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

by A J Rivers

  “Who have you already spoken with?” I ask, trying to steal looks at each of the tellers without their noticing. But the chances of that are fairly slim. All of them went on alert the second we walked inside. We slipped in just shortly after the bank opened, so there aren’t many customers inside. Those tellers occupied with transactions keep glancing our way, and those still waiting for something to occupy their time watch our every move.

  “All of them,” Dean says.

  “Well, then that means none of them will feel left out no matter which one I choose to speak to first,” I say.

  I start at one end of the crescent, walking up to a tall, painfully thin man in a suit that immediately makes me think of what Jack Skellington would look like if he came to life and started working at a bank.

  “Good morning,” I tell him. “I'm Agent Emma Griffin. I just wanted to know if I could talk with you for a moment.”

  “Hello,” he says. “I'm Ethan. How can I help you?”

  “You probably recognize my associate, Dean Steele,” I say.

  “Yes,” Ethan nods. “How are you this morning, Mr. Steele?”

  “I'm good, thanks,” Dean replies, hanging back behind me slightly.

  “I know he has come by a couple of times already to discuss a certain situation with you,” I say, wanting to lead Ethan into telling me as much as he's willing to without the direct questions having to start yet.

  “Yes,” he says again. “We've discussed Mr. and Mrs. Goldman.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “I'm actually curious to know more about them as well. You think you could tell me about them?”

  “I'll help as much as I can. I didn't interact very much with Mr. Goldman. He was very quiet and very direct when he came in here. Some customers like to chat or get to know us a little bit when they come into the bank, but not him. He was only in a few times, and I can only remember helping him once. But the time that I did, he just wanted to get his business done and leave,” he says.

  “So, he wasn't very pleasant?” I asked.

  Ethan shakes his head. “Oh, no. That's not what I'm saying at all. He was nice, just brief. He smiled and referred to me by name. He told me to have a good day. It was as if he had a lot of things he wanted to get accomplished and was just going down the line kicking things off his to-do list. Not really rushed, but just focused on getting things done.”

  “What about his wife?” I ask. “Did you interact with her?”

  “No,” he says. “She's only come in here one time. And it was only a few minutes.”

  “Do you remember who helped her?”

  “Jennifer,” he says, gesturing across the crescent to a woman who does not immediately strike me as fitting her name.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Part of me wants to cross right over to Jennifer and ask her about Mason's wife, but I stop myself. Instead, I move over one window and talk to the next teller. By the time I've gotten all the way around, I've collected almost no information about Mason. It seems everybody had the same experience with him. He was perfectly pleasant, just focused on getting in and out of the bank. He referred to people by name and didn't carry on a conversation. It makes something stick in the back of my mind, but I'm still trying to figure out exactly what it is.

  I finally get to Jennifer, and she looks at me with an expression I can't quite decipher. It's as if she both wants to talk to me and is offended I didn't come to her as soon as she heard Ethan say her name. She keeps her hands busy, straightening up brochures and stacking a row of pens as if she can't just stand still. I ask her the same questions I asked the others.

  “There was something strange about him,” she says, surprising me.

  “Oh? There was? What do you mean, strange?” I ask.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Dean's head tilt slightly to the side. His eyes narrow so slightly it wouldn't be perceptible to anyone who isn't used to watching him talk.

  “I really don’t know. Strange. Too precise… too specific. The interactions were only for a few seconds, but the way he looked at me was almost too much. Not in a creepy way. Not as if he was being inappropriate. Just as if he was looking at me too hard, staring. He wanted me to look at him.”

  “Interesting,” I note. “What about his wife? Ethan says you are the only one who interacted with her when she came in.”

  “Yes,” Jennifer nods. “Her name is Eleanor. I remember that because it's my sister's name. You don't meet a whole lot of people named Eleanor these days. My sister went strictly by Ellie until one day she decided it sounded too much like an elephant. And then it became Nora. But never “Eleanor”. I was very surprised when Mrs. Goldman told me who she was."

  "Because her name is Eleanor?" I ask, feeling a little dazed by the sharp detour in the conversation.

  "No, because she was Mr. Goldman's wife," Jennifer says. "None of us ever saw her. Even when she opened the account."

  "You didn't?" I ask.

  "No. She set it up online. She didn't even have to come into the branch. It was a surprise, to say the least, when she came in person just to check the account balance. She could easily have done that from her computer or phone."

  "What about her security deposit box?" I ask.

  Jennifer nods. "She did go check that. But she was only back there for a few moments. Barely enough time to even open the box."

  "And there's no way to know what she did in there?"

  "No. To protect the privacy of the customers, there are no cameras in the vault." Her eyes suddenly flash behind me, and she gives a big smile. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

  "How is everything going over here, Jennifer?"

  I look behind me and see coming toward us a younger woman with inky black hair to her shoulders and eyes so blue they could cut glass.

  "Everything's just fine," Jennifer says.

  The woman stops beside me and turns to face me, extending her hand. "Millie Haynes. I'm the bank manager. What brings you in today?"

  The tone of her voice says she doesn't really care; she just doesn't like what she's seeing.

  "Hi, I'm Agent Emma Griffin. I'm just here gathering some information. Everyone has been very helpful. I appreciate it,” I say.

  “Information about what?” Millie asks, her eyebrows raised in suspicion. She looks over and sees Dean. “Oh, it's you again. I thought you got everything you needed.”

  “New details have come up in the investigation,” Dean tells her.

  “Well, I can assure you, this bank has no information that can help you. As I'm sure my tellers have already told you, our in-person interactions with Mr. and Mrs. Goldman have been limited at best. We have no in-depth knowledge of their personal lives beyond what we need to know for their finances. Which, of course, we can’t share with you,” Millie says.

  “We understand that,” I tell her. “We are here simply because I am involved in the investigation now and am reviewing all available information. As this is the last place Mrs. Goldman was seen, and as Mr. Goldman interacted with the bank account both before and after he was last seen, it's a place for me to start. But we don't need to take up any more time. I appreciate your help.”

  “Thank you,” Millie says. “Good luck with your investigation.”

  We start toward the door, but I turn to look at her again. “Oh, I just want to mention. If we do find reason, we will be back. I just don't want you to be surprised to see us again.”

  I smile at her, and we continue across the lobby. Before we get to the door, Dean stops me.

  “Give me just a second. I want to check something,” he whispers.

  He jogs back over to Ethan. They speak in hushed tones for a moment, then Ethan comes around the counter, and they walk into the back of the bank. While I'm waiting, I notice several men in dark suits walk into the bank. From the row of chairs to the side of the lobby where I've stepped to wait for Dean, I see the men zero in on Millie. She notices them as they start toward her and ru
shes to meet them.

  One reaches into his pocket, and even from a distance, I can recognize the flash of his detective's badge.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The conversation looks tense. Millie is clearly not pleased that the officers are here, but they either aren't picking up on the not-too-subtle clues of her guarded, defiant body language, or they don't care. I'm going with the latter. These aren't beat cops strolling the tiny town's streets, hoping to find a car in an illegal parking lot or dealing with a purse snatcher. These are hardened detectives. They don't care one bit if she's unhappy they've come into the bank. They'll get what they want out of her or keep at her until they do.

  “No, I'm not going to step into my office with you,” Millie snaps in response to something the detective said to her. “You need to say whatever it is that you have to say, then leave. This is the third time you've been here, and I don't have anything more to add."

  One of the great things about old banks is their exceptional acoustics. If you know where to stand, you can hear what's going on in just about every corner of the building. What's great about the modernization of these buildings…water fountains. There just happens to be one built into the wall a few yards diagonally from where the bank manager is standing with the officers.

  And I'm suddenly feeling thirsty.

  “We think you do,” the detective says. “We have reason to believe you have more information about this than you've been forthcoming with so far.”

  Walking by them toward the fountain, I can hear their conversation more clearly. I bend down for a sip and continue listening. I shouldn't. But she clearly isn't concerned about the privacy of what's going on between them, so tending to my personal hydration needs while also getting a bit of information in the mix isn't so far out of line.

  Something is going on here. Millie is far too uptight, too guarded.

  "What could I possibly have to tell you about that girl? As I've told you every other time we've had this talk, Lakyn Monroe doesn't have, and has never had, an account at this bank," Millie says.

  Now we're getting somewhere.

  "Yes, you have told us that," the detective begins.

  "Then what more do you expect me to say about it? I don't know anything else about her. I never met her. Never spoke with her. I certainly didn't have anything to do with her disappearance."

  "We aren't accusing you of anything. This is not personal. If it was, we wouldn't have come to your place of work to discuss it," the detective says. "This is purely an investigative matter."

  “And there is nothing more I can help you with. Now, I really must ask that you leave. Bank customers don't exactly feel at ease when coming into a branch crawling with police and FBI,” she says.

  I'm not looking at them directly, so I can't tell for sure, but it seems as if Millie's eyes dart over to me for a second.

  "FBI?" the detective asks.

  "If you'll excuse me," she says. "I really do need to get back to work. Have a nice afternoon, gentlemen."

  She steps away from them before they can say anything else and walks quickly across the lobby toward a hallway I assume holds the bank offices. The officers chat under their breaths for a few seconds. Their voices are so low, I can't hear what they're saying, but then they turn and start toward the doors again.

  They are just walking past me when I hear Dean's voice.

  “Emma!”

  I turn to look over my shoulder to see him jogging toward me from where he and Ethan went. The group of officers pauses a few steps away from me, and the detective glances my way. There's something familiar in his face, but I can't place him. He turns to the other officer and holds up a finger to stop them, then heads toward me.

  "Emma?" he frowns.

  "Yes," I say. "Agent Emma Griffin."

  "FBI?"

  "Yes."

  I feel strangely like we're doing a spoken word poem of the opening song for a seventies action show.

  "I thought I recognized you." He extends his hand. "Detective Noah White."

  I shake his hand. "Hello, Detective."

  "Are you here on official Bureau business, Agent Griffin?" he asks.

  "No," I shake my head as Dean joins us. "I'm here helping my cousin. Detective Noah White, this is Dean Steele. He's a private investigator."

  The men shake hands, and Detective White nods, a smile tilting up the corner of his mouth. "Right. I remember hearing about you. Long-lost cousins reunited through murder and mayhem."

  I try to figure out a way to respond to that but end up closing my mouth and giving a tight smile.

  “Something like that,” I say. “Dean is investigating a missing persons case. The man has an account here at the bank, and there is some suspicious behavior involving his wife that also involves the bank.”

  "Seems this place has a tendency to make people disappear," the detective muses.

  I nod. "I overheard the manager mention Lakyn Monroe. Are you investigating her disappearance?"

  "Yes. We have reason to believe she has a link to the bank but haven't been able to figure out what it is. She doesn't have an account here, and as far as we can tell, she never did. Neither did anyone in her family or friends. By all rights, she shouldn't have anything to do with this place," he says.

  "Then why do you think she does?" I ask.

  "We got a tip that she was seen in the parking lot and driving away several times just before she disappeared. It was submitted anonymously, so that doesn't give us much information to go on."

  "If it was an anonymous tip, why are you putting so much emphasis on it? Not to be prying or anything, but the manager didn't exactly seem thrilled to have you here questioning her. It sounded like you've been here a couple of times before."

  "We have," he confirms with a single dip of his head. "Do you mind stepping outside with me?"

  Dean and I exchange glances before following the detective out of the bank. The other officers are gathered just outside. He steps up to them and turns to me.

  "If I'm broaching professional ethics, tell me," I say. “We’re not at all involved in this Monroe case.”

  "I appreciate the gesture, but considering the circumstances, what I would appreciate more is your help," Detective White says. He looks at the other three men. "This is Quinn Avery, John Pullam, and Gustavo Vaughn. Men, you may recognize Agent Emma Griffin from the FBI."

  "Of course," Pullam says, reaching to shake my hand. "Your reputation more than precedes you. I'm impressed by your work."

  "Thank you," I say. The other two take their turns shaking my hand and offering similar sentiments. When they are finished, I nod back at White. "I'm happy to be of whatever assistance I can be. The Bureau hasn't made any moves to investigate Lakyn Monroe's disappearance, but I will gladly give you any help I may be able to offer, Detective White."

  "Please, call me Noah. And thank you. We've been handling this investigation from the beginning, but we're at a standstill."

  "And that's why you're focusing so heavily on the tips you've gotten even when they're anonymous," I note.

  "Yes," he acknowledges. "The one about Monroe being seen at this bank didn't come into the phone line. It came into the email set up for tips by her family. A picture was attached."

  "A picture?" Dean asks.

  Noah looks at him with uncertainty but seems to accept his presence as an effect of talking to me. I have no doubt if he was going to give me sensitive information about the case, he would do it away from Dean. Private investigators rarely get the same professional courtesy extended to them as other members of law enforcement. But they don't know Dean's skill. If they did, they would want him involved just as much as they want me.

  "Whoever sent the email attached a picture of a car. They claim they witnessed Lakyn Monroe drive up, walk around the parking lot, then around the building, then she climbed back into her car and drove away. The license plate is clearly visible. It's the one registered to her vehicle."

  "Wait—she
walked around the parking lot and then the building?" I raise an eyebrow, confused by the description.

  He nods, looking as if he understands it just about as much as I do. "That's it. It's a bank, so obviously there are security cameras everywhere. We pulled footage from all of them from that day. We can view her pulling into the parking lot and parking her car in one of the six spots. She gets out and stands there next to the car for a few moments, almost as if she's waiting for something. Then she looks at her phone, scrolls through it, then wanders around the parking lot for a few seconds before walking around the perimeter of the building. At no point does she ever actually enter the building. The cameras record her the entire time. She walks around slowly as if she's looking for something, then she goes back to the parking lot, gets in her car, and drives away.”

  "You said there were a few sightings of her,” I say.

  “The same tip mentions having seen her a couple of times before, but that was the only time they thought to take a picture,” Noah says. “But apparently the other times, she just got out of her car and stood beside it, looking around, then drove away."

  "And then disappeared."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lilith

  Two weeks ago…

  The field was alive now.

  What had been an expanse of dry reddish-brown dirt scattered with ragged sun-shriveled stalks was now a sea of tender green. That’s the amazing thing about corn. It grows fast. Sometimes so fast, she imagines she could stand outside and watch it reach and stretch.

  That was a moment she always wanted to see. Every year she watched the dips in the field, the divots where she planted the dried corn conserved from the growing season before. Each hole dug in the dirt by hand. Several kernels in each hole to give the best chances for at least one plant to emerge.