Chapter 2
Andre paused to catch his breath when he came to the end of his circuit on the jogging trail that wound its way through Hermann Park. Holding on to the back of a park bench, he began a series of stretching exercises while studying the rain clouds that were beginning to darken the jagged Houston skyline. The hot, humid day was coming to an end, and he was glad he had made it to the park in time to get in a good run before the evening rain took over.
Running cleared Andre’s head and gave him time to review what he had accomplished at the office. It had been a satisfying day at A. Preaux and Associates, his newly established urban planning and architectural firm located on the top floor of Prairie Towers, a six-story art-deco structure he had rescued from the wrecking ball.
He had prepared a bid proposal for a warehouse renovation project, completed the preliminary sketches for a city-sponsored health center, and prepared his presentation for a gathering of area business owners to discuss his vision for a strip shopping center. Of the projects he was currently working on, the city contract excited him the most. The government design would add another valuable reference to Andre’s short list of satisfied clients and add to his renovation fund for Prairie Towers.
Years ago, when the business center of Houston had suddenly shifted westward, companies had vacated office buildings like Prairie Towers for steel-and-glass towers that shimmered in the sunlight. Andre had watched the property deteriorate during punishingly hot summers and through tropical storms that had ravaged it inside and out, while praying that no one would snatch it up before he accumulated sufficient money to buy it. Last year he had managed to purchase the deserted building for a fraction of its value, using every cent of his savings and going into debt, with little left over for the major renovations it would require. Though Prairie Towers was in a fairly dilapidated state, its address still drew respect, and that was what mattered to anyone purchasing real estate in Houston.
Andre had great plans for the 1950s structure, deciding to do most of the work himself, but for now, the building remained vacant except for the top floor, which Andre had divided in half with one side used for his loft-style living quarters and the other half converted into his office space—with two desks, a computer, his drafting table and a bookcase—sufficient furnishings for himself and Lester Tremaine, his part-time assistant, and the only associate at A. Preaux and Associates.
Now, Andre scanned the buildup of cars lining Fannin Drive, ready to head home and add the last coat of sealer to the hardwood floors he had just refinished in his living area. Once he’d completed that work, his loft apartment would be fully renovated and he could turn his focus on the unfinished walls of his office.
“Traffic’s gonna be hell,” Andre muttered to himself as he mopped his face with a small white towel and finished his stretching routine. The darkening rain clouds served as a warning that the weather was surely going to make his rush-hour drive time even more sluggish.
Just as he was about to head to the opposite side of the park where he had left his newly washed Pathfinder, the first drops of rain hit the ground, and within seconds, a full-blown downpour erupted. Twelve dollars wasted, he thought.
Seeking cover, Andre jogged over to a nearby pavilion where a lone man was watching the rain.
As he approached, Andre recalled that the man had been under the pavilion when he had first arrived at the park, and had stayed there while Andre raced past him repeatedly during his six-mile run. The stranger didn’t look like a homeless person, and didn’t appear dangerous or threatening, so Andre relaxed, thinking that he might be an office worker who had come out to the park to simply get some fresh air.
Ducking under the shelter, Andre nodded to the stranger. “I knew it was coming,” he casually remarked to the man, who was dressed in neat khaki slacks and a white open-collar shirt. His fair complexion was ruddy, as if he’d been out in the sun too long without a hat, and his dark-blond hair, cut short and spiky, resembled a military buzz. Reflective black circles of glass shielded eyes that Andre sensed were sweeping over him.
“Typical July in Houston,” the man replied, coming over to stand beside Andre.
“Right,” Andre replied, easing back a bit while rethinking his earlier conclusion. His mind whirled back to a recent news report about a well-dressed mugger who had been spotted hanging out in city parks, waiting for unsuspecting victims to beat and rob. It seemed that no one could be trusted nowadays, but Andre hated to automatically assume that every stranger he met was potentially dangerous.
“Are you Andre Preaux?” the man suddenly asked in a strong, official manner, as if he had been waiting for Andre all along.
The question shocked Andre, who stepped away several feet and leveled a curious eye on the red-faced man, whom he now could see was lanky and slightly stooped. His shielded eyes told Andre nothing, staring back at him as if they were simply two black dots pasted on a face for show. “Why? Who are you?” Andre wanted to know, certain he had never seen this person before.
The man reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a slim black wallet, which he flipped open with one heavily freckled hand. “Charles Frazer, FBI. Are you Andre Preaux?”
Too startled, and too cautious, to speak, Andre moved his head up and down.
“Good,” the man said, turning away from Andre to walk over to one of the metal picnic tables in the center of the pavilion. Once he was seated, he motioned Andre over. “Sit down, please. I want to talk to you.”
“About what?” Andre asked, slowly making his way toward the table as he tried to grasp the inference of the FBI agent’s presence in the park. The man knew him. Had called him by name. What could he possibly want?
“It’s about your brother, Jamal Preaux,” Frazer clarified, removing his glasses to reveal pale-blue expressionless eyes.
“Oh.” The word erupted from Andre’s mouth, flying out like a tiny dart. He digested the agent’s comment, fearful about what was coming next. After having pushed Jamal out of his mind and out of his life for so long, Andre had begun to believe that no one knew about his estranged sibling, but apparently, the FBI did, and the realization was disturbing. “My half brother, you mean,” Andre corrected, cautiously taking a seat across from Charles Frazer.
“Okay, fine. Your half brother,” Frazer conceded with a slight smirk. Barely moving his lips, he went on. “When was the last time you saw him?”
That was a question that Andre didn’t want to answer, and one that he had hoped no one would ever ask. He could feel his pulse begin to race as he considered whether to cooperate with this man before he knew what was really going on. After all, he was not obligated to answer any official’s questions without a lawyer present, and how did he know that this man was really an agent with the FBI? “Why do you want to know?” Andre ventured, stalling, groping for any reason to avoid this conversation.
“Have you seen or heard from Jamal Preaux recently?” Frazer pressed, toying with his sunglasses, his blue stare cutting into Andre’s brown eyes.
Slowly, Andre forced himself to calm down, deciding to answer as truthfully as possible because to do otherwise would only make him appear as if he had something to hide, which he didn’t. “No. I haven’t seen Jamal recently.”
“What about his wife, Kay Lamonde Preaux? Heard from her?”
Again, Andre replied, “No,” his voice unexpectedly dropping to a whisper.
“You were in Jamaica last September, weren’t you?” Frazer pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his limp white shirt, thumbed to a page and studied it, as if verifying his facts. “September 2005? Did you see your brother then?”
Knowing it would be stupid to deny that he had traveled to Jamaica because it was so easy to check travel and passport records, Andre had no choice but to confirm the agent’s statement. “Yes,” he confessed. “I went to Jamaica in September. I saw my brother then.”
“What