“It would be except the old coot who owns the place now apparently lets no one on his property for any reason, and shoots at people who violate his No Trespassing signs.”

“Maybe I could talk him into it,” Drew said. “Otherwise, we’d need a search warrant, which I don’t think we could get right now.”

“Right.”

“The woman’s information isn’t concrete. He could have said he was going there, and gone somewhere else. Do Mike and Tommy have any other evidence leading to that area, or indicating a specific location?”

“None.”

“I could try to finesse it out of the old man,” Drew said, “and if I strike out, I could see if I can get a warrant out of a judge I know down there, but I’d have to really work it. I’m going to talk to Mike and Tommy about this now. I think there’s enough reason for me to become involved. It’s more than one murder, probably both committed outside of Austin, with linking crimes in Austin.”

“I can’t get hold of either one of them, so you’ll have to brief them on my trip.”

“I can handle that. Meanwhile, I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

“Lisa Wells’s mother was so grateful for your work on our cottonwood case that she wrote you a letter and posted it to me for delivery to you. Want me to fax it over? I can give you the original next time I see you.”

“Yes, definitely fax it on.”

“Okay, it’ll be coming across in just a minute. I’ll try to get in touch with Tommy and Mike. We’ll let you know what we decide to do.”

“Thanks, Drew.”

Within a minute or so, my fax machine came to life and hummed and beeped as the page came through. I pulled it off the machine and read:

Dear Dr. Sullivan,

Words could never express what you have done for me and for my family with your artwork. The bust you did of my Lisa was so beautiful and done with such care, it was as if you knew her in life. The resemblance was perfect. You had even caught that little gleam of joy that used to be hers before she got caught up with the wrong man. Truly, you and she must have made a spiritual connection for you to see in her bones so much of what was really Lisa. Lieutenant Smith says that you are a Christian woman and that you pray often. I can only say that I was not surprised, for to see your work and have the benefit of it in this way was to share in the grace of God’s gifts and comfort. May He always bless you.

Sincerely,

Gladys Wells

I forgot about frustration and self-pity. I sat and felt ashamed of myself for about five minutes, and then I got my rear in gear and got to work on the CILHI bust. It was near to being finished and I had a responsibility to other people. It was time to do as Reverend Iordani had repeatedly advised me. It was time to focus on someone other than myself. It was time to think about Irini and her family.

I worked all night, and as I laid the clay between every tissue-depth marker, the reality of the face of this man began to be obvious. Before I went further, constructing the nose or doing anything that required intuition or judgment of my own, I wanted Chris Nakis to look at the photographs of the skull and the work I had done so far. I wanted a trained forensic anthropologist, who had never seen Ted Nikolaides, to give me her expert opinion. About seven o’clock in the morning, I stopped where I was and made the call. Chris would leave work early and come by. I told her I would make dinner for both of us.

When Chris arrived I showed her into the studio, gave her all of my photographs and notes and left her there to work while I cooked our dinner.

I had decided to make a spicy eggplant dish that I loved, and serve it with a Greek spinach and rice dish that I knew Chris loved. We would have rosemary bread and peppered olive oil.

When dinner was finally ready and on the table, I called for Chris. In a few minutes, she came out of my studio and handed me a rough drawing.

“That’s what I’d do, if it were mine,” she said.

She had reviewed the photos and all my notes and had checked the tissue depths I had calculated and looked at the bust where it was now. The drawing she made was of the face totally reconstructed with nose and eyes. Her work was rough, but good enough for me to get the idea. I looked at her sketch and sat down at the table. My hand was shaking.

“What is it?” Chris asked.

“This is Teddy,” I said.

My eyes welled up with tears and I bit my lip and shook it off. I handed the sketch back to her and got up and walked to look out the back window. I stood there with my hands on my hips and tried to remember how to breathe.

“Well,” Chris said softly, “I guess I haven’t lost my skills.”

We were both silent for a while. Finally, I turned around from the windows and came to the table to sit down.

“Let’s eat,” I said.

We said our thanksgiving over the food and dug in.

“What’s next?” Chris asked.

“I’ll finish it tomorrow,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime, my friend, anytime.”

Chapter Fourteen

In one of the older neighborhoods in Austin, not far from my favorite cypress grove on the river trail, is an old house turned restaurant. It’s called Maddie’s Breakfast. Maddie’s is open 24/7. She serves up eggs just about any way you can imagine them, bacon and sausage for all the carnivores, toast, waffles, pancakes, French toast, fruit dishes-and the list goes on.

Austin’s own brand of music plays over the sound system-music that includes country-western, progressive country, blues and some “Austin” music that simply defies categorization. The decor is eclectic for kicked-backed comfort.

Jack and I used to take Mike there from the time he was about twelve. Now, over fifteen years later, Mike and I still met there for an early-morning breakfast sometimes. This time we included Tommy Lucero.

I had slipped into my jeans, a cotton purple short-sleeve sweater and my brown snakeskin boots. I had made a copy of Chris’s sketch with my computer printer, folded it and stuck it in my jeans pocket. I locked everything up and jumped into the Jeep to head for my breakfast appointment with my two favorite cops.

I had finished the carburetor overhaul on the Jeep and a couple of other things I was doing to it, so I had decided to take it out for my breakfast jaunt instead of the Mustang. It ran like a top. Sometimes, my mechanical abilities amazed even me. It was raining again that morning, so it was a good morning to give the Mustang a rest. The rain pounded down on the soft top of the Jeep, but my mud tires held the road well.

The boys were already there when I arrived and Tommy was “champing at the bit,” as we say down here in Texas. He would have to “champ” awhile longer, because there was a twenty-minute wait and Mike and Tommy only had us on the list for five minutes when I got there. Drew had talked to both of them, but we chatted about nonsense while we waited-we didn’t want anyone to overhear any of our conversation about the investigation. In ten minutes’ time, they had managed to come up with a booth and they seated us.

I had already decided I was having the whole-grain French toast with fresh berries and all-natural maple syrup. I was also having an extralarge glass of their mango-tangerine juice and their awesome bottomless cup of coffee. The boys were loading up on cheesy omelettes with lots of pig meat on the side. We were all going to need an extra hour in the gym that day.

I pulled the copy of the sketch out of my jeans pocket and handed it across the table to Mike.

“That’s the sketch Chris did last night of the CILHI project I’m working on. She used my notes and photos and the partially completed bust. She added the nose and eyes and finishing touches herself.”

I saw the expression on Mike’s face, and so did Tommy.