by A J Rivers
"What was she doing with the safe deposit box?" I ask.
Dean shrugs. "They don't know. There are cameras outside the vault that monitor who actually goes in to access the boxes, but none in the room with them. It's considered a privacy issue. They are personal boxes, so they don't monitor the contents."
"That seems bizarrely trusting."
"One thing you would learn quickly if you became a private investigator is that the world becomes extremely trusting when you have money," he says.
"The Bureau taught me that just fine," I assure him. "Money has an annoying habit of making some people shady as hell, yet no one wants to question them. It makes for some bad stuff. Anyway, what else? Have you been able to contact him or anything?"
"No. Everybody is still trying to get in touch with him. They even called his wife, but she didn't answer. No surprise there, though. She has no documentation, no history, nothing I can find. I would have thought she was fictional after all if she hadn’t actually shown up in person and produced ID."
"And no one thought to ask her about her missing husband? This previously unseen woman just comes wandering into the bank on an apparent checkup mission, and it doesn't cross anyone's mind to beckon her off to the side and ask where the hell her husband has been for the last several months?"
"What do you think she was going to say? 'I'm sorry he hasn't been around recently; he's just been too busy living his secret double life'?"
"Unless she killed him," I point out.
"Is that always where your mind goes first?" he asks.
I scoff. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. It's just my personal experience with you that your mind goes to murder a little faster than it might for other people," he says.
"Well, considering you and I met on a train studded with corpses while I was still trying to escape a serial killer trying to destroy me and everyone around me, I think your perception might be skewed."
"That's a fair point. But in this situation, you might be jumping to conclusions. There is no evidence to point to her murdering him,” Dean says.
“Except for the fact that nobody has heard from him or seen him in months and months now. And she just randomly shows up for a couple of suspicious bank errands?” I ask.
“That doesn't mean she killed him,” he argues.
“I mean, think about it,” I point out. “If Sam goes mysteriously missing one day, and I show up a few weeks later and clean out all his bank accounts and then go off the grid, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to presume I probably killed him.”
“It could be blackmail, couldn’t it?”
“It could be. But if I had to go to all that trouble to blackmail Sam, wouldn’t it make more sense to just kill him?”
Just at that moment, the door opens, and Sam walks in, an inscrutable expression on his face.
Chapter Five
“I wish I could say it surprises me that this is the kind of conversation I would walk in on the two of you having, but it doesn't,” he sighs with a bemused grin. “You Griffins are the worst.”
“Hey, honey,” I say. “I promise I won’t kill you. There's another pizza for you in the kitchen. Mushrooms, onions, and bacon.”
“My favorites,” he smiles, leaning down and dropping a kiss to the top of my head. “Hey, Dean.”
Dean stands up, and they clasp hands and pound each other on the back.
“Good to see you,” Dean says. “I decided to surprise my cousin here with a visit.”
"Good to see you, too. You going to be hanging out for a while?" Sam asks.
"I haven't decided for sure how long, but it should be for a few days. Emma hasn't told me when she'll kick me out."
"Well, as of right now, I'm not working on a case actively. Eric has me consulting for one of his minor investigations, but it isn't much. So, I'm kind of floating with the wind right now. "
"I'm going to grab some pizza," Sam announces. “Can you at least wait to murder-slash-blackmail me until I’ve eaten?” He heads into the kitchen, barely hiding his laughter.
"So, that's why you're looking for murder," Dean turns to me.
"I'm not looking for murder," I insist.
It's not the first time I've had someone accuse me of that recently, and unfortunately, I'm certain it's not the last time it's going to happen. Some people search for love or fortune. Apparently, I search for brutal crimes. At least, that's how the people closest to me perceive me. In some contexts, they seem to think it's a compliment about my devotion to my career. But no matter what the context, it feels like an insult.
"Okay, for real, what murder?" Sam asks, coming back into the room with the entire pizza box. “It’s not actually me, is it?”
"You went for some pizza and came back with the whole thing?" I raise an eyebrow.
"No. There are two slices on a plate in the kitchen." He sits down on the couch as Dean moves over onto the chair. "What murder are you talking about?"
"You remember the case Dean was working on a few months ago. Before I went on vacation,” I say.
“Yeah,” Sam nods. “The one about the missing man with the fake wife.”
“Right,” I tell him. “Now, it's been another three months and still no one has seen or heard from him. Everybody's been trying to get into contact with him but can't. Then, all of a sudden, his mysterious wife, who nobody was able to track down and who nobody knows anything about, just shows up at the bank.”
“That’s… unusual.”
“Yeah. He started that bank account,” I remind him. “Before he disappeared, he put money in and then it came out and then it went back in. It was really confusing, and it was also how people figured out that he's married, even though nobody knew. But the thing is, nobody knows anything about his wife.”
“I’m still convinced she’s fake. He made her up for… some reason,” Sam muses. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen it. Some of these people get really creative with the Internet these days.”
“But that’s the thing. Usually, when someone makes up a fake persona, there’s at least an attempt at a paper trail. All I've been able to find is a marriage certificate that shows they did get married a week before he vanished,” Dean says. “But that's it.”
“No personal records that show where she's been in life before now?” Sam asks.
“I got a redacted birth certificate. That’s it,” Dean says. “You’ve got to be able to prove some sort of tangible stake and a reason for needing the record in order to get a full version. Usually, that means family. So, all I've had to go on is knowing they're married. I have her name, birthday, basic identifying information.”
“Right, but no one had ever seen her,” I say. “Or talked to her, or employed her, or went to school with her, or knew where she grew up, or anything. Then, all of a sudden, months after people are trying to track this man down, she just walks into the bank? And all she did was check the balance of the account and then go spend five minutes with a security deposit box.”
“Less than three minutes, actually,” Dean says.
I gesture toward him, making my point. “Exactly. That's even stranger. Nobody cornered this woman and asked where her husband is. And he's still missing.”
"Well, not really," Sam says.
"What do you mean, not really?" I ask.
"Just because some people in his life don't know where he is doesn't mean he's missing. You know that. He's an adult. He can come and go as he pleases, and if he wants to fall off the face of the planet, that's his right. As long as he hasn't committed a crime, isn't wanted for questioning or for a warrant, and doesn't have any outstanding bills or other obligations, no one really has the absolute right to know where he is. And since his wife is the next of kin legally, if she doesn't consider him missing, then he's technically not."
"Except that the mother of his child can't find him. And neither can his friends. Or his parents. Or anyone else he has carried on relationships with throughout h
is entire life," I reply. "I understand what you're saying from a legal perspective. Yes, he's an adult. He can run away if he wants to. But you can't possibly think this is just a normal thing. That this seemingly perfectly normal man just up and decided to abandon his entire life, marry a woman no one has ever heard of, and sink into absolute obscurity."
“Just because it isn't something that happens all the time doesn't mean it isn't normal,” Sam shrugs.
I stare at him incredulously for a few seconds. “Actually, that's exactly what it means. As in, by definition.”
“What I mean is maybe we don't have the entire story. Dean's working for people who have a vested interest in finding him, right?” Sam asks.
Dean nods and swallows another swig of beer. “The mother of his child is planning to take him to court. There's no child support order in place, but she wants to have the courts force him to pay for college expenses when the boy is old enough to go.”
“See,” Sam says. “She has a very specific reason for wanting him found.”
“So, you're saying it's perfectly logical for him to just stop contacting people, not answer phone calls or mail, and not be seen for months on end?” I ask.
“No. What I'm saying is there may be other reasons at play for him to want to keep a low profile. It's odd, don't get me wrong. But it doesn't necessarily mean there's something awful going on. He could have just left and decided to start a new life,” Sam says. “Like I said. People get up to weird shit on the Internet. Maybe he’s off bitcoin farming in Costa Rica or something.”
“I guess,” I say. “It just doesn't sit right with me. Why would his wife need to go into the bank to check the balance of the account? She could just do that online. And going to the security deposit box for less than three minutes? What could she possibly be doing?”
“Putting something in it,” Sam offers. “It doesn't take long to open one of those boxes, put something inside, and leave.”
“It still seems as if someone should do a wellness check on him or something," I say.
“Where would they even go to check? He’s missing,” Sam points out.
“Fair.”
"To make sure he hasn't been murdered?" Dean asks. "Why didn't you jump to that conclusion about Lakyn Monroe?"
"That's a different situation," I tell him. "I don't know what to think about her. She's a flash-in-the-pan celebrity. Even you said her star was starting to lose its shine. From what I gather about those kinds of internet-based celebrities, they can make a lot of money pretty fast if they gather up enough followers. She would have started making good money on those videos, then that parlayed over into TV. If she was at all smart with her money, she probably has a fortune built up. It's possible she really did just scoop up everything and go into obscurity because she had the means. Speaking of which, they said something about bank account activity."
"Right," Dean says. "The reports about her disappearance are really just starting to come out. People have noticed, obviously, since she hasn't been active on any of her social media or making any appearances. But the authorities have only just recently made it public. One of the details they've shared is that they have been able to track her movements for almost a week after that taping. It was the last time she was seen, but money moved around in her bank accounts for six days after that."
"Moved around?" Sam asks.
"Purchases, paying bills, a few withdrawals, a couple of wire transfers. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"But that in of itself is shady," I say. "The girl vaporizes in a production lot, makes no posts, no texts, no phone calls. But keeps paying her bills and moving money?"
"So, what do you think happened?" Dean asks.
"I don't know. She could be just trying to get out while she was still relevant, so she doesn't have to deal with the embarrassment of becoming washed up. Or it could have to do with her getting involved with the prisoners. She gets too friendly with one, and when they get out, they have the wrong idea about the relationship?"
"Or the right idea," Sam says. "Who's to say it isn't both scenarios? She falls in love with one of the prisoners she's helping, or one she met while helping someone else. She finds out he's getting released. Knowing it would cause an uproar and make people question her integrity, she decides to take what she can get her hands on and go live with him somewhere obscure where she'll go unnoticed but can live like a queen."
"Anyway," I say, putting up my hands to signal I'm getting out of the conversation. "That's its own thing. There are people on it. For now, Dean's case is right here in front of us."
"Wow," Sam says, sounding impressed. "Emma Griffin turning her back on a mystery?"
"I'm not turning my back on anything," I protest. "I never had my… front to it." I contemplate that for a second before moving on. "The point is, I'm trying to stay focused. As my dear cousin and my darling partner have decided to repeatedly point out to me, people are under the impression I look for murder. That I stick myself into things and get wrapped up where I don't belong."
"We never said that exactly," Dean says.
"Nope, it's fine. This time, I'm staying out of it. Lakyn Monroe will surface. The money she squirreled away will run out. Or the guy she hooked up with will run out. Either way, she'll show back up, have a heyday revival, then settle into mediocrity. So, that's over there. Right here is your case. Mr. Missing. You don't think his wife murdered him, so let's find him."
"After Janet's birthday party," Sam says.
"What?"
"Janet's birthday party," he repeats. "It's tonight. You're making her cake."
"Damn it.
Chapter Six
Dragon
Six years ago …
No.
It was just that simple.
No.
He didn't know how to process a response like that. Kenton came back from the bar and told him the woman said no. He gave the same message he always gave. The Dragon has invited you to his table.
It was an invitation that usually got an immediate response. Those words had power. They held sway like a puppet string. When they were spoken, the person who heard them was immediately under his control. Usually, it was a woman he wanted to share a little time with. Sometimes a man he wanted to talk business with. And sometimes they were a confrontation, an act of war.
But they always brought what he wanted. Until tonight. Until her.
She’d had no hesitation in rejecting him. There wasn't a moment of thought or a single second when it seemed she questioned the decision. Kenton extended the invitation, and she turned it down. Not offended. Not angry.
Just “no”.
For the next three days, he haunted the club. He came and felt the eyes on him. He sat at his table and watched. He waited. Women walked past and lingered just beyond the velvet rope, offering themselves to whatever he wanted. But he barely saw them. Almost all had been brought up on the platform before. When he’d sent Kenton to invite them, they’d said yes. But not her. She’d said no.
And so he waited.
On the fourth night, she was there. Again, he walked into the club, went to his table, and sent Kenton for her. And again, she said no. Anger crept up inside him at the rejection as he watched her leave. But there was something else that counteracted the edge of the anger. Curiosity.
Over the next few nights, he prowled the streets. There was work to be done. Money in others' pockets that belonged in his. He had people and products to move.
But when he was done, he went back to the club. And she was there a third time.
He noticed nothing around him, none of the people who watched him without breath in their lungs. His eyes only saw one thing. The bar in front of him, and her sitting at it. Long, bright red fingernails. Fingertip swirling around the glass rim, making his body react.
He gave a single nod in her direction, and Kenton stepped out from behind him. By the time Dragon got to the table, Kenton was standing beside her. He watched her body language.
She didn't seem bothered Kenton was there. She didn't sigh or try to look away. Instead, she glanced at him like she was already anticipating his arrival. They had a single exchange, and Kenton returned to the table without her.
"She said 'no', sir," he said.
Dragon drew in a breath. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the top of the table as he stared at her. He should be angry. Nobody rejected him. Nobody questioned what he wanted. If they did, the consequences were swift and intense.
There was something different about her. He couldn't let it go.
He got up and started for the steps leading down from the platform. Kenton and Marcus stepped in line behind him, but he lifted a hand to stop them. They stayed back and watched as he walked across the club to the bar. He stepped up beside her, but she barely paid attention, as if she almost didn't notice he was there.
Now so close, he could smell the citrus on her skin. The effect of one finger sweeping over the smooth edge of her glass was stronger when he could see the slope of her hand. When she’d caught his attention the last time, her clothing was outrageous, and her stance resistant. Now she was different, but it held his attention even more. Her simple black dress cut across her collarbones and nipped in at her waist but spread around her thighs in a drape of soft fabric that exposed long legs and shoes that drove him to the edge.
“Hello,” he said.
Wide green eyes slid over to him.
“Hello,” she replied.
“How are you this evening?” he asked.
“Fine.”
He gave a short laugh.
“Do you know who I am?”
She took a sip of her drink, and her eyes roamed over him without urgency.
“Should I?”
“Everybody knows who I am,” he said.
“I must have missed the memo.”
She took another sip, draining the glass down until there was only a small amount left. He nodded toward it.