First Race

Ian

The company that officially owned the address on Lachlan's note was called Federated Realtor Asset Unit Developments, the kind of name that starts to scream the moment you try to think about what any of the words mean. I didn't need to do much thinking, though. In this city, any estate agency that owns property itself is a mob front, which keeps a lot of things nice and simple.

FRAUD had a public retail office in a small row of shops just where Rindburg started to turn to suburbs, one of those little modern pedestrian arcades that never quite lived up to its economic promise and eventually got filled by realtors and hairdressers. A small, bland coffee shop was clinging to life directly opposite the place, dead empty at eleven in the morning and grateful for my business. I sat in the window and slowly drank the blackest coffee I could get them to serve me.

There was little traffic, and I didn't expect to see anything interesting. This was just to quietly get a sense of the place in case I needed to come back in more depth later. Detective work stinks and the hours are bad, so it's worth taking any time I can to sit and watch things.

Life had other ideas. My phone buzzed quietly in my pocket and I winced. Withheld number, which at least meant it wasn't the landlord. I swiped green on the call, expecting a robot on the other end. "Hello?"

"Hello, Mister Spector." I recognised the Nordin purr immediately.

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"Lachlan!" I kept my voice as low as enthusiasm would allow. It was the first time he'd made good on his promise to call. "How nice to hear from you."

"Do you have anything for me?"

"A little, it's early days yet." I glanced over at the counter, but the lady who'd served me had disappeared into the back room. Still, I lowered my voice. "The farm is registered to a mob shell company here in Rindburg, I'm just checking them out now."

"You're sure it's organised crime?" He didn't sound worried, just focussed. The phrasing stuck out, too. Whoever he was, he didn't consider himself part of 'organised crime'. "Which syndicate?"

No mob clan in northern Occidens calls itself a 'syndicate'. Either Lachlan was from further afield than I'd thought or richer circumstances than I'd credited. He wasn't dragonkin or I'd have suspected aristocratic connections – crime too organised to name itself as such. Well, the money was good. "I dunno yet, but they'll be local, using a location like this."

"But you're sure it's organised crime? It couldn't be anything else at all?"

"I guess it's possible, I haven't found the specific link yet. But every realtor in this city has something going on, right? It's just how everyone does business here."

"Have you been to the address yet?" Lachlan's voice didn't soften as he switched topics.

"Drove past a couple of times. It's pretty difficult to get a good look, it's too isolated up there."

"I need to know what it's being used for. If you find anything about the owners please let me know, but that's the main focus."

If the owners weren't the main focus, why had he pressed so hard on the question of criminal involvement? It put my teeth on edge. "I'll see what I can get for you." If I was going to stake out the farm I was going to have to hike up there across the fields, and probably climb a tree. It was going to be cold, wet and miserable, this time of year.

"Good. I'm planning a trip to Rindburg soon, I'll contact you."