The Girl and the Hunt (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 6)

by A J Rivers

  And no one knew anything. The CIA came forward stating they weren't aware of any assignments, and they had him officially listed as missing. Of course, Ian had an explanation for that. His mission, what they had to do, was so confidential, so incredibly classified, everybody was in on it. The entire government was working together to conceal his identity and protect him while he did what needed to be done. And Greg believed him. He believed every word he said to him, and the more he thought about it as the days slipped by, the sicker it made him feel.

  Then everything changed. It had already been slowly crumbling away, falling between his fingers and dissolving into ash in front of his face. But he had to face what was actually happening. After all the deaths. After the blood. After watching the man he respected so much hand over weapons to cartels and accept drugs, he would then sell for even greater profit. Or save, to brandish around and keep people quiet. Other Leviathan operatives didn't get to use it, Greg learned after the second transaction like that he witnessed. The first one he thought was being done to collect intelligence, the beginning of infiltration. The second one he knew was purely for profit.

  That's when he learned the drugs weren't for entertainment or solace. Lotan wasn't going to dole them out as an extra perk to those who were loyal to him. Instead, they became a method of torture and eventual execution. Greg would never forget the sounds of the men forced into addiction, then put in an empty room and left to go through withdrawal, only to be injected again just as it was over so the spiral could begin again. For some of these men, their agony would eventually atone for whatever mistake they'd made, and they would be released after their final withdrawal.

  But for others, the torment would end with an overdose. They’d be callously tossed out into the street or the landfill, where they'd be seen as another statistic, another disgusting addict not worth the time or energy to investigate.

  By then, Greg came to know that this man wasn't what people thought he was. It wasn't until a simple slip that Greg found out he wasn't who Greg thought he was, either.

  "How can you spend so much time at a place like that?" Greg asked Fisher when he returned from visiting one of the prisons.

  That was part of Fisher's role within the organization. He took care of the ones in the tank. But Greg couldn't understand why the man always returned seeming happy, rather than dragged down by the sheer reality of the place.

  "What do you mean?" Fisher asked. "A prison?"

  "Yes," Greg nodded. "If I had to spend as much time visiting inmates at prisons and jails as you do, I'd be miserable."

  "Why?"

  Greg was shocked by the question and not really sure how to answer. It seemed obvious.

  "The people,” Greg said. “Those places are literally warehouses full of degenerates and criminals.”

  He stopped himself short of pointing out both Fisher and their fearless leader deserved to be among those ranks. Fisher still looked at him like he couldn't comprehend what he was saying.

  “You use the word ‘warehouse’,” he said. “I thought people who worked in law enforcement were supposed to have more respect for the criminal justice system than that. You're supposed to see prisons and jails as rehabilitation centers and places where the good within can thrive,” he said sarcastically. “But even you can admit that most of the time, they're just places to toss the people society has gotten tired of or who they can't handle anymore.”

  “Or the ones who don't deserve to be a part of society anymore,” Greg pointed out.

  “And who are you to determine that?” Fisher said. “Who gets to decide what's right for society?”

  “Like you said. The criminal justice system,” he answered.

  “The criminal justice system is corrupt and broken. It keeps people oppressed and afraid rather than alive. We are working toward revolution. Chaos is life. It's freedom. People who go every day the exact same as they did the day before, with nothing to change them, nothing to make them think or act, aren't living. People are being persecuted and put in cages for pursuing happiness and keeping others feeling alive,” Thomas Fisher told him.

  “And destroying and killing others,” Greg replied.

  “Not everyone gets to the promised land. Even Moses was stopped before he made it in, and he was the one leading the pack. Sometimes it just doesn't work out the way people want it to. You want to think the ones who follow the rules should get power and control in return. But Lotan gained some of his most powerful connections and learned his most valuable lessons when he was in prison."

  That stopped Greg like a jolt to his chest.

  "Lotan went to prison?" Greg asked

  Fisher scoffed. "Yes. Those were better times. He was still strong, still focused. He hadn't become so obsessed with Emma Griffin that he forgot his way."

  Greg's eyes grew wide, and Fisher gave a mirthless laugh.

  "You think everyone is as a slovenly devoted to him as you are, don't you? I've learned to play this game over the years. I've watched Lotan shrink away from being a force of nature that could craft and destroy with a snap of his fingers, to a mere man desperate for the attention of a woman people worship for reasons I can't even come close to comprehending."

  He gave Greg a simpering look. "Oh. I'm sorry. You love her, don't you? Then maybe you can tell me why she's so important. Why he has completely lost himself over her and his obsession with finding the right moment to tell her the truth."

  Greg forced himself to stay calm, to maintain his control. He didn't want to let on to the doubts going through his head or the emotions starting to surge through him.

  “When was he in prison?” he asked.

  “Fifteen years ago,” he says. “For five years.”

  “Does he have any idea how you feel about him?” Greg asked, inching closer to the line, but staying steady.

  "No. And you're not going to tell him. Because the thing is, if you did, you know how it would work out. First, he wouldn't believe you. Why would he? I do everything he asks. Second, you want to see the light of day again. And you know if you say anything to him about me, you never will.” Fisher's eyes traveled up and down Greg briefly. “Your chances are slim as it is. You're losing your value.”

  As he walked away, Greg knew he'd lost far more than that. He'd heard everything he needed to. Fifteen years before, Emma was a young teenager whose mother was already dead. And whose father, Ian Griffin, never left her for more than a week after drastically cutting back on his travel for work.

  Not caring about Fisher's warning, Greg went directly to Lotan. He wouldn't say anything about the other man’s disdain. That was between Fisher and Lotan. It wasn't in his nature to speak for other people or spread rumors. But he would speak for himself.

  "Hello, Lamb," he said, sounding both surprised and put off by his appearance. Up until now, Greg had been one of the honored few still allowed to look directly at Lotan and speak. He had a feeling that wasn't going to last much longer. "What can I do for you?"

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  A smile wound its way onto Lotan's face, and he reached in front of him to slip the pen he was using back into the penholder at the front edge of his desk.

  "What do you mean? You know who I am," he replied.

  "No," Greg shook his head. "Who are you? Because you aren't Ian Griffin. You aren't Emma's father."

  Lotan's fingers folded over each other as he rested them on his desk.

  "Well, those are two different things, aren't they?" He tilted his head slightly to the side like he was considering Greg, waiting for a response. When it didn't come, he straightened it again.

  "No. I'm not Ian Griffin. But I am Emma's father. She just doesn't know it yet."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Now

  Sam slides the rest of the book into his lap as I take out the paper roses and look at them from all angles. They've been flattened by the book but are painstakingly folded to resemble roses in full bloom. The outside of the pedals have a
thin wash of red paint, but I can see words on the insides. I tilt one of the roses so Sam and Nicolas can see the words inside.

  “The roses should be read,” I say.

  Unfolding the first rose, I spread the page out on the arm of the sofa beside me. It looks like a page of text from the book, but the longer I look at it, the more I realize it's far bigger than the scale of the antique and seems to have been printed on conventional paper rather than the thicker cardstock of classic books. But what really stands out to me is the vibrant yellow highlighter splashed across the page.

  "Alice," Sam murmurs.

  I nod. "Every time the name Alice appears on the page, it's highlighted."

  Nicolas reaches for the paper, and I hand it over to him. His eyes scan over the words, taking in how many times the bright yellow ink boxes in the titular character's name.

  “Do you know someone named Alice?” he asks. “Is this another clue?”

  “I don't know anybody named Alice,” I say. “Not anybody that I can think of, anyway. Sam?”

  He shakes his head.

  “No.” Then something seems to occur to him. "Alice Brooks."

  "Alice Brooks?" Nicolas frowns. "Who is that? Could she be in danger?"

  I let out a breath, feeling the tips of my fingers start to tremble just with the mention of her name.

  "She isn't in any danger,” I say. “She's already dead.”

  “Dead?” he asks.

  “It's not recent. She died last year. It was the first case Sam and I investigated together.” I shake my head. “But I don't think this is about her. I don't think it's going to have anything to do with her.”

  “It's happened before,” Sam points out.

  “I know. But Sarah's gone. This isn't about our old cases. I know it's the same name, but I really don't think it could have anything to do with her. There has to be another explanation.”

  “Who's Sarah?” Nicolas asks.

  I'm remembering even more clearly now why I didn't want to have to shadow him this investigation. His questions are already grating on me, and I don't want to have to give them the blow-by-blow of everything just to get the access I need.

  “She was linked to the first case I had with the Bureau,” I explained. “She was angry about me putting her boyfriend in prison and came back to torment me. Eventually, she took pieces of my old cases and recreated them out of some psychotic obsession with me. But that's not important right now. She's dead. She has been for months. The name is a coincidence. It has to be.”

  “Then what does it mean? He went to all this trouble to get you to a copy of Alice in Wonderland so he could bring your attention to the name Alice. But why?” Sam asks.

  “I don't know,” I admit. “But we have another rose.”

  I open it, expecting another page from the book, or possibly a page from a different one. Instead, the paper is almost blank. The words visible from the inside of the petals cover a small portion of the top of the page.

  “What is that?” Nicolas asks.

  I bring the paper closer, so I can see it more carefully. It doesn't look like the words were typed directly onto the page. Instead, it’s as if another piece of paper was layered on top of something and scanned.

  “It looks like a medical record,” Sam notes. “Or at least, part of one.”

  “That's exactly what it is,” I nod, not sure if my voice is even loud enough to hear over the breath escaping my lungs.

  “Whose is it?” Nicolas asks. “Alice’s?”

  “No,” I say. “It's my mother's.”

  Sam takes the page from my hand and reads the information.

  "This is definitely your mother's name,” he says. “Mariya Presnyakov.”

  “It's also her birthdate,” I point out.

  “This says it's for a hospital in Rolling View,” Sam says.

  “That's not far from here,” Nicolas tells us. “Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “Why would my mother be at a hospital twenty minutes from here?” I ask.

  Taking the page out of his hand, I read over the words again. All of it is right there, her name, her birth date, height, and weight that sound like an accurate description of how I remember her. But very little else.

  "It says the doctor she saw was M. Morrison. Does that sound familiar?" Sam asks.

  "No," I shake my head. "None of this does. It doesn't make any sense. Look at the date. August 1990. That's the year before I was born. But neither of them ever mentioned being anywhere near here to me. And they told me about all of their adventures. They didn't move around nearly as much before I was born. And according to the papers we got from Iowa, they still lived there in 1990. My grandparents still owned the house there and hadn't moved to Sherwood yet. It's entirely possible they were traveling at the time, but where would they vacation anywhere around here? And even if they were, why would she end up in a hospital because of it?”

  “And this isn't an emergency,” Sam points out. “If something happened while she was traveling, she got hurt or sick or something; she would go to the emergency room or an urgent care center. This looks like an official medical record, like part of one for a consistent patient.”

  “So, my mother had a doctor halfway across the country? That doesn't seem terribly convenient.”

  “Is that it?” Nicolas asks. “That's all that's here?”

  “That's it,” I tell him.

  “It's something,” Sam offers. “Now we figure out where to go from here.”

  "The forensic team still hasn't come in," Nicolas reminds me.

  I let out a sigh. "So, I can't look anywhere else, or I might alter the evidence. That isn't there. Because he doesn't leave evidence."

  "I want to talk to the neighbors. See what they know. I'm sure they've already been interviewed, but maybe they'll remember something else or be more forthcoming when it's not someone in uniform. It's still too early for that, though. I'm going to go back to the cabin and do some research. I want to get in touch with the hospital and request my mother's medical records. Hopefully, they won't be difficult about it and require me to petition the courts for them," I say.

  "Why would that happen? You're her daughter and she's…"

  "Dead? I know. But HIPPA laws aren't. Technically her dying doesn't release the records to the estate. They are still the private information of the dead person and the property of the facility. The legal representative of that person can request them, but because I was not quite twelve when she died, that's not me. It's my father. For obvious reasons, I can't ask him to request the file, which puts me at the mercy of the hospital itself. If the administration is understanding, they will let me have them. If not, my only chances will be to petition for them."

  Nicolas stares back at me.

  "Okay," he says flatly. "I guess if you're going to do that, I'm going to go to the station and try to grab some sleep on the cot. That way at least I'm already there when LaRoche starts calling."

  "I'll let you know if I need anything else from you," I say.

  We start toward the door, and he stops, turning back to face me.

  "Griffin," he says. "Don't come back here without me. Don't try to get inside or search anything. Understand?"

  I draw back my shoulders, letting out a stream of breath to calm myself, then give a single nod.

  "Yes," I tell him.

  He opens the door and waves us through before closing it and securing the lock and lockbox again. Sam and I climb into the car, and he looks down at the book in my hands. I've pressed the roses back in place to protect them.

  "You probably should have given him those for evidence," he points out.

  "He didn't ask for them," I point out. "This means nothing to any of them. It won't help with their investigation. I just want them for a little while; then I'll turn them in."

  "Fine," he relents. "Do you want to stop at the store on the way back to the cabin?"

  "Sure," I tell him. "We need stuff in the kitchen. It should be op
en by now."

  We're not even the first customers through the door. The sun is fully up, and Feathered Nest is awake. Most of the groceries we choose are for me since Sam has to go back to Sherwood tomorrow. I don't want to think about that right now. Piling everything into the backseat, we head back to the cabin as the sunlight outside begins to look like a warm day. Some sleepiness has started to settle in when we get to the door, but it disappears as soon as we open it.

  The loud, piercing sound coming from the inside of the cabin is unmistakable. I run into the kitchen and stop so suddenly Sam stumbles into my back and has to wrap an arm around my waist to steady us both. I swallow hard, my eyes locked on the stove.

  "I think we found Marren's teapot."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As Sam walks into the living room to make a phone call, I notice something hanging from the edge of the teapot. I look more closely and realize it's the tags of teabags submerged in the water inside and held in place by the lid. Were it not for some person—undoubtedly Catch Me—breaking into my house, it would be a nice touch, actually brewing the tea as it heats up. I'm about to turn around and join Sam when the words written on the tags catch my eye. Picking them up, I read each of the three. They're all identical.

  “He's on his way,” Sam says, coming back in the room. “He said he should be here in just a minute. Emma? Is something wrong?”

  “The tea,” I say. “Look at the type of tea that's brewing.” He comes to stand beside me, and I show him the tags. “It's supposed to be holiday spice. You can smell it. It smells like cinnamon and nutmeg. But the word holiday is blacked out. So they just say spice.”