Surprisingly, he’d learned the address from the internet, which contained a listing for Lee, Hamilton J. He found Peachtree Estates from Google maps. The house he thought belonged to Lee dominated the far end of a cul-de-sac. A rough granite wall surrounded it, broken only by two iron gates accommodating a semi-circular drive. The architecture leaned toward Greek Revival—a full two stories with matching symmetrical wings, white brick, its front graced with a pedimented gable portico supported by fluted columns.
The gate was open so he drove in and parked next to a late-model silver Mercedes coupe. He climbed out of the Jaguar and took a moment to admire the scene. The drive was lined with trimmed shrubs and colorful flowers, the front yard a carpet of close-cut Bermuda grass. He half expected to see flagsticks periodically since it reminded him of a practice putting green. He shook his head and smiled. Hamilton Lee certainly knew how to live.
He’d dressed casually. Khaki shorts, a pullover polo shirt, and Top-Siders, no socks. Under the circumstances, he didn’t deem formalities necessary.
He climbed the portico and rang the bell.
A solemn-faced butler answered.
“Is this the residence of Hamilton Lee of Southern Republic Pulp and Paper?”
“It is.”
“My name is S. Lou Greene. I’m here to see Mr. Lee.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No.”
“Then it would be out the question to disturb Mr. Lee on Saturday.”
He nonchalantly reached into his shorts pocket and removed the folded copy of the list. “Show him this. I believe he’ll see me.”
He tried not to smile.
The butler took the offering, but did not unfold the paper.
“I’ll be a moment.”
The door closed. Three minutes later it reopened.
“Mr. Lee will see you.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Greene muttered.
“Follow me, please.”
He was led through a marble foyer that carried the look and feel of a Roman temple. A wide carpeted hall stretched to the rear of the house, ending at a set of stained double doors. The butler opened them and invited him inside.
“Wait here, please.”
He stood alone in a library. Bookshelves lined two walls, mostly novels and nonfiction, though two shelves displayed an impressive collection ofNational Geographics in leather binders. Oil paintings in gilded frames dotted another wall, each tastefully illuminated by a tiny brass fixture. In the center sat an ensemble of a leather sofa and three upholstered wingback chairs. Sunlight poured through towering leaded-glass windows. Framed photographs angled off a side table. Lee obviously had two daughters, most of the pictures were of them and his grandchildren. He was intently studying the faces when the doors suddenly opened.
The man who entered was in his fifties with brownish-gray hair, a matching mustache, and a rich tan. He too was dressed casually, in a pair of dark-blue trousers and a cream-colored Robert Graham shirt. He carried the copy of the list, unfolded, in his left hand.
“I received your message,” Lee said, closing the doors behind him.
“Lou Greene. I’m a lawyer from Savannah.”
He extended his hand to shake.
Lee did not return the gesture. “As I understand it, Mr. Greene, you derive the vast majority of your income from Concord, Springfield, Sylvania, and a number of other small towns. Not Savannah.”
“It’s just easier to say Savannah.”
“And perhaps more prestigious than, say, Rincon?”
“Perhaps.”
