by Dani Pettrey
“Why wouldn’t he tell us that?” Rissi asked.
“I have no idea.” Paul shrugged. “Now,” he said, standing, “I’ve got to get back to work. It was nice chatting with you all.”
Amber arrived with their fresh-catch mahi-mahi tacos with mango slaw layered on top.
“Thanks,” Rissi said.
Noah said a blessing over lunch, and they dug in.
“What’s the latest with you?” Noah asked Logan.
Logan set down his glass of water, perspiration drizzling down the outside of the glass. “Emmy and I have been running Marv’s records. Me on financials, and Emmy his home phone and cell.”
“And?” He took a sip of his drink.
“I discovered Marv has an offshore account in the Bahamas with several hundred thousand in it.”
He gulped the remainder of his drink down. “Marv?”
“Yep.”
“Any idea where the money came from?”
“Litman Limited deposited a hundred thousand a little over a month ago and another large deposit went in yesterday.”
“Seriously?” Noah looked to Rissi. “I’d say our case connection is definitely established.”
With a nod, Logan continued, “The deposit was made yesterday late afternoon, about twenty minutes after Marv placed a call, and ten minutes later that same person called Marv back.”
“Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”
Logan cleared his throat. “He called Mo.”
fifty-one
Rissi tried to wrap her mind around all the facts. First, they’d been told two conflicting stories of what occurred during John Layton’s wreck dive—one from Genevieve Layton and one from a very defensive Marv. Not long after the dive, Layton died, and then minutes later an explosion shredded the stern section of the Calliope, causing everyone aboard to abandon ship before it sank.
Then after returning home, Marv called Mo. That in itself wasn’t all that unusual, given what had just occurred and the fact that Mo was his boss and friend of many years, but the timing of what had to be illegal funds being deposited into Marv’s offshore account shortly after the phone exchanges between Marv and Mo was too curious to ignore.
Noah asked Logan and Emmalyne to pull Mo’s financial and phone records while he and Rissi headed out to once again press Mo on his story.
Fifteen minutes later, Rissi and Noah hopped down from his Jeep and approached Mo’s front porch. Rissi cocked her head to the side, following the sound of water spraying. “I think he’s around back.”
They stepped around to the rear of the house, which sat directly on the ocean, and headed to the dock.
Mo was washing off the exterior of a burgundy-and-white Tahoe fishing boat.
Mo’s gaze tracked up to them. “Hey, darling.” He cut off the hose and reeled it up as they stepped onto the deck. “How you guys doing today?”
Rissi waited for Noah to begin the conversation.
“We need to ask you a few questions,” he said.
“About Calliope?” Mo swiped his damp hands across his flowered board shorts. “Sure.”
“Actually, about Marv,” Noah said.
Mo’s gray-tinged brows furrowed. “What about Marv?”
“Can we talk at the table?” Noah asked, gesturing to the black wrought-iron patio table and chairs situated on the terraced brick patio.
“All right.” Mo followed him up the well-worn path that snaked through the grass up to the patio.
Noah pulled a chair out for Rissi, then took a chair for himself.
Dark clouds filled the recently blue sky. The dense air held the fresh scent of rain’s imminent return.
Mo rested his hands on the table and intertwined his calloused fingers.
Rissi eyed the scrapes and bruises along his knuckles.
“What happened to your hands?” she asked.
“What?” Mo lifted his hands, inspecting them. “Huh. Hadn’t noticed. Must have been during the evac.”
Not knowing all that occurred during the evacuation, Rissi couldn’t be totally sure, but those scrapes and bruises looked far more like . . . like someone had been struggling to break free of his hold.
Noah got straight to it. “Marv called you yesterday afternoon. What did you two talk about?”
Everything they’d discovered today tossed violently through the storm emerging in Rissi’s mind.
Irritation sparked in Mo’s eyes, as if the answer ought to be obvious. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Noah said with an edge of authority. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
Mo bristled. “We talked about the explosion, the evac, about losing a passenger and the Calliope.”
“Let’s focus on losing John Layton,” Noah said.
“All right.”
“What did Marv tell you about the dive?”
“We already went through this, Noah. You know the answers.”
Noah folded his arms against his broad chest. “Humor me, Mo.”
He threw up his hands. “Fine! He said it went well, but that John panicked on the way up and didn’t make his decompression stops.”
“But the dive went fine as far as you are aware?” Rissi asked.
Mo arched a brow. “Yeah.” The word came out more as a question than an answer.
“John Layton told his wife something had gone very wrong on the dive. She said he acted concerned for both of their safety. He insisted she go topside and stick with the group of passengers. Then he locked himself in the head. Next thing she knows, her husband is dead from what looked to her—a medical doctor—like blunt-force trauma to the head.”
“Okay,” Mo said. “Just say she heard correctly, and what John told her was true and not some story he concocted to explain away why he’d freaked out rather than just admitting he’d panicked. What does any of this have to do with me?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Rissi said.
Mo angled his head and lifted his brows. “You can’t seriously believe any foul play was involved in John Layton’s death?”
“It’s beginning to look like a strong possibility,” Noah said.
Mo released a guffaw. “You’ve got to be kidding. Layton made up a story because he didn’t want to admit he’d freaked out on the dive.”
“You really believe that’s what happened?” Noah said.
Mo nodded. “I do.”
“Let’s say you’re wrong and Layton’s story was true. Why would Marv lie about it?”
“He didn’t lie. It didn’t happen.” Mo’s jaw tightened.
“How can you be one hundred percent certain?” Rissi asked.
“Because I’ve known Marv for twenty years. He wouldn’t lie to me.”
“No,” Rissi said, “I suppose he wouldn’t.” She looked at Noah—both realizing if Layton’s story was true, then both Marv and Mo had lied to them.
“Why’d you call Marv back?” Noah asked.
Mo frowned. “What?”
“The afternoon of the evac, Marv called you at 3:10. You talked for eight minutes, then at 3:48 you called him back and talked for three minutes. What did you talk about?”
“I wanted to make sure he was all right.” Mo’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that we spoke?”
“We had reason to look at your phone records.”
“What reason is that?”
“We’re investigating John Layton’s death, and right now Marv is a possible suspect if foul play is involved.”
Mo stood. “I can’t believe this.”
“Please sit down,” Noah said. “We have a few more questions.”
“That I’m done answering.”
“We’d hate to pull you into the office.”
Mo’s jaw shifted, and after a moment of contemplation, he said, “Fine. Let’s finish this.”
“Thank you,” Noah said. “Now, you said you called Marv to make sure he was all right. All right in what way?”
“We’d just lost a pa
ssenger to an ac-ci-dent,” Mo enunciated the last word. “And lost the source of our livelihood. The whole crew was upset.”
After pressing Mo on a few more details, it was readily apparent he was sticking to his story, so they thanked him for his cooperation, such as it was, and excused themselves.
“What do you think?” Rissi asked as they climbed into the Jeep.
“I think we need to keep digging. Everything seems too wrapped up in a neat package of explanation. And I doubt there is an innocent reason for that deposit into Marv’s offshore account.”
“Mo didn’t even show an ounce of concern at the possibility Marv had lied.”
“That’s what concerns me.” He sighed.
“Me too.” Though she hated to think it.
“Hopefully, Logan or Emmalyne calls shortly with Mo’s financials.”
“I half pray we don’t find anything—for Mo’s sake—and half hope we have our next clue in Layton’s death.”
“We also need to check into Layton’s phone records and financials,” Noah said as the first drops of rain fell.
Rissi took a brisk inhale. “What do you want to bet we find calls to and payment from Litman Limited?”
fifty-two
Finn entered the interrogation room where Eric Jacobs sat waiting.
“Thought you might like a glass of water.” He slid the glass across the table.
Mr. Jacobs lifted it. “Thank you.”
Finn couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that a guy who appeared to be a sweet middle-aged man was picking up and delivering what he assumed were illegal shipments for Litman Limited. It was the delivery part—where Jacobs dropped the packages—that interested him most.
He started with a statement. “I’m disappointed to discover you lied to me.”
“Lied?” Mr. Jacobs tilted his head, his eyes wide with false innocence.
“You said when you picked up the package on Shore Lane you didn’t know where to drop it.”
“Correct.”
“Where have you dropped Litman Limited’s other packages?”
“Other packages?” His tone remained calm.
“Yes.” Finn slid the list Emmalyne had put together based off the manifests Rissi obtained from the customs office across the black Formica tabletop.
Jacobs leaned forward, his eyes scanning it. Beads of perspiration sprung on his wrinkled brow.
“That is a list of documented pickups you made for Litman Limited from the customs office at Wilmington International. Where did you deliver those packages, or are they still in your possession?”
“No.” Jacobs coughed. “Of course not.”
“You may as well tell the truth now, as we’ll soon discover it for ourselves.”
“Oh?” His fingers clutched the list, the paper shaking slightly in his hold.
“Two of our agents are searching your home and property as we speak.”
Color rushed to Jacobs’s face. “You have no right!”
“Actually, we do. Warrant came through just before they left.”
“On what grounds?” His knuckles whitened.
“We only have to provide the reasons for the warrant to the judge.” Finn lifted his pen and straightened the legal pad in front of Jacobs. “Do you have anything to confess?”
The blue vein on the side of Jacobs’s temple twitched.
He’d hit a nerve. Curiosity and adrenaline warmed his body at the thought of what Logan and Caleb might discover at Jacobs’s house.
“Where have you dropped the other packages you retrieved for Litman Limited?”
Jacobs shrugged. “It varies.”
Finn’s brows arched. “Such as?”
“I meet a man. I don’t know his name, so don’t bother asking.”
“Meet him where?”
“At the park, in the public beach access parking lot, at the library—if it’s a smaller package.”
“And if it’s larger?”
“More secluded places. I park where I’m directed. A white painter’s van pulls up and we load the container into the back of the van. I get paid and go my way.”
“What kind of payments are we talking?”
“My finances are my business.”
“Not since we obtained the warrant to check them.” He pulled out the last three months of Jacobs’s bank statements Emmalyne had given him—the questionable deposits circled in red.
Jacobs pushed his tongue up under his top lip, bulging it out momentarily before licking his lips.
“Looks like you’ve made some large cash deposits over the last few months.”
Jacobs shifted in his chair. “I get paid in cash for most of my deliveries. I have a lot of customers.”
“Of course.” Finn slid the copies of Jacobs’s bank statements in front of him. “Were these circled deposits payments from Litman Limited?” Unless he confirmed Finn’s suspicion, it would remain just that—a suspicion.
“I can’t recall each transaction,” he muttered.
“But some were from Litman?”
“I imagine.”
Finn rubbed his chin, then interlocked his hands on the table. “Mr. Jacobs, it only takes one call to the IRS if you choose not to cooperate.”
Jacobs swallowed, audibly. “What do you want?”
“The van’s license plate number, which I feel confident a man like you noted. Along with a description of the man you meet. And a list of all the drop locations.” Finn slid the legal pad and pen to him. “You had best get started.”
With fear and anger clouding his eyes, Jacobs lifted the pen and began scribbling.
Finn sat back with a satisfied smile.
Close to half an hour later, Jacobs slid the pad back to Finn.
“I’ll review this and let you know if I have any questions.” Finn stood, grabbing hold of his pad.
Jacobs rubbed his brow. “I’m sure you will.”
“Oh,” Finn said, pausing at the door, “I nearly forgot.” He turned back and retook his seat. “Tell me about your relationship with Smitty.”
Jacobs’s brows puckered. “Who?”
“From the Coffee Connection.”
Finn emerged from the interrogation room with a yellow legal pad in hand and a curious smile on his lips.
“Let me guess,” Gabby said. “You got him to talk?”
“Yep.”
“And?” Rissi asked, leaning forward in her chair.
“We’re going to want to case board this.”
“All right, people,” Noah said, heading for the board. “Grab a drink or snack, and let’s circle up. Rissi and I have a lot to cover. And it sounds like Finn has even more.”
Gabby followed Rissi into the kitchen, where they made up bowls of trail mix—dark chocolate chips, dried cranberries, walnuts, and almonds.
“Want a Coke?” Rissi asked, pulling one out of the fridge.
“Yes, please.”
She pulled another out and handed it to Gabby.
“Sounds like everyone is making good progress.”
“Yeah.” Rissi opened her Coke—the fizz releasing—and leaned against the counter. “The more we dig, the more intertwined things become.”
She’d been thinking the same thing based off what she knew, and Litman Limited appeared to be the common denominator.
Gabby followed Rissi out to the couch and took an open spot. She hoped Noah would let her stay. It wasn’t easy eavesdropping from the desks in the front room.
“Let’s start, folks. Who wants to go first?” Noah opened the red dry erase marker and shook his head. “Seriously, strawberry scented?”
“I thought it’d add a nice touch to some tough topics,” Emmy said.
Gabby smiled. She was coming to adore Emmy.
“Fair enough. Moving on,” Noah said with another shake of his head. “Who wants to start?”
“I’ll go,” Rissi said. She quickly ran down everything she and Noah had learned.
Noah wrote down the key point
s in a neat column beneath Layton’s name and his blown-up driver’s license picture.
“While we’re on John Layton . . .” Emmy said. “Logan ran his financials and located an offshore account in his name. He received wire transfers from . . . one guess.”
“Litman Limited,” Rissi said, tucking her legs beneath her on the sofa.
Emmy tapped her nose.
Gabby knew better than to comment or she risked Noah shooing her off to the front room while they finished discussing the leads, but she couldn’t help but wonder what all Litman Limited had its hooks in, and how many people were in its pocket. But more importantly, who was hiding behind the front company. Someone had to be pulling the strings.
“Look what we found at Eric Jacobs’s house,” Logan said as he entered the station with Caleb close behind. He held up a large evidence bag with a padded envelope inside.
“What do we have here?” Finn asked, sitting forward as Logan slipped on a pair of gloves while Caleb hunkered down beside Rissi on the couch.
Logan opened the evidence bag along with the padded envelope, slipping his gloved hand in and pulling out a stunning diamond necklace.
“Whoa!” Rissi said.
“This package wasn’t sent through UPS. It came through customs at Wilmington International, so it looks like Litman Limited was using Mr. Layton to pass their stolen goods through customs,” Caleb said, “and then acquired the stolen jewels or whatever else they’ve been smuggling using a courier like Eric Jacobs.”
Finn tapped his notepad. “I’ve got a list of drop spots from Jacobs. All of which appear to be near the water. I’ll map them out, see if there’s a pattern.”
“I think Rissi and I may have found a possible motive for John Layton’s death, if foul play was in fact involved,” Noah said, going on to explain the money found in Marv’s account.
Gabby’s mind was racing. It sounded like Marv had been paid to take Layton out, but Layton survived long enough to reach the ship. The question was, why? If Layton was helping Litman Limited smuggle contraband, why kill him?
“Where are we on Mo’s financials?” Noah asked Logan.
“He received deposits in an offshore account from Litman Limited too. He’s been getting them over the past two years. The last deposit was made the day before Layton’s death.”