Page 32 of Speak of the Devil
“How could he even get a license without a birth certificate?” she asked, and Pru sent her a look that seemed to indicate she couldn’t believe her friend could be so naïve.
“You think they do a deep dive on those at the DMV? If you hand over a birth certificate and a Social Security card, they’re going to issue you a license. Judging by how recent his credit history is and yet so super-high at the same time, I have a feelinghe paid someone for a package deal — you know, SS card, birth certificate, maybe a passport. Plenty of people here in Vegas who’ll do that for you.”
“Could you?” Delia said, genuinely curious. While she didn’t think Prudence was involved in anything illegal, considering how good she was at getting into various databases and digging up all sorts of information, she supposed it was possible that her friend might be able to manage such a feat…and make a little extra money on the side.
“Nah,” Pru said at once, allaying Delia’s fears on that account. “I mean, I could probably point someone to a person who could actually help, but even if I was able to create a fake credit report for someone — which I’m not sure I can — they’d still need to find a person with the necessary kind of resources to create realistic-looking fake paperwork. I have a feeling Caleb must have used false documentation to get his driver’s license, because that’s definitely real even if nothing else is.”
“None of this makes much sense,” Delia said slowly, then remembered there were nachos and the cheese was starting to congeal. She scooped up a mouthful, then drank some of her margarita, glad of the extra shot of Cuervo gold she’d poured on top.
Yes, that was much better.
Voicing the question that had surfaced earlier in her mind, she added, “Why Las Vegas? Why not go home and let any surviving family know he was still alive?”
“Have you been in Indiana in the winter?” Prudence asked, and Delia had to smile. While she was a native of Las Vegas — a rarity, she knew — Pru’s family had moved here from Minneapolis when she was in eighth grade, which was when they’d first become friends.
Anyway, Prudence knew all about Midwestern winters, while one ski trip to Tahoe when she was in college had been enoughto convince Delia that she wanted as little to do with snow as possible.
“No,” she said in answer to Pru’s question. “So, okay, maybe he just phoned home or something. But this all seems a little weird.”
“It does,” Prudence agreed. “I guess the question is, what do you plan to do about it?”
The smart thing would be to do nothing. It didn’t seem as if her friend’s investigation had turned up anything illegal, and it certainly wasn’t Delia’s place as Caleb’s real estate agent to start asking him probing questions about his past.
And yet….
Something felt off here. She couldn’t even say what exactly, since she’d never encountered a situation like this before. It wasn’t just the faint drift of whatever it was that she’d first sensed in that one casino several days earlier, or the weird, smoky psychic residue she’d picked up in the parking structure at the Bellagio.
Or even the way she’d dealt with two overtly hostile ghosts in a row, something that had never happened to her before.
Individually, maybe it all could have been explained away.
But put together?
“I don’t know yet,” she replied.
Deep down, though, she thought she might. If Caleb Lowe…Lockwood…wanted to work with her to renovate the house on Pueblo Street, then he was going to have to tell her the truth first.
Afterward…well, after she heard what he had to say, then she’d decide what to do.
No matter what happened because of it.
Chapter Eleven
Delia had senthim a text on Saturday afternoon letting him know to come to her office at eleven on Monday morning so he could sign the offer papers and give the listing agent, a woman named Paige Loomis, proof of funds from his bank.
That was why Caleb was out and about earlier than he usually would have been, going to the bank to get the necessary paperwork, heading over to Delia’s office in the Winchester area. Some of the weather reports had been predicting rain, but only a few clouds drifted lazily across the sky, telling him the forecasters’ talk of storms had been mostly wishful thinking.
Delia greeted him with a smile, but something about her seemed almost tense. Was she worried the deal might fall through at the last minute?
He really didn’t see how, not when he was offering cash and the house had been sitting on the market for so long.
But despite the taut set to her jaw, she sounded pleasant enough as she asked him if he’d like coffee or tea or some water, and she only smiled when he replied that a cup of coffee would be great.
While she was fetching him a cup, the listing agent — a brittle-looking woman in her early forties with highlightedhair and the kind of tight-looking forehead that told him her aesthetician had a heavy hand with the Botox — and her client appeared at the door to Delia’s office.
Caleb stood at once and offered a friendly hand. “Hi,” he said. “Caleb Lowe. Nice to meet you.”
The agent and her client, a man a few years older than himself, with a perpetually worried expression and brown hair that could use a good haircut, both shook his hand. Right then, Delia appeared and gave Caleb the coffee he’d requested.
