A Welcome Grave Read Online Free PDF Page A

driver’s license had expired three years earlier, when Jefferson was twenty-six. He was twenty-nine now, and the last computer record I could find on him put him in Bloomington, Indiana. Therewere several addresses for him in that town, all apartments. Bloomington was home to Indiana University. Maybe Matthew Jefferson had gone to school there.
    Amy Ambrose had once provided me with a great link to newspaper Web sites all around the country. I went to that page now and tracked down a student newspaper for Indiana University, ran a search for Matthew Jefferson, and got a few pages of results. There was a Matt Jefferson who appeared to be something of a track star, and then a reference from several years earlier to a Matthew Jefferson who’d won a few academic honors at the law school. In one, his hometown was listed beside his name: Pepper Pike, Ohio.
    “Got ya, Matt.”
    I ran a check through the Indiana and Ohio bar associations, as well as two national databases, and couldn’t find an indication that the Matt Jefferson I was looking for had ever taken up the practice of law.
    Next I put his Social Security number through Ohio Department of Motor Vehicle records, and got nothing but the expired license. Surprised, but not concerned, I tried a live credit header search. Contrary to popular belief, private investigators can’t access personal credit reports, but we do have access to the “headers,” a portion of the credit report that includes the address and the reporting date. If you apply for a credit card, a loan, or anything else along those lines, at least one of the major credit bureaus tracks the date and the address you use. Matthew Jefferson’s Social Security number generated an address match in Indiana, for a town called Nashville, reported six times in the last few years.
    I pulled a road atlas out and flipped through it until I found the Indiana map. Nashville was a small town in Brown County, maybe a five- or six-hour drive from Cleveland.
    “I suppose I’ll make the trip,” I said aloud. “There’s certainly enough money in the budget.”
    I laughed at that, but nobody laughed with me. I was talking to myself more regularly, particularly in the office. Sometimes, like when I laughed at my own jokes and no one joined in, it wasn’t that different from having Joe around, at all.
    The phone rang, and I answered on speakerphone.
    “Turn that thing off—it makes you sound like you’re in a cave,” Amy Ambrose said.
    “I only turn it on for certain callers. People I know will talk so long I’ll get a neck cramp if I actually hold the phone.”
    “Hilarious. Joe back yet?”
    “No,” I said, and some of the humor went out of my voice. “No, and he’s given no indication of when he thinks he will be. To be honest, today I was about to ask him if he ever will come back. I’m not sure anymore.”
    “You should have asked.”
    “Probably.” It was quiet for a moment, and then I changed the subject. “Hey, what are you doing the next two days?”
    “Writing great stories, per the norm.”
    I’d first met Amy when she was working on a newspaper story about a murdered high school student who’d been a member at my gym. After a contentious start, we’d become friends, and now she joined Joe in the small circle of people I trusted completely.
    “Any of those stories crucial?” I asked.
    “Not particularly. Why?”
    “Take a road trip with me. Scenic southern Indiana.”
    “Ugh.”
    “Come on, corn is gorgeous this time of year. Supposed to make the ladies swoon.”
    “I see. So this means you’re finally taking it up a notch, proposing romantic road trips instead of making sophomoric remarks about my ass?”
    “I was thinking of a package approach.”
    She hesitated. “Are you serious about this?”
    “Absolutely. I’ve got a client throwing tens of thousands of dollars at me to locate a missing heir. Hell, I can probably bill you out as a subcontractor. I’ll let you contribute