Charles Avenue. It was a grand place: big, lots of windows, good-sized grounds. Milton had explained that the property was connected to a man that he wanted to know more about. He said that this man, name of Jackson Dubois, had met with two hoods after they had tried to put the heat on Isadora Bartholomew. Milton had prevented them from doing that, followed them to the rendezvous, and then had found Dubois’s details when he had broken into his car. There were some things that Ziggy had been able to do from the comfort of his hotel room. He had discovered that the owner of the house was a company registered in the Cayman Islands. Details on the ownership of that company were obscured by a series of blind trusts, all wrapped up in the Caymans’ obsession with anonymity. It might be Dubois, but it was impossible to say. The place had been purchased, in cash, two years previously from a local cable television executive. Ziggy had called the woman on a pretext, but he had struck out.
