The Girl and the Secret Society (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 9)

by A J Rivers

  "That girl. The one who came in and solved the crime. She seemed awful close to that Jake Logan guy. Heard rumors they were canoodling and didn't want the townsfolk to know about it. Makes you wonder what else she might have been doing with him and didn't want the townsfolk to know. Seems tied up right neat, if you ask me. Now, what was her name?"

  Dean reaches in his pocket and pulls out his credit card. Setting it on the counter, he slides it firmly toward the man with a tense smile. "It'll just be the one room. Under Dean Steele."

  I walk back out of the lobby and stand on the exposed sidewalk, trying to let the sunlight burn that conversation out of my brain. It doesn't work by the time Dean gets out to me and holds a key card out to me. I snatch it away from him.

  "Floral bedspreads and tiny jars of jam are sounding pretty good right about now, aren't they?" I mutter.

  "At least his vision is so bad I'm pretty sure he didn't even know you were standing there," Dean offers as we start walking around to the back of the motel to find our rooms.

  "Better than if he did see me and recognized me. I'm sure that would have been a lovely conversation. First time I've been accused of being an accomplice in that whole situation, though. So that's something."

  "I'm sorry about that," he sighs as we walk up to our room.

  I shake my head and wave him off. "It's fine. Really. That feels like a lifetime ago. Almost as if a different person did all that. If people want to keep telling stories about it, let them. It will keep them saying the names of the victims, so they'll never be forgotten."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dragon

  Six years ago…

  She didn't come back.

  He expected her to walk back in and ask for another invitation.

  But she didn't.

  He stood and waited in the middle of the floor. People hovered around him. Noticing him. Watching him and wondering what he was going to do. He cared only about the door.

  When it didn't open, he straightened his suit and went to his table. His drink was already waiting for him. The women were happy to see him back, and with two drinks down, he took one by the wrist and pulled her down into his lap.

  Her skirt was so short, just sitting brought it up. There was nothing between his pants and her but a string of satin. She draped an arm around his neck and flipped her hair, so it tumbled down in thick blond curls that framed slumbering eyes and waiting lips. His hand cupped her ass and slid over her hip. The other traced fingertips along the deep scoop of her neckline, over the swell of breasts as manufactured as everything else about her.

  She was beautifully crafted. Her hair, her eyelashes, her nails. Everything about her was meticulously designed for one purpose. There was nothing wrong with that. It was an art, a skill used to leverage herself exactly the way she wanted to. She was her own.

  From anyone else, it would have won her attention and affection. Anything she wanted.

  But not from him. Not that night. This woman was everything except for what mattered.

  She wasn't her.

  He gestured to Kenton, who took the woman by the hand and lifted her away from Dragon's lap. The woman left reluctantly, walking down the steps on spike heels that carried her deep into the crowd. It wouldn't be long before someone else claimed her. Before she set her sights on another man and wove herself into his attention.

  The next night he came again. And the night after. The stool at the bar stayed open. Then, finally, she came back. Ariella didn't even glance his way. She walked up to the bar and leaned against it to say something to the bartender. The bartender nodded and said something in return. Ariella repaid whatever kindness he had given her with a smile before walking towards the door again. She was leaving. She didn't even stay long enough for a single drink.

  This time, he couldn't just sit. He couldn't stay where he was. He got to his feet and gestured for his men not to follow him.

  By the time he ran out onto the sidewalk, she was already halfway down the block. She walked casually, as if there was nothing on her mind. She had no reason to hurry, no reason to linger.

  “You aren't even having a drink tonight?” he called after her.

  She turned and looked over her shoulder. Her expression revealed nothing. There was no shock. No surprise. No flicker of satisfaction or happiness that told him she was trying to lure him out. There was only acknowledgement.

  “Not tonight,” she said, then turned and continued down the sidewalk.

  Dragon wanted to turn and go back into the club, but something stopped him. Like a hook in his belly dragging him, he couldn't stay where he was. He took off after her again. When he caught up, he ran in front of her and stopped, so she had to.

  “I don't chase people,” he said.

  Her eyes drifted up and down his body. The tip of her tongue just touched her lower lip.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “What is it with you?” he asked, exasperated, exhilarated.

  “You tell me,” she said.

  She stepped aside and walked around him to continue on her way. He reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her back and against him. His hands cupped her face, his fingers plunging into her soft hair. His eyes burned into hers, and he searched for breath.

  She didn't move. One hand rested lightly on his arm as if to balance herself, but there was no pressure in it. She let herself rest in the strength of the arm gripping around her waist. He struggled for control. He struggled to drop her there and walk away, to be what everybody saw when they watched him.

  He couldn't.

  His teeth nipped at her lower lip, and a hint of breath caught in her throat. His lips brushed hers. Just enough to taste warmth and lipstick. His mouth hovered over hers, and they shared breath. Her head tilted, and their kiss melted reality.

  Chapter Twenty

  Now

  "It's just for one night," I tell Sam as I fold up the new plain black T-shirt I bought before we came to the hotel. "There are just a few weird things happening around here, and I want to look into them a little more. It doesn't make sense to drive all the way back to Sherwood, then come back here in the morning.”

  “No, it doesn't,” he acknowledges. “It's better to have you there. But I'll miss seeing you tonight.”

  “I'll miss you, too. Is there anything interesting going on back home?”

  “Not really,” he sighs. “Same old things. Bianca wants us to go up to the community center next week. She came by the station today to pick up those coloring books for the kids, and she told me there's going to be a pre-opening reception at the center. She wants us to be there.”

  "Well, I'd think so. Considering you're going to be doing that safety program there."

  "And you gave the donation that made it happen," he says.

  "She doesn't know that was me," I point out. "According to her, a nice man named Eli made that donation. But that sounds like fun. I'm looking forward to seeing it."

  I drop down onto the end of the bed and let out a sigh.

  "You don't sound like you're looking forward to it," Sam observes.

  "It's not that. I'm just thinking about all this stuff. We found out nothing new about Mason Goldman or his wife, other than that they were perfectly pleasant and dull. But then this thing about Lakyn Monroe drops."

  "It's like her case is chasing you."

  "Then maybe I should stop running from it," I tell him.

  "Are you going to?"

  "Why do you think I'm sitting in a motel room circa 1952 that I'm sharing with Dean, so the clerk didn't hear my name and think he was renting to a serial killer?" I ask.

  "What?"

  "Never mind."

  "Nothing is coincidental, Emma. Just remember that. Look for the simplest answer," he says.

  "That always works out so well for me. This time the simplest answer feels like a crime that isn't a crime at all."

  "You still think she did this herself?" Sam asks.

  "I t
hink it's a strong possibility. I just can't see another way for things to add up. It's just too strange. Like you said, nothing is coincidental. When it seems like it is, somebody’s doing something on purpose. I don't think somebody happened to see Lakyn at that bank, or that she was accidentally caught on the security camera. She wanted to be seen."

  "And the picture of her license plate?" Sam asks.

  "What better way to give an anonymous tip that will confuse people?" I stand back up and grab the bag off the bed to take to the bathroom. "Look, I know I'm in the minority here. But I'm not just going on feeling. This isn't some inspiration from the universe that's telling me she walked away. I'm looking at the evidence, and right now, it looks like she fabricated her disappearance."

  "Why would she do that?" he asks.

  I line up the toothpaste and toothbrush I bought, along with a new brush, ponytail holders, and a small assortment of makeup. It's a whole new morning factory-sealed and ready for action.

  "To give herself options. There's no clear indication that she's dead. Her car hasn't been found. No blood. No ransom note. Nothing like that. Which means there's still the possibility of her coming back. As I said, she might just be fed up with the life of an internet celebrity and want something else. But she's very aware that things don't always work out the way they're planned. She wants to be ready in case she doesn't find herself loving life off the grid. If she faked her death, she wouldn't be able to come back."

  "But if she just faked a disappearance…"

  "Then she could have her triumphant return. Complete with suppressed memories and heroic story of survival," I say.

  "What do you have against this girl?" he asks.

  I slap the light switch down and head back into the rest of the room. "I don't have anything against her. I barely know who she is. I just feel as if she's putting a whole lot of effort into getting away for a while. Maybe it's time people just let her.”

  “What does Dean think about all this?” Sam asks.

  “He's not talking about it a whole lot. He noticed a lot of the same strange things I did about the bank and the manager, but he's focusing on his own case. I told him I'm being open-minded and want to help him find this guy. He knows more about the case than I do, so if he doesn't think he's dead, that's what we're going to go on. So, tomorrow, we're going to talk to a few people on the same street as the bank and see if we can get any information about who might have taken that picture and sent in the anonymous tip. I'll share my theories with the detective and his team. Then they can keep going with it while Dean and I get back to Mason Goldman.”

  “And that's what you want?” he asks.

  “What else would I want?” I ask.

  He is quiet for a second in that way he is when he wants me to think about something. This time, though, nothing comes to mind. The door opens and Dean comes in, carrying an armful of snacks and drinks.

  "Hey," he says.

  "Dean just got back from pillaging the vending machine," I tell Sam. "I think we're going to—"

  "Turn on the TV," Dean says.

  "What?" I ask.

  "Turn on the TV."

  I grab the remote beside me and hit the power button. The set takes a few seconds to warm into life, but when it does, the image makes my heart drop. Firefighters stand at the side of the road, spraying something blackened among the tall grass. The camera angle doesn't give a full view of what they're dousing, but it doesn't need to. I've seen it before. I know exactly what it is.

  A reporter looks stoic as she reads the teleprompter with cold, even professionalism.

  "Footage from earlier shows local firefighters putting out a blaze they initially thought was the beginnings of a wildfire caused by burning leaves. When the worst of the fire was extinguished, however, they discovered a badly charred corpse. Initial investigation shows the fire originated with the corpse. Further work must be done to determine if the person was dead or alive at the time the fire was set. Despite the extensive damage to the body, a wallet was found nearby containing identification. The name is being withheld pending notification of the next of kin, but officials will confirm this may be linked to the case of a more than year-old missing person case."

  "What is it?" Sam asks.

  "We might not have to look for Mason Goldman anymore."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “You don't seem to be understanding what I'm trying to say to you. Nobody can get in touch with his wife,” Dean says.

  We've been at the local police precinct for over an hour trying to get someone to listen to us, but we've been shuffled and relocated from place to place. No one seems to have any interest in what Dean has to say. But he's not giving up. Another officer comes to the counter and looks at the one Dean has been talking to with an unpleasant, questioning expression.

  "What's going on here?" he asks.

  "This man is trying to get information about the charred body," the officer says.

  "No," Dean retorts. "If you will just listen to me for ten seconds."

  "Agent Griffin?" I look to the side and see Detective White come through a door leading into a long hallway. He looks between Dean and me. "What are you doing here?"

  "Noah, thank goodness. Maybe you can help us," I say, walking toward him.

  "What's going on?"

  "Remember at the bank earlier when I introduced you to my cousin?" I ask.

  He nods. "Of course. Dean, the PI. How are you doing this evening?"

  Dean looks over at him with an angry expression. "Not great."

  "I told you I'm helping him on an investigation into a missing person who has an account at the bank."

  "Right."

  "The missing person is Mason Goldman," I say.

  There's a second where he tries to think of the significance, then recognition flickers over his eyes.

  "The body found burned by the side of the road?" he asks.

  "So, that is the name found on the identification," I double down.

  Dean looks over, then jogs the few steps to us. "It's him?"

  Noah holds up a hand to stop us. "I shouldn't have even said that. The identity has not been made public and can't be until the next of kin is notified."

  "That's what I'm trying to tell people," Dean says. “His next-of-kin is his wife. Eleanor Goldman.”

  “Yes,” he says. “We know. We've been trying to get in touch with her.”

  “Exactly. Everybody has. That's part of my investigation,” Dean tells him.

  Noah looks at me.

  “He can explain better than me,” I say.

  “Mason Goldman married Eleanor one week before he disappeared. Nobody knows anything about her. No one in his life has ever heard of her, seen her, met her, or had any indication that Mason was involved with anybody. She has practically no paper trail or anything that I’ve ever found. The only way I found out that he was married was through the bank account. It was opened in Eleanor's name, with Mason's attached to it. Since very soon after the account was opened, nobody's been able to get in touch with Mason. He hasn't been seen or heard from in over a year. But the account has been kept active. Just recently, his wife showed up at the bank. Her actions there were fairly suspicious, and she left as suddenly as she came. Since then, no one has been able to reach either one of them,” Dean explains.

  "How is this not being formally investigated more extensively?" Noah asks. "The only way we knew he was missing was finding him on a database."

  Dean's eyebrows furrow. "A database? That doesn't make any sense. The whole reason I got involved in the case is that his ex, the mother of his child, didn't want to get the law involved. She didn't really get into it, but she said she wanted to handle it on her own. He was never officially reported missing. When I heard on the news that it was a missing persons case, I assumed someone had already gotten in touch with Debra. But as she isn't the next of kin, it wasn't an official notification."

  "No," Noah shakes his head. "No one has contacted his ex
." He looks around. "Come with me."

  He leads us out of the open area and through the door into the hallway. We walk briskly to a conference room, and he closes the door behind us. Glancing around, I notice whiteboards and bulletin boards positioned around the cluttered table in the middle. This is his war room.

  Another officer is sitting at the table, looking through pictures. His head snaps up when we walk in.

  "Detective," he says.

  "Belmont, this is Agent Emma Griffin from the FBI, and Dean Steele, a private investigator. They may have information about the burned body," Noah says, cutting him off before he says anything else.

  "The notification still hasn't been made," Officer Belmont says, lowering his voice just slightly, as if he's telling Noah something he doesn't know and doesn't want to embarrass him.

  "I know. Agent Griffin and Mr. Steele are involved in the investigation of Mason Goldman's disappearance."

  "He mentioned a database," I say. "We're trying to figure out what that means."

  Noah nods. "When the body was found and the identification taken out of the wallet, we had to try to figure out who it was. There were no missing persons reports in this area with that name, so we expanded the search. It brought up a database that listed Mason Goldman."

  He crosses to a laptop sitting on the table and clicks a few commands before turning the screen toward us. I lean against the table to look at the screen.

  "This isn't maintained by law enforcement. It's not an official database,” I note.

  “No,” Belmont says. “It's not. It's maintained by a civilian group that raises awareness about missing people and other unsolved crimes. People with a particular interest in justice gather information and post it here. Others can then read about it, make comments, add their own evidence, and try to find the missing or break the cases."

  I shake my head. "It's crowdsourcing for solving crimes."