I dropped Kix off early at Roxanne’s, rented a white Chevy Malibu, and parked two blocks from Louis Lindsey’s stately colonial house on Avenham. If he’d seen me driving my Honda, he wouldn’t be expecting the Malibu. I donned a baseball cap in the rented car and waited for him, replete in my foolproof disguise.
So good at this I scare myself. I queued up more of the parenting podcasts and drank coffee.
He surprised me, returning from an early morning jog. He came up Avenham and walked his front lawn a few times, hands on his hips and sucking cool air. His shirt clung to him. He checked his pulse and went inside.
Thirty minutes later he emerged showered and fresh, tossed a leather satchel into his Audi and headed out. I couldn’t break into his home because although I’d never seen her I assumed his wife was inside. So I tailed him instead. To the church.
I parked and pondered just how much of my life I was willing to waste following him to and from his home and office. I walked to Bread Craft to replenish the coffee, a selfish and unprofessional move that nearly cost me—Louis Lindsey was back in his car and leaving the lot on my return. I ducked behind the Malibu as manfully as possible to avoid detection, and then drove after him.
He wove through traffic to Roanoke Country Club. I stopped at the deserted end of the parking lot and used binoculars to observe him withdraw a bag of golf clubs from his trunk and join a group heading for the clubhouse. From this distance, the men looked identical—white, handsome the way retired quarterbacks are, wealthy, and pleased with all the above.
A round of golf meant Louis was engaged for five hours. And for that time, I was free.
I drove to the YMCA, changed clothes, struggled through fifty burpees, lifted weights and overturned tires, punched the heavy bag, jumped rope, ran two miles, stripped and soaked in the hot tub, took a cold shower, changed back, and left to meet Manny for lunch. We ate at Billy’s because of a deal he had with one of the managers; Manny had caught the manager’s kid with cocaine and he let the boy off with a warning in exchange for eating free for twelve months.
It wasn’t bribery. It was bartering, the way deals used to be struck in a simpler time. Or that’s how he explained it. He ordered two sandwiches with no bun, and I got a burger. We each had a beer and debated the validity of Jason Bourne beating John Wick in a fight.
No, we decided. A resounding negative.
Still two hours to spare. I swung by Roxanne’s to get Kix. We drove to the playground off Brandon near the pond, and we tried all the slides, and ran after squirrels, and fell off the monkey bars, and cried, and climbed, and slid some more until he explained it was time for his nap. I deposited the exhausted two-year-old with Roxanne and returned to Roanoke Country Club, invigorated by the supernal break in the boredom.
Louis Lindsey emerged forty-five minutes later, early afternoon. He shook hands with his friends, the masters of the universe, and left.
He did not drive home. He did not drive to the office.
Progress.
He parked at a house in western Roanoke County, near the Salem border. A red-brick ranch, Ford pickup inside the carport. Box shrubs. Brick walkway. Chain-link fence with a swing set in the back. Nice enough place. I eased to a stop two blocks away on the opposite side, peering around a cable service truck. Louis straightened his shirt, glanced around the neighborhood, and went inside. After waiting five minutes, I got off the brake and motored past the home. Noted the address and returned to my hiding spot. Pulled up the house’s title online.
Belonged to George and Dianne Saunders. They purchased the house two years ago.
I called Jeremy Cameron.
“You know a George or Dianne Saunders?” I said.
“Name rings a bell. Should I?”
“I’m not sure. Just chasing leads.”
I heard clicking. A keyboard.
“Oh, I know this guy. Found him on our church’s directory. They used to attend All Saints. They still might, I suppose, but I haven’t seen them in months. Maybe a year. He’s a morning manager at Home Depot, I think. Why?”
“I’ll let you know. Thanks.”
I watched the innocuous house and wondered what was happening inside. Had Louis Lindsey visited the ranch at night, I would’ve snuck to a window and snooped. But in the daylight I’d be seen, a very visible and minacious simpleton.
If I was a consummate and thorough professional, I would be tailing Jeremy Cameron every other day, not just Louis Lindsey. After all, Jeremy could be lying. And much was learned about a person through snooping. I’d been investigating idiots and criminals and malfeasants for a decade, however, and veteran instincts told me to ignore Jeremy and focus on Louis, at least until Louis proved to be squeaky clean.
Which he wasn’t.
And also, consummate and thorough professionals were boring.
Half an hour later a Chrysler minivan arrived. The van squealed hard to a stop behind the pickup truck and a woman got out. Left the door open and she stormed through the front door. Even two blocks removed, I heard shouting. The woman came back out and removed a baby from the van. Using binoculars I saw her face was red, her jaw set. Louis Lindsey emerged from the house, said a few quiet things to the woman—looked like potential apologies or explanations—and he departed in the Audi. The woman slammed the front door. More shouting was audible as I drove by.
I tailed Lindsey to his home, left him there, and returned the Malibu.
Fascinating.
The hell just happened?