I looked down the street. Groves had already disappeared. I looked back at Cobb. “How’d you make out?”
“Like the song says, ‘I got plenty of nothin’.’ You?”
“Zeros. I asked some guys that looked like regulars on the street person circuit. A couple of vague, ‘Yeah, I think sos’ as far as having heard the name, but that’s it. Scouted the area under the train bridge. Three or four people sleeping. A couple of guys just sitting, not talking, not sleeping — just sitting. They didn’t know Jay. At least that’s what they said. They didn’t change it up even after I told them the kid could be in danger, so maybe they really don’t know him. Hard to say.”
“I didn’t expect it to be easy. And if Jay’s old man has tried to find him before, the kid might be pretty practiced at leaving no trail.”
I nodded. “Could be.”
“Looks like I’ve got a stop to make before we carry on with looking for the kid. Follow up on what my friend Grover told me. Won’t take long. Care to come along?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Gifford Sharp was a realtor, his office located in a strip mall not far from the University of Calgary. We’d caught a break in traffic. In just under a half hour we were parked in front of Sharp’s office, the Jeep nose in to a tired two-storey, red brick building, flanked by a hair stylist and a computer repair place that didn’t look open.
Cobb sat, not moving, staring at the window that said “Gifford M. Sharp, Realtor, Million Dollar Club.”
“Million dollar realtor, fifty dollar office,” Cobb said as he climbed out of the Jeep. I followed him onto the sidewalk and through the door that took us into the office.
Apparently being a million dollar club member doesn’t mean you can afford office help. One man sat at the only desk, staring at a computer screen. He was fifty-ish and bulky in a wrinkled grey shirt and loosened red tie with what looked like post-modern penguins on it hanging limply around a thick neck that sported a schematic of prominent red veins. Dirty fingernails. He looked over the top of the computer screen as Cobb stepped up to the desk.
“Why do I get the feeling you guys aren’t looking for a nice four-bedroom with a spacious yard and several recent upgrades?”
“Gifford Sharp?”
The man eyed Cobb for a few seconds before answering. “I’m him,” he said. “If you’re in the market, it’s Giff.”
“I’m Mike Cobb. I’m a private investigator looking into the shooting at your house on Raleigh.”
Sharp looked back at the computer screen, tapped a couple of keys, looked up again. “I already talked to the cops.”
“We won’t take much of your time. Just wondered if you could tell us who your renters are.”
“I could, but like I said, I already spoke to the real investigators.” He dragged out the word “real.”
I reached in my pocket, pulled out a notepad and a pen, flipped open the notepad. Cobb saw me do it and said, “This is Adam Cullen, reporter for the Herald.”
Sharp shifted his eyes to me. “I don’t need no publicity here.”
I steadied the notebook, pen poised to write.
“We don’t need to give you any,” Cobb dragged out “need,” a couple of beats longer than Sharp had with “real.”
Sharp said, “What do you want to know?”
Cobb said, “Your renters — who might they be?”
“Outfit called M and F Holdings.”
I put my notepad away.
“How long have they been renting the house?”
“Just coming up on two years. I bought it in January, had it rented by February 1.” Proud of that.
“How did the rental come about?”
“Two people walked in here, just like you did, except it was a man and woman.”
“What were their names?”
“Smith.”
Cobb raised his eyebrows.
Sharp shrugged. “I’m not the government. I don’t ask for ID. People sign a contract, give me the first and last month’s rent and the damage deposit, they move in.”
“How much rent?”
Sharp cleared his throat.
“What was that?” Cobb leaned on the desk.
“Two thousand.”
“A month?” I asked.
“Yeah, a month.”
“So they gave you four thousand dollars and the damage deposit,” Cobb said.
A beat.
“Not exactly.”
“Then what exactly?”
“They … uh … paid for a year in advance.”
“Twenty-four thousand.”
“Well, actually, thirty-four.”
“Sorry,” Cobb said. “You lost me there.”
“Twenty-four grand for rent, another ten damage deposit.”
“You normally charge ten thousand dollars damage deposit on your rental properties?”
Hesitation. “Not normally, no. It was … uh … their idea.”
“So they wrote you a cheque from M and F Holdings for thirty-four large in advance.”
“Right.”
“And no catches?”
“No…. Well, only one. They told me they didn’t want me coming around the house — no owner drop-in checks or anything like that.”
“And for thirty-four thousand clams, I’m betting you didn’t see that as any kind of obstacle.”
Sharp shook his head again. “Look, I got work to do here.”
“What happened when the year went by? You see the Smiths again?”
“Just her. She came in a couple of weeks before the lease expired, paid up again.”
“But just twenty-four thousand this time, right? Because the damage deposit had already been paid.”
Sharp looked down, didn’t answer.
“Let me guess, Mr. Sharp. It was thirty-four thousand again and maybe a reminder from Mrs. Smith that you didn’t need to be coming by the house.”
Sharp didn’t look up.
“Mr. Sharp?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he looked at me. “You ain’t writing any of this in the Herald, right?”
I tapped my pocket and smiled at him.
Cobb said, “What did they look like?”
“The Smiths?”
“No, Giff, the Obamas. Who are we talking about here?”
“She was a looker. Classy broad, expensive clothes, tall, dark hair, nice smile, not movie star looks but not far from it.”
“You see what they were driving?”
“Uh-uh.”
“What about Mr. Smith? What did he look like?”
“Hard