Chapter 43

Prescott Property Management was located downtown, on Auburn Avenue. Auburn Avenue, known as “Sweet Auburn,” was a stretch of roadway that once had been called “the richest Negro street in the world.” In the segregated, pre-Civil Rights era, it had been a showcase for black-owned financial institutions, churches, markets, professionals, entertainers, and politicians.

After desegregation allowed black businesses to spread across the metro area, the money left, and economic turmoil settled in for a decades-long stay. In the past several years, however, as urban revitalization projects swept the city, Auburn Avenue was on the upswing, too, with new office buildings, mixed-use developments, and houses springing up regularly.

Joshua swung his Explorer into the parking lot beside the company’s office. He hadn’t called ahead of time to ask about Rachel. He doubted they would share anything about her business over the phone with a stranger. He wanted to talk with them face to face, feel them out, and figure out the best way to get the information he wanted.

Wind slashed at his face as he trudged toward the building. The mottled gray sky spat an icy drizzle that weather forecasters predicted would soon become a full-fledged winter storm. Joshua hoped to conclude his business downtown and get home before conditions worsened, because everyone knew Atlantans couldn’t drive in bad weather.

Prescott Property Management operated out of a one-story, red brick building, sandwiched between a law firm and a realtor’s office. An “Open” sign hung on the glass entrance.

Inside, there was a small waiting area, and a receptionist, a grandmotherly black woman, at a front desk. Behind her, there was a work area with a black woman and a black man sitting at cubicle-style desks, and an enclosed office in which the woman whose photo he’d seen on their Web site was talking on the phone.

“Good morning, young man,” the receptionist said. “How may I help you?”

Joshua cleared his throat. He’d been hoping to fabricate a plausible story he could use to uncover clues about Rachel, but nothing had come to mind. “I’d like to talk to someone about managing a rental property of mine.”

“Certainly. What is your name?”

“Joshua Moore.”

She slid a clipboard and pencil across the desk to him. The clipboard bore a sheet of white paper that listed questions about his property.

“Please complete this form, Mr. Moore. Mrs. Prescott will be with you shortly.”

Joshua sat in the waiting area and skimmed the questionnaire. It asked for his property address, whether it was a single-family home, condo, duplex, or town house; whether it was currently leased; the rent that he charged or wished to charge; if he ever intended to use the property himself; and other questions.

Reading through the inquiries failed to give him any ideas. He twirled the pencil in his fingers, glanced around the waiting area. Photographs of properties for rent were tacked to the walls, but none of them sparked inspiration.

“Mr. Moore?” a woman asked, startling him. It was LaVosha Prescott. She strode toward him, smartly dressed in a green business suit and black pumps. She offered a professional smile and extended her hand.

“Hi.” Joshua stood, dropping the clipboard in his haste. He picked it up, and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You can give that to me,” she said. “Have you filled it out yet?”

“Not exactly.”

“No problem. We’ll review everything in my office. Follow me, please.”

In her office, he took one of the leather wingback chairs in front of her desk. On the desktop, she had a photo of a handsome man that he took to be her husband, and a shot of a young girl that was probably her daughter. No pictures that gave him any clues.

LaVosha sat in a high-backed executive chair and laced her fingers on the burnished oak desk. “Tell me about your property, Mr. Moore.”

“It’s a place that my wife and I own jointly, actually,” he said, wondering where the lie came from. “She’s already had dealings with your company. I was dropping by to check up on things.”

LaVosha gave him a quizzical look. “And your wife’s name is?”

The office had been pleasantly warm, but it suddenly felt like a furnace to Joshua. He was no good at lying. “Rachel. Rachel Moore. I think she called you earlier this week?”

LaVosha’s expression was guarded. “Yes, she did call me.”

The woman didn’t offer anything else. Why? What had Rachel said to her? Had she warned this woman about him?

“Rachel sort of kept me in the dark about the property,” he said. “Matter of fact, it was all her idea to buy it. I wasn’t involved in the purchase. It’s not until recently that I found out that your company was managing the place.”

“We may be.”

Joshua nervously pushed up his glasses on his nose. Why was this woman stonewalling him?

“I’d appreciate anything you can tell me about your business arrangement with Rachel,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything, Mr. Moore. My dealings with your wife are confidential.”

“Is that your company policy, or is that by her request?”

“Does it matter?”

“Please, Mrs. Prescott. This is important. I mean, this could be a matter of life and death—I’m not exaggerating. I need to know where my wife has gone, for her safety.”

LaVosha shook her head. “Mr. Moore, you’re asking me to divulge information that my client explicitly asked me to keep confidential. I can’t jeopardize her trust. It would be unethical, and I don’t do business that way.”

“But I have to help her!”

LaVosha pushed back from her desk, eyebrows arched. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that . . . you’re my only hope here. Her ex-husband is stalking her. If he finds her, I won’t be there to protect her. I think he already tried to kill her once.”

“If it’s a matter of life or death, why don’t you call the police?”

“They can’t help us. I don’t even know where this guy is—all I know is that he’s looking for Rachel.”

“Which means that the fewer people who know where she’s staying, the better.” LaVosha pressed her lips together and rose from her chair. “I’m sorry, Mr. Moore. I can’t help you.”

“I don’t believe this.” Slumped forward, Joshua removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you tell me anything?”

LaVosha crossed her arms, sighed. She glanced at the photos of her family on her desk, and her gaze softened when she turned back to Joshua.

“I can tell you that Rachel loves her property dearly,” she said. “It’s been . . . a part of her for a very long time.”

His gut tightened. She had given him a significant clue. He would have to mull it over to decipher her full meaning, but it was more information than he’d had when he arrived at the office, and if he could figure it out, just might lead him to the truth.

“Thank you,” he said.