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

by A J Rivers

  "Which sounds completely logical to you, but you immediately jump to Mason being dead?"

  "Who's Mason?" Paul asks.

  "A case I'm working on," Dean says. "I can't go into the details because of confidentiality, but there is a man missing under somewhat suspicious circumstances."

  "Somewhat suspicious?' I ask incredulously. "He actually hasn't been seen or heard from since January. He married someone who apparently didn't exist before that, but then she randomly showed up at the bank? And didn't mention her missing husband?"

  "Emma," Dean says, a hint of warning in his voice.

  I know I'm drifting a bit too close to the disclosure threshold. As a private investigator, Dean has to maintain a certain level of confidentiality with his cases. His clients have the expectation that he's not going to run around spouting off their business to everyone or telling people sensitive details about their lives.

  Technically, I'm a member of his firm. He added me into his contracts so he could include me in investigations and as a consultant when he needs me. It was a power move to try to convince me I should leave the Bureau behind and start a new career as a PI alongside him.

  I'm not going to lie. For a while there, that was a distinct possibility. Especially once I found out Creagan, my superior at the Bureau, essentially betrayed me. Not only did he know some of the darkest secrets of my family's past, but he kept them from me for years and leveraged that knowledge to use me as bait for a serial killer.

  Compounded with the sudden murder of my ex-boyfriend just shortly after he resurfaced after having been missing for two years, it was a lot. I lost my faith in the FBI and didn't know if I still had a place there. More than once, I picked up my phone, ready to break free completely. It was the experience on Windsor Island that convinced me I still have work to do as an agent.

  But that hasn't changed Dean's dedication to the idea of a family business. He’s kept me in the contract, which means all his clients sign off on his sharing every bit of information about cases with me. Talking about them with Sam around is already pushing it. We can get away with it because Sam is Sheriff of Sherwood, and technically confidentiality agreements with a private investigator include sharing of information with law enforcement when that law enforcement could be integral to the resolution of the case.

  Granted, Sam doesn't take an active role in any of the cases. But it gives us a backup plan if we happen to share too much. Telling the whole story to Janet and Paul would be going right over the edge.

  But it seems I shared just enough. Both stare back at me with slightly open mouths.

  “What happened?” Paul asks.

  I shake my head. “Doesn't matter. The point is, it's completely bizarre, and I'm convinced the man is dead. I think it was all a scheme, and he was murdered by his new wife, and she's just lying in wait for the time to take all his money.”

  “And I think Emma’s way too prone to going right to the scary murder place, and it's entirely possible Mason just didn't feel like dealing with his ex and the rest of his old life anymore, so he went off to start something new.”

  “So, what you're telling us is you both have essentially the same theory, but about opposite cases?” Janet asks.

  Dean and I look at each other. “I hadn't thought about it that way.”

  It's still on my mind when we head back to my house a while later. A hot shower with my favorite orange-scented body wash doesn't take the thoughts away. If anything, it sharpens them. That was one of the best things about it years ago when I first discovered the scent. It came from a tiny custom boutique, and I always felt fancy buying the gold-capped bottles.

  It had been years since I used it when Sam surprised me with a stocking full of those fancy bottles. Now I'm rationing them because I want to use them all the time. When people really love something, they like to say they would bathe in it. With this stuff, I actually get to.

  The bright, sharply sweet smell has my brain wide awake and firing fast when I load a plate up with leftover Clue board cake and head into the living room. Curling up on the end of the couch, I take a swig of coffee and get a look of judgment from Dean.

  He's sitting at the other end of the couch, working on his laptop, and the cup beside him looks more late-night appropriate, with its little paper tea bag tag dangling over the side.

  "Aren't you the same Emma Griffin who complains all the time about not being able to sleep?" he asks.

  "That has gotten a lot better. And at least this way, if I don't sleep, I can blame it on the coffee." I hold my mug close to my face and breathe in the scent. "The delicious, delicious coffee."

  He lets out a snort of laughter. "You're ridiculous."

  "So," I say, setting the mug down and digging into the cake. "I was thinking about what Janet said."

  "What did Janet say?"

  "About us having the same theory about opposite cases. I hadn't thought of that. But you know what? She's totally right. Which means we need to look at it from both angles," I say.

  He eyes me suspiciously. "Look at what?"

  "Mason's disappearance," I say around a mouthful of library. The tiny chocolate rope crunched between my teeth.

  "You're back to believing it's a disappearance now?" he asks.

  "I'm wide open," I say, waving my hand to the side over my head. "Let's figure it out."

  Chapter Twelve

  Dragon

  Six years ago…

  “You know,” he said, brushing the tip of his nose against her neck, “I've never actually sat at the bar.”

  “Is that so?” she asked, picking up her drink for a casual sip.

  "I have a private table."

  She nodded, a slight smile curving her full lips. "I know."

  "Most people consider it an honor for me to invite them to sit with me," he said.

  Ariella smiled a little wider. Her fingers trailed down the stirrer in her drink as her arms drifted down to fold on the bar in front of her. She turned her intense eyes to him.

  "I know that, too."

  "But you won't sit there with me," he said.

  "I like it here."

  Her voice was smooth and silky, with just the slight hint of heat behind it. Like sipping Irish cream.

  "That's why I've been sitting here with you for the last week," he said.

  "Is it so bad?"

  She took the stick from her drink and drew it through her mouth before putting it back into the glass.

  "No, but there are people who expect me there."

  "So, you're here for them," she said.

  "They are here for me."

  Dragon reached up and used one finger to move a piece of hair away from her forehead, tracing it down the side of her face and along the curve of her jaw.

  "Then you should be there with them," she said.

  He smiled as she turned to slide off her stool.

  She reached into the black satin clutch held in one hand and took out several folded bills. He rested his hand over hers, stopping her.

  "That was mine," he said to the bartender.

  Ariella smiled and set the money down on the bar. "No. It was mine." She walked around the stool, and he reached for her hand, but she just kept walking toward the door. Partway there, she turned to look over her shoulder at him. "Goodnight."

  He stood stunned for a few moments, not really believing what he was seeing. She was walking away from him. No hesitation. No second thought. She wasn't moving slowly in the dramatic hope he would chase her. She was simply walking away.

  Everywhere he went, people noticed him.

  Now they noticed her, too.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Now

  I'm feeling apologetic towards my body for just how much cake I ate last night. So, the morning finds me standing in front of the stove, cooking omelets overflowing with peppers, onions, and mushrooms. I have to admit, they smell pretty good. Especially when I sprinkle garlic over the top.

  Sam comes in and wraps his
arms around my waist from behind, leaning down to kiss me on the cheek.

  "Good morning," he says.

  I turn my head to kiss him, giving a little sigh of happiness.

  "You can keep those coming all morning," I say. And I know he will. Sam can’t get enough of me.

  “You know, you’re really lucky I’m willing to kiss you still after all this onion garlic morning breath you’re about to have.”

  “And you’re lucky that your wonderful partner makes breakfast for you instead of making you eat stale cereal when you comment on her breath,” I smile, fluttering my eyelashes prettily. “Now shut up and give me another kiss.” He chuckles and leans in for another.

  "What are you up to today?" he asks as he crosses to the breadbox.

  Over the last couple of years, Sam and I have gotten into a rhythm in many aspects of life. One of them is breakfast. If he comes into the kitchen in the morning and finds me making eggs, his job is to start cranking out the toast.

  "Are you going to be ready in about an hour?" Dean asks, coming down the hallway. "I think it will be better if we get to the bank earlier rather than later."

  "I guess that answers my question," Sam says. "In a confusing way, that makes me have even more questions but answers it nonetheless."

  "Oh, hey. Morning, Sam," Dean says. "You coming with us today?"

  Sam looks at me. I flip the omelet onto the plate off to the side, drop a little more butter into the hot pan, and add some of the vegetables I already cooked. Spreading them out, I pour in some beaten eggs.

  "Are you going down to the courthouse to deal with all the people who want to be difficult and contest traffic tickets?" Sam asks.

  Dean stares at him blankly for a few seconds. "No."

  "Then, I guess not."

  He snatches two pieces of toast that pop out of the toaster and puts them on a plate to be buttered.

  "Dean and I were up late last night after you went home. We talked about Mason's case again. I've decided to be open-minded and go into it with a fresh perspective. I don't have anything to do for the Bureau until later in the week, so I have time to help him with his investigation," I explain.

  "We're going to go up to the bank and start from scratch," Dean adds.

  I shift the last of the eggs onto the plate and carry it over to the table. Sam has another round of toast getting golden, and Dean is completely out of rhythm, but I'll forgive him because this is his first morning here with us.

  "Dean, can you get some coffee going?" I ask.

  "Sure."

  While he does that, I pull out sausage patties and put them in the still-hot pan to cook. It's turkey sausage, so I'm still being good. Granted, there are few breakfasts that would actually be as bad as the three slabs of birthday cake I ate last night, so I'm ahead of the game no matter what. I reassure myself with the acknowledgment that I probably won't eat until much later in the day. This has to fuel me through.

  "The bank is about an hour and a half from here," I tell Sam. "Depending on what we find out there, we might have other stops to make."

  "And other people to bother," Sam says, grinning at me and leaning around to give me another quick kiss.

  "You say ‘bother’, I say… ‘encourage to provide needed information’," I offer.

  "Relentlessly," Dean adds as the coffee starts bubbling into the carafe.

  "If need be," I shrug. "Either way, I'm not sure when we're going to make it back here. I'll let you know later."

  "Sounds good. I might go grab dinner with some of the guys tonight. They want to catch the game up at Kelsey's bar," Sam says.

  "Perfect."

  We sit down for breakfast and talk about nothing. These are some of my favorite conversations. I'm fully invested in our nothingness when Sam jumps slightly in response to his phone vibrating in his pocket. He looks at it and forces down the bite of eggs and sausage piled on buttered toast he just took.

  "Johnson," he answers. "Everything okay?" He listens for a few seconds, and his face darkens. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

  He's already standing as he hangs up, and I follow him out of the kitchen.

  "What's going on?" I ask.

  "That was Frank. There was a domestic violence call this morning, and it looks like it's getting really nasty. They need me to intervene," Sam frowns. "Sorry to run out like this."

  "No," I tell him, shaking my head and waving toward the front door. "Go. I hope it's not as bad as he made it sound."

  "So do I," he says. One hand resting on my hip, he leans down for another kiss. "Call me later. Love you."

  "Love you, too."

  He rushes out of the house, and I shudder. Sometimes it's easy to forget Sherwood isn't a little utopia nestled at the base of the Virginia mountains. It's such a small, cozy place, it can seem like nothing would ever go wrong here. Even with the horrific string of crimes that brought me back home after seven years away. But then something like this happens, and I'm forced to remember it's just reality here.

  At least the people of Sherwood have Sam as their sheriff. He followed in his father's footsteps and devotes himself to protecting the people of his hometown the same way. Sam isn't a superhero. He can't stop every crime from happening. But he sure can scoop up the aftermath of those hurt by the crime, and make sure those responsible pay for what they’ve done.

  Shaking off the disquieting feeling from thinking about what Sam is about to face, I go back into the kitchen. Dean is finishing up breakfast, and I start cleaning off the table.

  "Is everything alright? Do you want to cancel today?" he asks.

  "Definitely not. He's responding to a messy situation, and I always hate thinking about things like that. But there's not much we can do about it. I help him with investigations, but it doesn't seem as if there's really going to need to be an investigation for this. There is, however, an investigation waiting at that bank. Let's get ready and head out there," I say.

  After cleaning up the kitchen, I get dressed in one of the sleek suits I usually wear when I have to go into headquarters. My face usually wears the makeup equivalent of jeans and a t-shirt, so I throw on a couple of extra layers of mascara and a sweep of lipstick to balance out the elevated outfit. Dean looks me up and down when I meet him in the living room.

  "Wow. You're going full-on Bureau. Should I put something nicer on?" he asks, looking down at the jeans I'm feeling pretty jealous of at the moment.

  "No," I tell him. "We're doing a whole good-cop, bad-cop situation here. But since neither of us is actually a police officer, we're going with fashion. Some people respond better to formality, some to something more casual. We'll go at them with both and see what we can get out of them."

  He nods, his lips pressed together as he contemplates the theory. "It's a plan. Let's go."

  Since he already knows where he's going, we climb into Dean's car. I put on my seatbelt and turn every available vent toward me. The summer heat is stifling. The few seconds I’m outside between the front door and the car make me want to pour my travel tumbler of ice water right down my cleavage.

  "You realize we might not be able to get much information from them once we get there," Dean mentions a few minutes later, as the air conditioner has kicked in, and I've solidified back into a cohesive human being.

  "I know all about confidentiality in banking. They probably aren't just going to crack open the financial records without a warrant from the investigating officers. But that doesn't stop us from asking about his interactions with them, and what they know about his wife. And it's another reason we have the different wardrobe options going here. Sometimes people are more forthcoming when I look official and just let it slip that I'm an agent. I can't tell them I'm on duty or doing an official investigation, but I don't have to refute it, either," I say.

  "You just love riding the line, don't you?" Dean grins.

  "It's a family trait."

  “You can say that again.”

  Chapter Fourteen


  "I guess if he wanted to use a bank where he wasn't likely to be noticed, he nailed it," I comment as Dean pulls into one of the six parking spots in the front of the bank.

  "There are more parking spots in the back," Dean says.

  "For when everybody with an account here shows up at the same time?" I ask.

  Standing beside the car, I look around, marveling at the sheer lack of life around the building. It is an old-fashioned building with tall white columns at the top of brick steps. Black shutters flank large windows along the front. Set on a side road of an already quaint town, the bank shares the stretch with only a few other buildings. All look like throwbacks to another time.

  "It supports my theory he wanted to disappear," Dean says. "He chose somewhere barely on the map, far away from everybody who knows him. Who would think to look somewhere like this for him?"

  I sigh. "What is it with me and small towns?"

  "It's your birthright," he says.

  That sends a bit of a chill along my spine. "Not something I like to think about."

  "If it makes you feel any better, I've scoured the entire town and the surrounding ones, and haven't found anything about Mason or his wife. They don't live here. So maybe this is the only small-town thing about it," Dean offers.

  I consider this for a few seconds. "Alright. I'll take it."

  We walk through the doors and into a space that doesn't seem to know what time period it wants to exist in. The interior of the bank is a blend of the quaint vintage style of the outside and sleek contemporary details. We walk along a beige-tile half leading through dark gray industrial carpeting that fills the space created by a crescent of teller windows. Something about it makes me think of Gringotts, but all the people behind the counters seem decidedly human. I'm good with that. Now is not the time for me to discover I have magical powers. Dean and I stop at a large island set in the center of the space. Dark wooden frames that look like they belong in a very important CEO’s office hold deposit slips while long strands of silver beads secure pens in place.