Sycamore Row - John Grisham

“You have a filthy mind. I love it.”
His hand moved to her thigh but there it was blocked. The phone rang, startling both
of them. Jake walked to the kitchen, answered it, then hung up. “It’s Nesbit, outside,” he
said to her. He found a cigar and a box of matches and left the house. At the end of the
short driveway, by the mailbox, he lit the cigar and blew a cloud of smoke into the cool,
crisp evening air. A minute later, a patrol car turned onto the street and rolled to a
quiet stop near Jake. Deputy Mike Nesbit grappled his overweight self out of the car,
said, “Evenin’ Jake,” and lit a cigarette.
“Evenin’ Mike.”
Both blowing smoke, they leaned against the hood of the patrol car. Nesbit said,
“Ozzie’s found nothin’ on Hubbard. He ran a search through Jackson and came up dry.
Looks like the ol’ boy kept his toys somewhere else; ain’t no records in this state except
for his house, cars, acreage, and the lumber yard up near Palmyra. Beyond that, not a
trace. I mean nothin’. No bank accounts. No corporations. No LLCs. No partnerships. A
couple of insurance policies where you’d expect to find them, but that’s all. Rumors that
he did business in other states, but we ain’t got that far yet.”
Jake nodded and smoked. By now, he was not surprised. “And Amburgh?”
“Russell Amburgh is from Foley, Alabama, way down south close to Mobile. He was a
lawyer there until he got himself disbarred about fifteen years ago. Commingling client
funds, but no indictment. No criminal record. Freed from the legal profession, he went
into the timber business and it’s safe to assume that’s where he met Seth Hubbard. As far
as we can tell, everything’s on the up-and-up. Not sure why he moved to a dead-end
place like Temple.”
“I’m driving to Temple in the morning. I’ll ask him.”
“Good.”
An elderly couple walked by with an elderly poodle. They exchanged pleasantries
without slowing down. When they were gone, Jake blew more smoke and asked, “Any
luck with Ancil Hubbard, the brother?”
“Not a peep. Nothin’.”
“No surprise.”
“It’s funny. I’ve lived here all my life, never heard of Seth Hubbard. My dad’s eighty,
lived here all his life, and he’s never heard of Seth Hubbard.”
“There are thirty-two thousand people in this county, Mike. You can’t know all of
them.”
“Ozzie does.”
They had a quick laugh. Nesbit flipped his cigarette butt into the street and stretched
his back. “Guess I need to get home, Jake.”
“Thanks for stopping by. I’ll talk to Ozzie tomorrow.”
“You do that. See ya.”
He found Carla in the empty bedroom, sitting in a chair facing the window with a