Still Life

by Dani Pettrey

  30

  The sun shone brightly Monday morning as Avery followed Griffin and Jason toward the Wells Fargo branch across the street from a much-needed Starbucks they’d be hitting afterward.

  On Sunday, Parker had insisted on crashing on the couch, and after sleeping late, Avery and Parker had attended church together. They spent most of the day talking—processing through the case, touching base with the gang, and even talking a little bit about them. She was still in shock. Parker loved her.

  Thank you, Lord.

  When she was with him, in his arms, it felt so right—in her heart it felt right and in her prayers it felt right—but her gut kept tugging at her. Could he really love her fully? And, more importantly, could she fully be herself with him?

  She still hadn’t told him. Not the deepest, darkest part of her past, and there was no way she could spend her life with a man without being fully open. Could she share? And, more importantly, could she trust him to embrace her despite the ugliness of her past?

  Not needed for the bank visit, Parker waited in his car, but she so wished he was at her side. She was walking in to see why her oldest friend, who’d been murdered—based on what they’d found in Sebastian’s disgusting storage room—had rented a safe deposit box the week before her death. What secret did the box hold? And had it played a role in Skylar’s death?

  Griffin held the door open for her, and she stepped inside.

  “Just act like you’re supposed to be with us,” Jason said under his breath to her as they approached the bank manager’s office.

  Griffin knocked on the open door with the back of his hand. “Mr. Phillips?” he asked.

  “Yes?” The middle-aged man with strawberry-blond hair and sleek frameless glasses looked up.

  Griffin showed his ID. “Detective McCray,” he said. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Phillips said. “I went ahead and pulled the box records for you.” He grabbed them from his locked desk drawer and slid them across the glass-topped desk to Griffin.

  Avery leaned forward, studying the form beside Griffin, noting the date the box was opened, Skylar’s name, and her signature.

  Griffin glanced at her, and she nodded her indication that the signature was valid.

  He flipped to the second page, where visitations were noted. There was only one instance when the box had been visited since its opening, and while the signature read Skylar Pierce, it was most definitely not Skylar’s signature.

  It was close. To someone who didn’t know Skylar or wasn’t paying careful attention, it was easy enough to miss, but the S was most certainly wrong.

  Skylar always looped the bottom of hers a special way, had ever since elementary school. Avery remembered practicing cursive alongside Skylar as Skylar worked to put her own personal spin on her name, always wanting to stand out and be special. The memory—the days of their youth, growing up side by side—diverted Avery’s train of thought for a moment, but she shook off the emotions and forced herself to focus . . . for Skylar. Whoever had attempted to forge Skylar’s signature had gotten it close, but not close enough.

  “That’s not her signature,” she said, pointing at the forgery.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Phillips straightened. “We always compare signatures.” He flipped between the pages, clearly looking for a glaring error.

  “I’m sure you do, and they are quite alike, but here . . .” Avery held out her hand, and Mr. Phillips complied, handing her the forms. “May I?” she asked about separating the pages. He nodded his consent, and she carefully removed the staple and laid them side by side. “If you look closely, you can see the S is different. The original S, which is Miss Pierce’s,” she said, wanting to sound professional no matter how personal this felt, “has a special swish at the bottom curve.”

  Mr. Phillips’ eyes widened, and then he sat back, clearing his throat. “I see, and I must apologize, profusely. This”—he tightened his tie knot—“was extremely lax on our teller’s part.” He looked at the initials beside Skylar’s forged signature. “I will have a talk with Miss Westin regarding this matter. I assure you it will not happen again.”

  “We’ll need to see the box,” Griffin said. “We have a warrant.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Phillips nodded and stood, moving for his office door. “Right this way, please.”

  He gestured to a man sitting with a toolbox at his feet. “This is Glenn Talbot, who will be drilling the box open for us since we cannot access it without Miss Pierce’s key.”

  Mr. Phillips led them through the lobby to a waist-high glass door, which he held open for them. They stepped beyond the sign-in area to a locked glass door.

  Pulling his keys and directing a darting glare toward a woman who Avery assumed was Miss Westin, he unlocked the door and led them inside. Gray metal boxes lined the walls, and a separate row running halfway down the center of the space divided the room. Private rooms in the right corner of the room sat with doors open. So at least they had the place to themselves.

  Mr. Phillips retrieved Skylar’s box and Mr. Talbot made short work of getting it open. Without opening the lid, he stepped back.

  “Feel free to use either of our private rooms,” Mr. Phillips said. “I’ll wait outside. Just signal me when you are finished in here.”

  “Thank you,” Jason said as Mr. Phillips and Mr. Talbot exited the drab room.

  Gray shelves, gray metal boxes, gray carpeting. It was beyond depressing. Avery wasn’t a big decorator, but the room looked more like a prison than a bank space, though she supposed the bank wasn’t exactly going for a “hang out in here” or a particularly fancy look. They’d gone with the bare-bones approach instead.

  The three of them moved into one of the rooms and closed the door, though she was surprised by the lack of privacy, with wood-framed glass doors. Anyone could see in, but she turned her attention to the box, her heart rate elevating much as it had the other night when Parker told her he loved her. Today it was racing for very different reasons.

  Please let it hold some answers. Some link to Skylar that will lead us to her body and her killer, Lord.

  She ran her gloved fingers along the cool metal lid, and then taking a deep breath, opened the box.

  Nada. It was empty.

  She looked at Griffin and Jason, perplexed.

  “Well, that’s disappointing,” Jason said.

  “Extremely.” She exhaled. “I was so hoping . . .”

  “I know.” Griffin squeezed her shoulder. “I was too. But this is not unexpected, considering the unknown visitor. He or she must have emptied the box.”

  “What now?” she asked.

  “Now we need to figure out who the forger is.”

  Avery agreed.

  Griffin led her back into the bank lobby and signaled Mr. Phillips, who was conversing heatedly with Miss Westin. Jason followed.

  Mr. Phillips made one last statement to the woman, and she hurried away, sniffling and dabbing her eyes.

  Mr. Phillips rejoined them. “The matter has been taken care of. I hope you found something helpful to your case.”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Jason said. “The box was empty.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Whoever forged Skylar’s signature must have removed the box’s contents.”

  Mr. Phillips pushed his glasses up the bridge of his noise. “That is disturbing news.”

  “We need to speak with Miss Westin,” Griffin said, “and we’re going to need video footage of the sign-in area on the date in question.” Griffin surveyed the lobby. “I will also be sending a crime-scene investigator here to dust for prints. I assume the forger wore gloves when handling the box, but we might get lucky.”

  “Yes, of course. We will cooperate fully. Miss Westin is in the break room.” He gestured to the red door on the opposite side of the lobby area. “I’ll go speak with security about the footage you need.”

  “Thank you.” Jason n
odded.

  They moved through the lobby seating area, which consisted of a few red leather chairs and a modern-styled rug with red, purple, and yellow circles. At least the lobby had some color to it.

  They found Miss Westin sobbing at a break room table, her back to them. She quickly swiped her eyes and wiped her nose with a crumpled tissue before turning to see who had entered. “Yes?” her voice quivered.

  “Miss Westin.” Griffin showed his badge. “Detectives McCray and Cavanaugh, and this is Avery Tate.”

  Tears pooled in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I looked at the base signature and compared it. I can’t believe I missed the difference. We’re understaffed, and I’m sure it was hectic, and . . .” She bit her lip and then shook her head. “It’s no excuse, though. I am so sorry for any trouble I have caused.”

  Avery sat down beside her. “We’re not here to reprimand you.” Clearly Mr. Phillips had seen to that. “We just need to ask you a few questions.”

  She sniffed and wiped her nose. “All right.”

  Avery pulled Skylar’s picture from her purse and handed it to Miss Westin. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  “No.” Miss Westin shook her head.

  “Do you recall what the woman who signed in for Box 206 looked like?” Jason asked.

  “We see so many people normally I wouldn’t recall, but I remember complimenting her on her necklace. She said she’d gotten it at Four Corners, and I’d just returned from a trip to the Southwest so we chatted for a moment.”

  Thank you, Lord.

  At least they wouldn’t leave completely empty-handed.

  “What did the woman look like? Can you describe her?” Griffin inquired.

  “She had long brown hair. She was slender, but her eyes and nose were different than hers,” she said, gesturing to Skylar’s picture.

  “How so?” Jason asked.

  “The woman’s eyes were more . . . almond-shaped, I think you call it. I remember they were large and pretty.”

  “Anything else?” Avery asked, overstepping her bounds in the investigation, but they needed more to go on, and the words had come rushing out before she’d realized what she was doing.

  “She had a cute button nose. Must be nice. I got born with this old honker.” Miss Westin swished her tissue at it.

  “Anything else you can think of?” Jason asked.

  “The littlest detail could be helpful,” Griffin said.

  “I’m sorry. That’s all I recall.”

  “Thank you for your help.” Griffin handed her his card. “Now if we could just ask one more thing of you . . .”

  “Anything.”

  “Could you accompany us to the security booth to identify the woman on the footage from that day?”

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Phillips greeted them in the lobby, his frown focused on Miss Westin, but he remained on task. “We don’t have footage of the deposit box room. It would clearly be a violation of privacy and would defeat the whole principle of a private safe deposit box, but we do have footage of the sign-in area.”

  Avery looked at Griffin. “Let’s just pray the woman looked up.”

  They entered into the security booth.

  “This is Aaron, our security guard on duty,” Mr. Phillips said, pointing at a man about their age—dark hair and eyes, handsome, tall and lean—a runner, Avery guessed. “Aaron, this is Detectives McCray and Cavanaugh, and I apologize . . .” He looked to Avery, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  “This is our associate, Miss Tate,” Jason said.

  “And you know Miss Westin,” Mr. Phillips said with a shaming edge to his voice.

  Aaron nodded.

  “If you could run the day and time we discussed,” Mr. Phillips said.

  Aaron played the footage.

  “There,” Miss Westin said after a few moments. “See the large necklace I was telling you about.”

  Mr. Phillips’ light brows arched, but he remained silent.

  “Can you zoom in?” Jason asked.

  Aaron did so.

  “And freeze right there.”

  A shot of her face. Her eyes were cast down, but it was her full face.

  “Can you zoom in a little more?” Avery asked, her heart lurching. “I know that face. Crystal Lewis,” she said. “That thieving, lying . . .”

  31

  Avery took a deep breath and calmed herself as they exited the viewing booth with a picture in hand of Crystal Lewis signing into Skylar’s account.

  Gary had probably broken into Skylar’s jewelry box to steal her ring but found the safe deposit box key instead. He’d tracked it to the right bank, made Crystal a fake ID—some things never changed—put a wig on her and sent her in to take whatever was inside the safe deposit box. It was likely whatever Skylar had on the college kids.

  “So?” Parker rubbed his hands together as Avery climbed in his car. “What was in the box?”

  “Nothing,” she said, still deflated on that point, but at least they had the next lead.

  “What?” he said, pausing to wave to Griffin and Jason as they drove past them out of the bank’s parking lot.

  “So . . .” Parker reversed out of their slot. “Skylar emptied the box already?”

  “No. Someone else did.”

  Parker arched a brow. “I’m guessing by that determined scowl you know who.”

  “Crystal Lewis,” she said, waiting for Parker’s reaction.

  Not a lot fazed him, but that certainly did.

  “You’re kidding.”

  Avery shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Any idea what she took? What was in the box?”

  “No. She entered with a large purse, so I’m guessing she put whatever it was in her purse, but we have her on camera.” She handed Parker the picture.

  Parker clutched the image. “Time to pay Crystal another visit.”

  “Yep. Griffin and Jason are headed there now. They said we could join them since I know Crystal and she might respond better with me present.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “I also think we—or rather, they—need to dig a little deeper into Amanda King and Kyle Eason. I’m betting whatever Skylar was hiding was dirt on Kyle Eason.”

  “Which is why they couldn’t find it at Skylar’s place.”

  “Right.”

  “So now Crystal Lewis has it?”

  “Yep.”

  “What do you think she’s going to do with it?”

  “Knowing her and Gary, if they’re bright enough to figure out what they have, they’ll probably try to take advantage of it.”

  “If Skylar was able to dig up dirt on Kyle Eason, then so can we.”

  “Or maybe we’ll be lucky and Crystal will just hand it over,” she said as they crossed Bel Air Road and pulled into Starbucks’ drive-thru line.

  Parker arched a brow.

  “What?” She shrugged. “It could happen. You’re awfully charming.”

  “Charming, eh?”

  “Please, you know you are.”

  “Mmm.” He leaned over while he waited in line. “How far will my charm get me?”

  She kissed him on the cheek.

  “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “I know what you had in mind. Now drive.” She pointed at the line moving forward.

  He stole a kiss on the lips and then did as instructed.

  Now he was kissing her? Defiling her? Didn’t he realize Avery Tate was his? He’d already found a new place and was preparing it just for her. It would be ready soon, very soon. He could almost taste it.

  32

  Declan and Lexi entered the Islamic Cultural Institute of the Mid-Atlantic and were quickly greeted by a man who introduced himself as Jari.

  “Special Agents Grey and Kadyrov, I presume?” he said.

  Rather than just show up, Declan had called the minute the Institute opened and scheduled an appointment with the cultural center’s head, Dr. Kha
led Ebeid.

  Jari was dressed in a stylish and—from what Declan could tell—expensive, perfectly tailored gray suit, a tweed-style navy vest, and white shirt with matching navy tie. “Right this way.” He led them down the light blue halls, along the black-and-white-tiled floor to two large doors.

  Jari knocked and, upon a positive response, turned the gold door handles and pushed in both doors. A dignified man in his early fifties, of Egyptian descent, if Declan was correct, sat behind a large antique desk.

  “Dr. Ebeid,” Jari said, “may I present Special Agents Grey and Kadyrov.”

  “Please have a seat,” Dr. Ebeid instructed. “Thank you. That will be all, Jari.”

  Jari nodded and excused himself from the room, closing the doors behind him.

  “Thank you, Dr. Ebeid, for making time in your schedule to speak with us.”

  “Certainly. I am always happy to entertain those interested in our organization. This is why you are here, to learn about the work we do?”

  Declan knew a fair amount about their organization, thanks to the agent assigned to learn everything the Bureau could about it. On the surface the organization functioned as a center to celebrate the Islamic culture, to be a focal point in Baltimore’s thriving and growing Muslim neighborhoods. Declan’s colleague described Dr. Ebeid as an unofficial Islamic diplomat to the region, an Islamic cultural attaché. Beneath the surface, however, the Institute had ties to extremist groups. The Bureau had a man deep undercover, but they were too far into the investigation to risk compromising his identity now. Thankfully, Declan had other sources to call on, and he had a feeling he’d need to.

  “Actually we are looking for someone.”

  Dr. Ebeid arched a thick brow. “Oh?”

  “Yes. An Indonesian man newly arrived in America.”

  “And you wish to recommend our institution to him?”

  “We believe he’s already been in contact.” Lexi slid Anajay Darmadi’s wanted picture across the gilded desk to Dr. Ebeid.

  Ebeid’s face hardened before he fixed a congenial smile on it. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He handed the picture back to Lexi.