“We’ll catch him,” I said soothingly, deciding that never again would I let the dog off a leash. “Jenna, don’t—”
But she was already climbing through the fence. “Here, boy,” she called.
Spot, his doggy grin not quite hidden by the Frisbee, darted out of her reach and scrambled under the side fence and into the next yard. We repeated the sequence through half a dozen backyards, and my patience was long gone when Spot squirreled under a rusty chain-link fence.
“You two stay here.” Harkening back to my youth, I put my toes in the open diamonds of the fence and climbed over. “Here, Spot.”
The dog actually looked droopy. Without too much effort, I walked him into a corner of the fence, arms outspread. “That’s a good boy, pretty boy,” I crooned. “You’ll never run free again. Nope, never, ever again. That’s a good boy.” I snatched his collar. “There’s a good dog.” I leaned down to pick him up, grateful that we’d chosen a dog under thirty pounds, when I noticed a collection of bicycles leaning against the fence.
I stole a glance at the house—dark, with drawn curtains—and edged closer. It was Paoze’s ancient bike. It had to be. There weren’t many white, scabrous bikes with large metal baskets on the front. It was tempting to take it, right then and there, but I couldn’t do that with the kids around. I’d call Gus later.
Thoughtfully, I carried Spot to the fence and deposited him on the other side. “Don’t let him go,” I told Jenna. When I was halfway over, I looked back at the bike. It had been here in plain sight all the time. All I’d needed to do was look in the right place.
I lowered myself to the ground next to a wagging dog and two chattering children, but I didn’t hear a word they said. I looked at the bike, then at the school. At the bike, then the school.
It had been right here all the time.
Chapter 20
“You want property information?”The Rynwood deputy clerk peppered me with questions. “What kind? Deeds? Liens? Taxation information? Tax maps? A plat book?”
The brilliant idea that had hit me Sunday afternoon while I was straddling the fence was lacking in specifics. “Property ownership,” I said. “That’s public information, right?”
“Sure. Do you have the parcel number or an address?”
I shook my head, shifted from one foot to the other, and tried not to feel intimidated. Rynwood’s city hall was one of those old municipal buildings with high ceilings, elaborate crown molding, and the scent of an aged patriarchal history. That the thirtysomething assistant, Kristen, didn’t seem fazed by the environment intimidated me even more.
“Town, range, and section? Subdivision?”The friendly gaze with which Kristen had begun our conversation was turning into that polite look.
“No, sorry.” Up on that fence, I had been struck by the idea that maybe Agnes’s murder was related to the building addition, but maybe the reason didn’t have anything to do with money or even the design from the Black Lagoon.
Maybe the reason was in plain sight; I just had to look at things the right way.
I glanced at my watch. If the city couldn’t provide, maybe Dane County could, and I was itchy to see how this idea panned out. Due to long-overdue holiday planning and a busy store, I’d had to wait until Wednesday, when Marcia came in to work afternoons, to get this far. “Well, thanks anyway.” I reached into my purse for the car keys.
“Hang on,” Kristen said. “There are ways and there are ways. I’m guessing you don’t have an AccessDane account?”
“A what?”
“From the Dane County Land Information Office. It’s part of their GIS system.”
“Gee eye ess?” Down the rabbit hole, once again.
“Geographic Information System. It captures, manages, analyzes, and displays geographically referenced information.”
“I see.”
She noticed the glazed look on my face and switched to the lay explanation. “Through a GIS you can see where utilities run, see population density, and”—she tapped the computer monitor at her elbow—“you can use online maps of Rynwood to figure out who owns what property.”
“I see.” And this time, I did.
“Have you ever used a program like this? No? Then you’re going to run into a learning curve. Come on in and I’ll show you the basics.” Kristen tipped her head sideways, indicating a metal door with a sign, AUTHORIZED ADMITTANCE ONLY.
Faster than the White Rabbit on his way to that important date, I found myself seated in a castered chair facing a computer screen full of mysterious things to click.
“This here?” Kristen pointed. “That starts the informational query. Just zoom into the area you’re interested in, click on that button there, and the basic parcel info will pop up over here.” More pointing. “If you want to see more detail, click this button here.”
Information overload. I squinched my eyes shut and reopened them, hoping to see something that made sense. “This one will show me the owner?”
“No. That opens the infrastructure palette. You can turn on and off the water main, gas lines, sanitary sewer, storm sewer. Electrical, if you’re lucky. Sometimes cable, but I’m not sure I’d trust that layer. You know how cable guys are.”
I was afraid to ask any more questions. If I asked, she’d tell me, and my brain was already too full. I thanked her for her time.
“No problem,” she said cheerfully. “I love this program. Intuitive, really. Let me know if you have any trouble.”
Half an hour later, I’d had enough of the easy, intuitive, best-thing-since-sliced-bread program. After the third time I’d locked up the computer, Kristen had given me blanket permission to reboot as necessary and shut her door firmly.
“Stupid computers,” I said. “Why didn’t we stick to paper and pencil? Is this really so much better?” I clicked the mouse on a property next to the school. Nothing. Whacked at the keyboard. Still nothing. “You stink.”
“Hey, I showered this morning.”
I whirled around. Pete Peterson was leaning against a filing cabinet, the label on his shirt pocket telling the world he was CLEANER THAN PETE.
“What are you doing here?” It came out snippy, but for once I didn’t apologize. I hated being watched.
“Trolling for work. City clerks know everyone.” He grinned, and I smiled back. I couldn’t help it; the man’s cheerful mien was infectious.
“Having problems?” He waved at the computer.
I glared at the hateful thing. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.” I told myself to straighten my shoulders, square my jaw, and focus. Instead, I sighed.
“Tell you what.” Pete grabbed a nearby chair. “I’ll sit over here and study the latest update from OSHA.” The stack of paper in his hand was thicker than Jenna’s math book. “If you have any questions, just holler.” He sat guy-style, crossing his ankle over the opposite knee.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“‘OSHA Regional News Release,’” Pete said in a monotone. “‘Region five. The U.S. Department of Labor’s Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) has cited MHJ Packaging with alleged serious, repeat, and willful failure to abate citations of federal workplace safety and health standards. Proposed fines . . .’”
I turned my attention back to the computer and started concentrating.
“You looking for ownership?” Pete had inched closer. I nodded. “Fastest way,” he said, “is to double-click on the parcel number.”
I tried it, and lo and behold, up came the ownership information without any need to decipher the meaning of mysterious hieroglyphics. “Hey, that’s slick. Thanks!”