said?”
“That’s all.”
“Has he contacted either of you in any way? E-mails, letters, anonymous phone calls?”
“No. Just that sign at the cemetery.” Henderson’s fingers clenched and unclenched, as if he were flexing them around the perp’s neck. “Crazy. No damn reason for any of it.”
“And you know of no one who might have a grudge against you and your brother?”
Mrs. Henderson said, “No, absolutely not. That’s what’s so frightening.”
Runyon asked, “A business deal where a third party felt wronged in some way?”
“We thought of that,” Henderson said, “but that can’t be it. He’s after both Damon and me and we’ve never done a business deal together with anybody, not even each other.”
“What does your brother do for a living?”
“CPA. Small practice, mainly local businesses. Never a hassle with any of his clients. Never a hassle with anybody I’ve worked with, either.”
“The cemetery vandalism was two and a half weeks ago, you said. Did anything unusual happen around that time, or in the month or so before? An accident of some kind, an altercation, even a few harsh words with somebody—anything that might have triggered this man’s rage?”
“No. I’ve racked my brains, we all have, and there’s nothing. Nothing. We live quiet, do our jobs, go to church, raise our kids the best way we know how, don’t get on anybody’s wrong side. A faceless enemy like that … I don’t know, I just don’t know.”
“We have two daughters, nine and thirteen,” his wife said. “Damon has a son, twelve. What if this lunatic decides to go after one of them? We’re at our wits’ end.”
“The cops have sent out patrols to keep an eye on our homes and businesses. But they can’t watch twenty-four seven.”
I said, “If you’re looking to hire bodyguards …”
“No. Not yet, anyway, not unless there’s a threat to the kids. We’ve made our own arrangements to protect them for now. An investigation’s what we want. Thorough, not the kind the cops are giving us.”
“A fresh perspective,” Mrs. Henderson said.
“I understand. But I have to be honest with you. There may not be a great deal we or any other private agency can do.”
“Are you saying you won’t help us?”
“Not at all. We’ll investigate, but in a case like this, with so little information to go on …”
“We don’t expect miracles,” Henderson said. “Just do what you can, that’s all we’re asking.”
I laid out our standard fees, as well as the probable expense account charges, and the amount required as a retainer. The figures didn’t seem to faze them. I had them sign an agency contract, and Tracy Henderson wrote out a check. Then I took down two pages of names, addresses, phone numbers, personal information—everything we’d need to open an investigation.
Runyon’s body language said that he wanted the job, so I told the clients he’d be handling it. Henderson asked when we’d start. Runyon said he’d drive up to Los Alegres this afternoon.
Solemn handshakes, and they were gone.
Runyon said then, “Phantom stalkers are the worst kind. And this one sounds unstable as hell. Okay if we make the investigation a priority?”
“I think we’d better. Can you shuffle your schedule for the rest of the week? Alex can cover for you if needs be.” Alex Chavez, our part-time operative.
“Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Okay. I’ll photocopy my notes before you head for Los Alegres. And when Tamara gets here I’ll have her get started on deep background checks on the Henderson brothers.”
“Where is she anyway?”
“Took the morning off.”
“That’s not like her.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “She must have a good reason.”
G ood reason? Yes and no.
Tamara showed up at one minute past noon. Bounced straight into my office, high color in her cheeks, big cat-ate-the-canary smile, and announced, “Well, I finally got my groove back.”
“Come