Texas?”
“Hundreds?”
“That’s my guess, too. And Rodarte’s got better computers and more people.”
“Can I make a suggestion?”
“Be my guest.”
“Tax records. Every property is taxed.”
“You think a person who provides fake documents to illegal immigrants pays property taxes?”
“The taxes would be assessed. Whether or not they’re paid is another matter.”
“Okay. Are there tax records online?”
“We’ll try. Tax assessor records for Dallas County?”
“Knock yourself out.”
She began searching for such a website. “Tell me about Bill Bandy.”
The request surprised him, and for a moment he didn’t say anything. Then, “What do you want to know?”
“How you met. How you got involved with him.”
He gave her a condensed version. “When I got in over my head, he introduced me to a syndicate. They canceled my debt, in exchange for a few interceptions, fumbles. Nothing that couldn’t happen to any quarterback on any given Sunday.”
“Bandy betrayed you.”
“The feds offered him probation in exchange for setting me up, and I’ll bet they didn’t have to twist his arm too hard.”
“There’s a Lavaca Street in Dallas, but the addresses have three digits, not four,” she reported.
“Try Lavaca Road.”
“The newspapers said that Bandy delivered the two million to your Turtle Creek condo.”
“True. He was wearing a wire. Second I took the box of cash from him, agents came busting through my front door, read me my rights.”
“You were put in jail?”
“Yes,” he said tightly, remembering the humiliation of that experience. “Wyatt Turner got me released on the condition that I give up my passport. Soon as I got out, I went looking for Bandy.”
Laura stopped typing, turned and looked up at him.
“Right. It was a stupid thing to do. But I was furious. I guess I wanted to frighten him into thinking he was as good as dead for setting me up.” He cursed himself under his breath. “What a goddamn fool I was. When I got to Bandy’s place, the door was open. I went in. I almost walked out without seeing him. He’d been stuffed between the back of the sofa and the wall. His neck had been wrenched so hard his head was practically facing backward.”
“Who killed him?”
