Mansion

And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him.

~ Revelation 12:9

Early Tuesday morning, June 9, 1970

The blood-spattered cat watched the red and blue lights twirling in the darkness of the morning an hour before sunrise. The lights were an invasion, something the darkness here was unused to. But the darkness ducked and dodged around branches and leaves as it chased the lights, or the lights chased it, in the waning realm of the night before the sun banished both displays to a sideshow. For now, the light and the dark danced.

Watching from its window high up in the house, the cat made no move to clean the stickiness that matted its fur. It was instead fixated on the lights that were so alien to it. It didn’t view those alien lights as an intrusion, though—not like the darkness. Those twirling siren lights promised curious people: a fact the cat found gratifying.

The van that led the procession of police cars was driven by that vile woman. The cat’s fur bristled at her return, but it knew she would not stay. Not after the deaths.

The van and the cars bumped and bucked through the dense copse of trees along what used to be a driveway, but was nothing more now than a thin trail. Except for the three vans parked ahead of her, the vile woman probably thought herself mistaken in the darkness. The vehicles sat empty in front of the vegetation that covered the house. The house was hard enough to see during the day underneath all the vines; in the dark, she would see nothing but a shapeless hill.

When the cat had watched the woman escape just a few hours earlier, the house had been lit from every window of its four floors.  The light had poured forth like a hundred floodlights in a brazen declaration of life. But now the four-story mansion sat underneath its cloak of vines, hiding and silent, waiting in the dark.

Then the front door opened.

The van and police cars came to a stop.

The cat stopped watching. Instead, it began to lick the blood from its paws. It would hide in a few minutes, and it didn’t want to leave paw prints. 

Chapter 1

Tuesday, April 7, 1970, two months earlier...

Morton sat next to his suspicious wife as she bore holes into the side of his head with her gaze. Silent accusation painted her features when he had pulled a bank folder from his briefcase. Even her soft brunette curls seemed ready to pounce at his slightest move.

This isn’t a vacation, is it? Veronica said.

Morton only looked at her.

I should have known—what bank offers its private jet for a vacation getaway? We’re not really going to be spending time on the beaches of Modesto, are we?

Actually, Plums, Modesto is landlocked. He always called her Plums. He had called her Sugar Plums once, but found the endearment too long, a tiresome overexertion of breath and mental energy. When he called her Veronica, it was not in irritation, but when he needed to get her attention.

Oh, that tops it. Veronica crossed her arms and pouted.

Morton regretted lying to his wife; he should have told her the truth. He resolved to do so the next time he wanted her company on a business trip. Had her company been the only reason he had wanted her along, he would have told her so. She would have acquiesced and accompanied him without argument to be close to him. But on this trip, he needed her. Her pose said that she was not angry, just irritated. All would be well later in the day.

I need your help on this trip and I wanted to spend time with you, he began, but trailed off after drawing breath.

Veronica jerked her head to the side and did not look at or speak to him. She was gazing out the window.

He stared down at the closed manila folder. The whine of the Learjet engines rose in pitch and he missed what the flight’s single attendant was saying as she stood over him.

I’m sorry? He angled his head to hear her quiet voice better.

The attendant leaned a little closer over him. Her eyes were brown and very large. Her mascara was applied so heavily that her eyes were almost dark caves. Morton pulled back slightly and immediately hoped she hadn’t noticed. She was young like him, and he thought being nice was always a good approach to any woman.

I asked if there was anything I can get you before we taxi for takeoff? she said.

Morton straightened his fashionably wide tie and adjusted his suit coat while glancing at his wife. She was still looking outside at the overcast day and the airport vehicles near the hangar.

A dozen roses so I can make up to my wife?

The attendant raised a single eyebrow at him.

Umm, maybe just some water for both of us a little after we take off? He glanced at her name tag. Kate, he added with a quick smile.

She nodded and took her seat up front.

Morton looked back down at the folder and read the type on the edge: Chase Account - Properties. The Chase family had used the First Templeton Bank and Trust for decades to administer the family holdings and rental properties.

So this isn’t a vacation. Great. Why exactly are you dragging me along?

I’m walking out on a limb here, Plums. I’m going to pull something sneaky.

His wife snorted. What? You’re involving me in some scheme?

Not a scheme, an account. See this? He hefted the file.

Yeah, so what?

It’s the Chase account, he said. The Chase family was well known among the Cincinnati elite. Their rental holdings were extensive.

Veronica laughed. You’ll never get that account.

The president gave it to me to review when Soloman died.  

So now I’m helping you work for this creep?

Well, it sounds like it, but you’re not.

Veronica rolled her eyes.

Hold on a minute, okay? Just listen, Morton said. I found something odd. I need to check it personally and I need your help. If this turns into something I can impress the Chases with, they could ask to keep me as manager.

That’s a lot of maybes.

The Chase account is worth a lot of money. He got paid a small fraction of the entire trust value every year as a fee.

But I’m still working for your jerk boss.

He didn’t order me to come out here, I’m doing this on my own, he said.

And involving me in this. Why? What happened to the beaches? she said.

Plums, you’re always pestering me about making the big move.

She nodded. He was right about that.

And I need your help. She was a real estate agent. Her experience in valuing property could be a help.

Hmm, she said. Some vacation.

He opened the manila folder after the plane rose into the air. Within it were a few simple pages he had selected from the larger batch of Chase files. Morton had analyzed all the properties for the president but he had found a small oddity that had turned into his current plane trip. The Chases invested only in rental properties. They avoided speculation, resale, renovation, or development. This one property produced no income and was not listed in the family’s private residences.

Veronica fingered a page or two from the folder as if gauging a fabric to purchase. Her nose wrinkled in disgust and she decided to pull out a crossword puzzle from her bag, instead.

He sifted through the few papers and pulled the sheet on number 8, Route 6, outside of Chinese Camp, California. The lack of detail in the file stabbed at his meticulous pride.

He shuffled those back in and instead pulled out a brief about the heirs. Thomas Chase was long dead, and his wife Hattie was dying. They had four sons. One of the sons, Edgar Eddie Chase, was the man he would be answering to. Eddie was a World War II veteran of the pacific theatre. The veterans could be tough old leather to deal with. Morton made a mental note to be positive about the current conflict in Vietnam if the subject arose during their meeting next week.

His musings about the Chases were interrupted by Kate, the fashionable flight attendant. He took the two plastic cups of water and nodded in appreciation. He took out the latest photo of the family from the manila envelope and began studying.

Okay, entertain me with who these people are, Veronica mumbled.

He obliged his wife; they had a few hours until landing.

* * *

Modesto was a furnace as they drove the rental car away from it along Highway 108. Even with the window rolled all the way down, he was sweating. The radio played a depressing mix of country music and one station of folk that faded in and out as if to imply the earnest singing had no message. He tried to listen to a song about peace, but his mind wasn’t really on it. He was embarking upon a battle.

Veronica’s face hinted at lightning and thunderstorms, hurricanes and gales.

This was a bad idea, she said.

We’re together, though. He smiled at her with genuine warmth. He loved his wife of three years and she loved him with equal intensity. Even though she had been disappointed over the ruse and further shocked at the desolate atmosphere of Modesto, he could see she was enjoying the getaway from the bustle of city life.

Is there anything out here? she said.

They drove through emptiness.

Makes you miss Cincinnati, he said.

Are we in a Twilight Zone nightmare? Mile after mile of nothing?

The immense barrenness of the open expanses of Central California disturbed Morton. He was used to urban clutter and content.

We’re going to be stuck driving forever, she said.

No wonder why this property is unused, someone could run out of gas before reaching it. Morton checked the gas gauge to confirm the veracity of his lie.

This won’t help any appraisal I make, Veronica said.

Mm, no argument from me, he said. Just be honest.

We flew ten thousand miles to look at wasteland?

Two thousand, Plums, he said.

Huh?

It’s only two thousand miles from here to Cincinnati.

One of Veronica’s eyebrows made a slow ascent up her forehead.

I’m sorry, he said, and he meant it. I wonder if anything is still standing on it?

She touched his knee to acknowledge the apology.

A hawk flashed by and above the windshield. He was relieved to see even that little bit of life. He glanced at his watch and hung his elbow back out the window. He had plenty of time to search for the piece of land. If there was nothing left standing of any worth, they would only need a look to confirm it and have enough info to submit his findings. Maybe they could get back into Modesto early enough to catch a movie; Veronica would like that.

Veronica looked at him out of the corner of her sweaty eyes.

Gee, dear. Maybe you should roll up the window; I’m a tad chilly, she said.

Uh huh.

The trees of the foothills were a welcome break to the treeless rolling hills, and their entry into them told him he was getting near to the ghost town and the property near it they were investigating.

I know! There’s going to be trees on the property, beautifully preserved... she said.

Morton laughed.

Maybe even foundations, she said.

Something has to be there, he said.

Why? Why does anything have to be there? Because you want the account so bad?

The utility bills have been maintained. Electricity has to run to something out here. There’s even a phone line being paid for.

So someone lives there?

No, no meter usage, no phone usage. Someone forgot about the place but kept paying all the bills, Morton said.

How do you forget about a house? Get hit too hard on the head?

The Chases have over seventy properties. He shrugged.

I don’t think we’re going to find anything. What would be standing after all this time with no upkeep? The farther we go, the less I think we’ll find, and the more useless my input becomes.

What would they find? A hut leaning dangerously with a power and phone cable running to it? Possibly the cables were keeping the whole mess from falling over? Was there a chest of gold buried under the rotting floorboards?

He laughed out loud.

Are you finding this funny? Veronica looked as if the trauma she was suffering from of seeing lonely hills and dead grass was going to make her vomit at any moment.

Laugh as he might, this was gold country, after all. You never knew what you might find forgotten behind some old hill out of sight of the road. A rotting wagon with skeletons in it and a chest of stolen gold in the back?

I’ve been infected by the gold bug just being here, Morton said.

Great. The day you tell me to pack up because we’re moving to live in this dust will be the day I slit my wrists.

What if they found a dwelling on the Chase property? By the amount of the property taxes and the small size of the land the indications were there of a building. A hundred and forty-seven dollars per year for property taxes wouldn’t pay for a fruit stand on the side of a dead highway in California nowadays, but property as old as this with no change in title spoke of something substantial for the money assessed, even if paltry by today’s standards. What if there was a dwelling and it was inhabited by squatters? Some commune could have claimed forgotten land and might not be friendly to visitors. You never knew what drugged out peaceniks were going to do next. The only sure thing was that they would oppose authority.

Morton shuddered suddenly. What if the Black Panthers were on the land? Violence could erupt.

Look, the man is here to take over.

But no, why would they be out this far from any city of worthy size? If there were squatters on the land, they would just be hippies.

Smoke some MaryJane and drop some acid, man; join us in love. Peace.

You could always walk away from hippies.

His thoughts were on hippies, beads, and bandanas when the road curved into Chinese Camp. A few neglected buildings struggled against time to proclaim they had once been living.

The directions he had scrawled on another piece of paper were of dubious merit. He had brought along some plot maps the Tuolumne County Courthouse had mailed him but wasn’t sure they were going to be any great help. He followed the directions out of town and off the highway. The road was in such bad shape that Morton doubted it could qualify as a road in any civilized area of America. It was nothing better than a dirt trail with some patches of long forgotten asphalt hiding behind clumps of weed and wildflower.

Goat trail, he muttered.

Isn’t this the Interstate? his wife said sweetly.

You’re my Plums.

Oh, wait. The dollar meter is moving, she said as the car bounced in a pothole. The only problem is that it’s going the wrong way.

As much as I hate to admit it, you might be right. This is discouraging.

Sooner than he thought, they were in the area the map indicated should be a lesser unpaved road. He realized with a sinking feeling that the paved road they were on was bad enough as to be nearly unrecognizable. How were they going to find an unpaved road? He glanced around for utility poles and located some right away. Amazing what you notice when you decide to look.

Off to his right along the pitted road was a utility pole out of line with the rest. It looked like a large, bleached bone. Morton looked along the line of them. The old rib bones of some long-forgotten giant were thrust up out of the ground from the buried corpse beneath, leaning, but still sturdy and in no danger of falling over any time soon. The power cable strung atop the bones held them together in a line.

He imagined that the sort of lessened vegetation by one of the poles might have been a road once. He stopped as he pulled abreast of the pole and there did seem to be a pathway leading into the trees that could be discerned from where he was parked. The pole also had a meter on it from what he could make out.

This is our vacation? Isn’t there supposed to be a house here, at least? A hut? A greasy shack? Veronica was shaking her head. Such a place cannot exist in modern America. This is the 70s.

Not sure. That’s why we’re here, to see if there is even a house.

He pulled the car onto the unpaved road and drove slowly through the brush. He drove past the pole with its meter and rounded a small tree-covered hill. He was almost guessing as to where the road was, but certainly it had to be where the least brush and scrub grew. He was confirmed in his suspicions by occasional clearings shaped like a road. Up ahead was a small forest of trees and some of them had fallen over onto the road as if to say that mankind was no longer welcome along its thoroughfares. Brush grew up around it all. They would have to walk from here.

No, there was definitely no one out here. No Black Panthers, no drugged-out hippies, no squatters. No one had been this far in years, at least. He doubted the meter reader even looked beyond the utility pole back off the main road. He couldn’t even see any other signs of life.

Morton climbed out of the car and rolled up his sleeves. Sweat rolled off his forehead and dripped into his eyes as he studied the mass of fallen tree trunks. They weren’t too dense, a good chainsaw would clear a path. He didn’t ask, but Veronica climbed out of the car and followed him. He walked into the tangle and decided he could climb through.

For the Chase’s.

His wife followed.

They scrambled over three fallen trees and tore their way through vines and brush. He clawed through the last of it and stood on the other side. He saw what appeared to be an odd mountain of vines. This is what the Chases were paying for? But then he saw parts of a structure underneath the flowers and leaves. He knew then without a doubt that this property was forgotten and lost amongst the papers and files of a sprawling family. Obviously this had fallen unremembered with the death of old Thomas himself.

Surrounded by trees and brush and tangled vines was a house of colossal proportions. From where he stood he could see what looked like a three or four story structure. The foundation appeared to be stone, while the main portion of the structure was wood. Almost all of it was obscured by clinging vines. Morton had the feeling that the colossal mansion was much like a hibernating beast slumbering in its lair.

If the utility poles were rib bones, I’ve found the skull.

A clump of vines and brush made a smaller mound in front of the structure and he froze when he realized there was a hand sticking out of it. His heart beat hard for a moment before he recognized it. A stone hand holding a torch. A statue of some kind, covered over.

Holy smokes, he said.

No kidding, his wife said. Okay, maybe you’re onto something here.

I... Can you feel the magnetism of this place? Morton felt as if he were looking at a starving two-headed lion.

Huh? More like that monstrosity is sucking the life out of me. Veronica trembled in the heat.

He had made a discovery that would alter the Chases forever.

Chapter 2

Monday, April 13, 1970

Dolly Chase was young and pretty. So was her friend Stacy who walked along beside her up to the stone block building that was First Templeton Bank and Trust.

Dolly exhaled loudly in frustration as she looked farther along the crowded street at the people ahead. Her day was ruined.

Great.

I hope I don’t intrude, Stacy repeated for the fourth time today, and missed her friend’s discomfiture.

Oh, Stacy, stop it. Everyone will love you. Dolly said.

Maybe I shouldn’t have come. What if someone thinks I’m trying to nose in on your family’s money?

Oh, as if my eligible Uncle Eddie might be smitten with you?

Her uncle was in his fifties and unlikely to be smitten with anything except aches and pains. As successful as Stacy was, she was self conscious about how people thought of her.

Well, I’m an outsider, Stacy said. Her melancholy softened Dolly’s mirth.

Dolly suspected that the ever successful Stacy envied her. Such a thought seemed ridiculous to her that she could be envied for anything except being born into a wealthy family. But Dolly’s strong family bond was prominent in her life and apparent to others. Stacy lacked a family, and Dolly felt her anguish. Stacy’s father had died in the Korean War when she was a baby, and her mother had disappeared one day when Stacy was a teenager. Dolly imagined that Stacy might feel nervous as if she were auditioning for a new family.

Dolly envied Stacy in return, perhaps stronger. Stacy was brunette and adorable with short hair done in that Egyptian style that was still fashionable from the 60s. She always looked perfect and hip in her mini-dresses and boots, and the department store she modeled for thought so too. Dolly hoped to break into modeling also. Or even further into acting and TV. Acting held forth a little more promise as the modeling agencies seemed to be preferring younger and younger models, nowadays. Dolly and Stacy were both twenty-five.

Coming up to the metal doors from the other direction were two people Dolly wished would go away, and the cause of her vexation. Oh, those two were a part of her life as much as her arm, but seeing her cousin and his wife put her on edge. Her cousin was bearable, even friendly. After all, he was family—Chase family. But he wasn’t the problem. Rather, Dolly’s issues were with the awful woman at his side. Dolly looked forward to socializing with his wife about as much as she looked forward to chatting with a communist interrogator.

Douglas Chase was a successful businessman, owner of Douglas Audio Products that made reel-to-reel tapes and machines. His wife Sandy was known to all as an unabashed  gold digger, blonde and pretty, brazenly flaunting her greed in her words and actions. Douglas either ignored or was unaware of it; Dolly didn’t know. He was dashing at age thirty-four, and his wife not that far behind in age.

Dolly! Douglas beamed. His confident eyes took in both her and Stacy.

Hi, she said. She smiled back with a little less exuberance, and then turned to his wife. Hi, Sandy.

Sandy smiled enough to be polite and gave Dolly an abbreviated hug, much like movie stars do to other movie stars. Phony, like the shallow trophy she was. She wore an expensive dress suit with a little purse for her cigarettes. Silver mascara accented her avaricious eyes and contributed to the plastic look of a counterfeit wife. A whiff of alcohol greeted all who hugged her in an announcement of her vice.

Dolly touched Stacy’s arm and addressed the others. This is my best friend, Stacy, the model I told you about. Stacy, this is my cousin Douglas and his first wife, Sandy.

Douglas blinked in confusion.

No one else caught Dolly’s jab. Dolly almost felt giddy.

I finally get the courage to insult her and she’s too dense to get it. 

Stacy extended her hand for a brief shake to each and smiled. Pleased to meet you.

Why are you here? Sandy said. Her suspicious eyes looked Stacy up and down.

I’m going to be tagging along to help my friend. Stacy indicated Dolly without looking at her and kept her eyes on Sandy’s.

This is Chase business. Eddie asked for volunteers from amongst family. Sandy’s air told everyone the matter was settled and Stacy should turn around and walk away.

Sandy, Dolly said. She’s here to help and it’s appreciated. Uncle Eddie said I could bring her. Dolly looked forward to working with her uncle on the Chase properties; he was meeting here with the family banker to discuss the holdings and assume the reins from his ailing mother.

Is Uncle Eddie here yet? Douglas said.

Sandy crossed her arms and looked up out of the corner of her eyes.

We just got here ourselves, but if I’m not mistaken that’s his Rambler over there. She pointed.

* * *

Edgar Chase examined his shoe as he sat in the bank’s second story conference room. The shoe was adequately polished, and earned an approving nod. He was known as Eddie to the family and everyone else who knew him. Some fellow servicemen had called him the Captain Eddie instead of the regulation Captain Chase. He had done a great service for his country then, campaigning across several Pacific islands against the Japanese in World War II. The nightmares of Tarawa still haunted him, but he had been well-decorated for his heroic efforts by a grateful nation. He was nominated by his family as the eldest leader with the skill to head the family.

He looked up at the young banker-kid, Morton, as if the diversion of his gaze could wipe away the visions of dead marines on beaches.

What happened to the man that was handling our accounts?

Solomon? The Big C, Morton said.

Eddie weighed Morton with his eyes, as he had when they first met, and found a depth there that promised competence. But what about experience? Morton was young. Maybe too young to be handling the family accounts. He had met the previous banker, Solomon, just once and Eddie had been unimpressed. Certainly, the old banker had done his job and performed what was required to maintain the seventy-four rental properties. But he had just been putting in his time.

Cancer? Oh. Eddie nodded with his gaze cast to the floor. Sympathy over the dead was a little difficult for him to conjure, but he knew his gesture was universally accepted as appropriate.

This new banker had called a meeting not only to introduce himself to Eddie, but to bring something to their attention within the accounts that he felt was amiss. Eddie was new at this as well. His mother Hattie had always handled the banking affairs and with her not expected to last much longer, Eddie had to step up to assume responsibility, something he had skills and experience to do.

It hit fast, Morton said.

Cancer usually does, Eddie said.

All of his accounts were dropped in our laps. He didn’t have time to train anyone to replace him.

Shouldn’t someone more senior be handling our accounts? The bank president? Eddie weighed Morton for facial expression and posture as much as his answer.

Morton nodded while searching for words.

Normally, an account grown to this size would go to the president now that the senior banker is dead.

Eddie realized that wasn’t exactly an answer to his question; it was an evasion.

You’re next in line under the president? Eddie’s eyebrows rose in skepticism.

Morton nodded but was silent for a few heartbeats. I was given the account to research and analyze. The president will want to take the account back from me, soon. I hope my presentation shows you how valuable I can be to you.

Eddie was so far unwilling to allow that Morton could handle his family’s properties, but he would hear him out.

The door opened and Morton stood as the other Chase family members were ushered in. Introductions were made and everyone sat down around the big walnut conference table. Morton placed folders in front of everyone in a quick and efficient manner. He took his own seat at the head of the table and opened his file.

Mister Eisenberg managed your family’s accounts for over thirty-five years; he often talked with me about your family and the approach you take to your holdings, Morton said. I must say, the Chase approach is simple and clean. You don’t just have a few properties; you have an empire.

He pulled out a list several pages long of the accounts and rental properties. The income from the rentals was substantial and allowed the Chase family to operate in the background. The tenant-landlord relationship was handled by bankers and brokers. Hattie Chase had used the business to fund her life and in return chose a bare handful of properties each year to add to the holdings. The empire was growing steadily at the rate of four properties per year, and the bank accounts had swelled up pregnant with interest-bearing cash.

I have typed up a listing of all the Chase bank accounts—the savings accounts, the bonds, the expense accounts, the general fund—and also typed a list of the properties held. This should illustrate for you exactly what you have at this point and how you might like to proceed if you feel any changes are necessary. Also attached is an analysis of your cash flows. A quick glance there will show you the family is well in the black and accumulating wealth at a steady pace.

Eddie nodded after scanning the detailed papers. Will there be any tax liabilities when Mrs. Chase is gone?

No, none, Morton said. The estate is held in trust and the will is specific about the continuation of business. As for the passing of Mrs. Chase—when that sad event occurs—the trust provides for a monthly block amount to be transferred to each individual heir. According to my calculations, none of you should live anything less than very comfortably, even the grandchildren and their lesser share percentage should see a healthy monthly income.

So what do we need to do? Dolly said.

Morton might have looked young to everyone here, but he was confident of what he was talking about. She appeared to recognize that competence within him by the look on her face.

Nothing, really, Morton said. The transfer is automatic at the time of passing, and your Uncle Eddie as direct heir is named as the overall manager for business decisions. Your other two living brothers are incapacitated or uninterested? He directed that last at Eddie.

My older brother Eugene died in Korea. The other two don’t want to be bothered. That leaves me. My intentions are to accelerate my mother’s growth plan and expand regionally instead of just locally—

How much money is ‘healthy,’ exactly? Sandy said.

Sandy, Douglas whispered.

Morton froze and looked around. Such a question was very impolite, and he didn’t think the Chases were ignoble people.

How much money is ‘healthy,’ exactly? Sandy said impatiently.

Everyone in the room stared at Sandy. Dolly and Eddie looked embarrassed and angry. Stacy looked stunned.

Morton decided to ignore the tasteless question. He cleared his throat.

I also called you here to point out something in the accounts that I found, he said.

Sandy sighed loudly. Am I invisible? Is everyone deaf, or just stupid?

Eddie leaned forward and slapped the table with a hard hand. Hey!

Sandy flinched in her chair.

My mother isn’t dead yet; until she is, shut your mouth.

Sandy sat back against her chair hard enough to bounce. She crossed her arms and sulked.

Dolly nodded.

Morton silently agreed with Dolly’s obvious approval. The extra family would be helping Eddie manage the properties with a closer hand than Old Lady Hattie had. That was the only reason the others had come. Better to concentrate on the task at hand rather than drool over how much money could be had. Of course, Sandy had apparently only come to see what she could get out of it through Douglas.

While Dolly followed the discussion easily enough, Morton saw what looked like dizziness play across her features. A look of dread flashed across her face, too. He did not know what was going on with her, but a lot of women had taken up the habit of skipping breakfast in their quest for the boyish thinness of certain popular models. Perhaps Dolly hadn’t eaten breakfast.

Morton started again. When I was named to analyze your accounts, I researched all of your properties so that I could serve you best. I found an old and odd property that apparently had been forgotten.

Odd? Dolly tilted her head. The dizziness shot across her face again like a spear out of a mist. She visibly fought down the vertigo and held her breath.

Morton regarded Dolly with curiosity. She was a very pretty young woman. Her eyes were brown and very large, liberally applied with mascara. She didn’t need to look any thinner.

She really needs to eat something.

Morton pulled a sheet from the folder that listed the details. That would be Item Three in your folders.

The sound of rustling papers filled the room as the other papers were replaced and the pertinent one found. Eddie frowned at it. The others shrugged. Morton smiled inwardly but did not let that show outwardly.

How did you find a lost property? Eddie said.

"Each and every Chase property is maintained and paid for out of the property account. Energy animated Morton as he explained his ingenuity. Taxes, repairs, assessments and renovations are all handled by the bank for each individual property. Each one has a file containing the deed, any leases, tenant documents or anything else of importance. This is a typical one."

Morton stood and showed one of the files for a Chase property. The file had a label with a large red Chase, Cincinnati, 1097 Francine St stenciled on it, and was inches