A parcel in the area known as Blue Ridge, had been signed over from one limited partnership to another. For the four partners in the first group, there was a document connecting each to Chasie Mason. Five months after they had bought the land for $27,000, their partnership signed over the property to the Elva Partnership. Two of the three men in that enterprise were executives in a Baton Rouge law firm that represented various Mason businesses. Three months after that, the Hanovers bought the land for $20,000. Addis held a copy of the purchase agreement in his hand. It was signed by Bob and Margaret. A year-and-a-half later, they sold the land to a development firm for $153,000. The corporate secretary for the development firm was the owner of a construction company that had subcontracted for Mason’s construction business on several state projects. The batch included a one-page consulting agreement between Griffith and an entity called First State Holding Company. It called for Griffith to provide unidentified services on a “periodic basis” for a “per-project fee.” The vice president of First State, according to a page from a legal deposition, was a corporate officer of the development firm that had bought the land from the Hanovers and an investor in a dog track, of which Chasie Mason controlled the majority interest. First State, then, had been part of the seemingly endless Chasie Mason daisy chain. The consulting agreement meant that Griffith, when he was the Hanover’s accountant, had been on Chasie’s payroll. That made him an all-too credible source.

Addis checked the dates of the transactions. The deal began shortly after Jack was born.

No reasonable person, he thought, could avoid the obvious conclusion. The papers were clear. Except on one point: what Bob and Margaret Hanover had known about it. Hynes-Pierce had unearthed a damn good story. Now Griffith was dead—one more body—and Addis had what might be the only set of documents that proved the story. For a moment, he felt like calling Hynes-Pierce and offering him the whole god-damn file. Sleaze to sleaze, he said to himself. Get all of it off my desk. Over and done with. But the urge passed.

He went to the suite next to his office. He ran the pages through the copier and returned to his office. He put one set in a manila envelope, another in the folder with the records he already possessed on the land deal. He scribbled “Pension Reform” on the tab of the folder. The Blue Ridge assignment was done.

But, he wondered, whose land had it been before all this? That piece was missing. He picked up the phone, dialed directory assistance in Rapides Parish, and asked for the parish clerk’s number. He called and was transferred.

“Office of Records,” a woman said.

“Hello. I’m calling from St. Louis, and I’m interested in checking who was on the deed for a certain property in the parish”