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

by A J Rivers

  I shake my head. "Oh, no. I appreciate it, but I really have to be somewhere. I just stopped in for something quick. I've driven by here a couple of times, and it looked good."

  Now both hands go to his heart. "You're so kind. I insist you try my menu. I promise it will be worth it. We will go fast."

  I don't answer, but apparently, that's enough for Tarasco. A flick of his wrist sends the waitress scurrying into the kitchen. He invites himself to sit at my table with me, and a waiter with glasses of wine seems to materialize beside the table.

  "Thank you," I say. "I really shouldn't. I'm working."

  "That's right. You're looking for that poor missing girl. She always seemed so sad."

  "You knew Lakyn Monroe?" I ask.

  "She came in here a few times. Liked to sit in the back corner and read while she ate. Her heart seemed so heavy."

  The waitress comes back to the table with a salad and bread, and the restaurant owner gets up. He wishes me a pleasant meal and walks away with a hope he will see me again soon.

  I start working on my salad but am only a few bites into it when the waitress brings the next tasting plate. For the next twenty minutes, I struggle to keep up with her pace. In a slight lull, I glance to the side and see a woman hesitate as she comes through the door.

  Millie Haynes.

  She looks at me for a second, but her expression doesn't change. She lets the hostess lead her toward the back of the restaurant, and I try to see where they're going without making it too obvious. From my vantage point, I can only see a small portion of the table. She's seated next to a man I haven't seen before, and a bit of the clothing visible in the chair across from her looks like another man.

  The two men lift wine glasses toward each other. Millie is a beat behind lifting hers. When she does, her eyes move over to me again. It's only for an instant, but this time, their expression is pleading.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Detective White apologizes, but he isn't going to be able to meet with you this afternoon,” the officer behind the desk at the station tells me when I walk up to her.

  “Oh,” I say. “Alright. Has Dean already come by?”

  “No,” she shakes her head. “He hasn't gotten here yet.”

  “I'll call him and let him know,” I say.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  I start out of the building and see Dean coming toward me. He's half walking, half jogging, and I wait for him.

  “Noah isn't going to be able to meet with us,” I tell him. “Which means I just ate approximately my body weight in Italian food in half an hour for no reason.”

  “I'm not sure what that means or if it's a euphemism for something, but if not, it sounds delicious.”

  “Not a euphemism,” I tell him. “But I did see something interesting at the restaurant.”

  “And I have something new for you,” he replies.

  “Perfect. You want to go back to the hotel, and we'll compare notes?”

  “Actually, I was hoping I'd be able to beg off the meeting with Detective White anyway. I have a lead I need to jump on. It should only take me a couple of hours. But before I go, let me give you my news.”

  We start walking toward my car. “I was eating lunch at that little Italian place I told you I wanted to try. The owner is really sweet, and he was plying me with as much food as he could get on the table. I came up for air for just a second, and happened to catch Millie Haynes coming in.”

  “The fact that she eats is your interesting thing?” he asks.

  “No. The fact that she came in with a man I didn't recognize, they sat at a table with another man, and she looked at me as if she was scared out of her mind is the interesting thing,” I tell him.

  I've lowered my voice to keep my words away from a group of people walking past, but they've definitely gotten to Dean. He looks at me with raised eyebrows.

  “What do you think she was scared of?” he asks.

  “I don't know. But she only looked at me for a second, then was right back into it with them. It's as if she really was looking at me and didn't want them to notice. Now, tell me your news.”

  “Okay, but I only have a second. Remember when you asked about the corn maze and the activities and stuff that happened at the old fairgrounds?”

  “Sure. The town doesn't use the grounds anymore, so who operates those things?”

  “I did some poking around. It wasn't the easiest thing to figure out because a lot of the land out there is contested. But, from what I was able to figure out, the section that has the corn maze, which also happens to be the section nearest to Lilith Duprey’s farm, is owned by an LLC.”

  “A company owns it? What kind of company is this?” I ask.

  “That I don't know,” he admits. “I wasn't really able to find out much about it. It's called FireStarter LLC, and it's listed as special interests.”

  “Well, isn't that vague as hell. It's like the house in Iowa that was listed as being owned by a company called Spice Enya," I mutter.

  Dean and I both know that was a cover for the rescue organization my mother worked for before I was born, and until she was murdered. That was the organization that rescued Dean's mother from the clutches of a horrifically abusive man, only for her to end up encountering Jonah and falling under his spell.

  “Honestly, it's not all that unusual for people and companies to set up LLCs. Occasionally they can be façades, bordering on shady, but most of the time, they’re completely legitimate. Having different entities keeps ventures organized and can allow someone to delve into different types of business without having a personal name out in the public,” he says.

  “Agent Griffin?”

  I turn toward the sound of my name and see the receptionist coming out of the building toward me.

  “Yes?”

  “I have to go,” Dean says. “I'll see you later.”

  I nod and wave at him, then turn back to the receptionist.

  “Detective White just called,” she says. “The jail got in contact with him, and they want you there.”

  “At the jail?” I ask.

  “That's all he said,” she tells me. “He said he tried to call you, but you didn't answer.”

  I check my pockets for my phone and realize I don't have it. I must have left it at the restaurant.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate your bringing me the message.”

  Getting in my car, I decide to go back by the restaurant first. I need to have my phone with me. It's on the way to the jail, so it will only be a couple of minutes’ detour. When I get there, I notice the parking lot in front of the restaurant is empty. It had several cars in it when I left, but apparently, everybody has finished lunch at the same time.

  I go to the front door of the restaurant and pull on the handle, but the door doesn't move. Confused by the locked door, I check the hours listed on the sign next to it. It should be open, so I try the door again. When it still won't move, I knock. A few seconds later, I hear a click, and the door opens. Lorenzo Tarasco looks out at me and gives a wide smile.

  "Agent Griffin. You've come back," he says. "Is there something else you have a taste for?"

  "I think I might have forgotten my phone here," I say.

  "Oh, well, come in, and we will look," he says.

  He steps out of the way so I can walk past him into the restaurant. I glance around and see no one inside. The empty space gives me an uneasy feeling, but before I get to the table, the kitchen door opens, and the staff pours back into the dining room. Realizing I must have caught them during a break, I snatch my phone from where it's sitting on the chair beside the one I was using, show it to Tarasco, and smile.

  "Found it. Thank you. Sorry to disturb you."

  "You aren't," he reassures me. "Please. Visit anytime."

  I leave the restaurant with the strange feeling still tingling on the back of my neck, but I don't have time to dwell on it. Getting to the jail as fast as I can, I hurry inside.
The warden meets me right inside the door.

  “He wants to speak with you,” he says.

  “Detective White?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “Xavier Renton. He's been agitated all day and specifically requested you.”

  “Do you know what's wrong?” I ask.

  “No. He's been muttering to himself and pacing. We brought him paper and coloring pencils, which are usually something he enjoys. He seems particularly on edge.”

  “Do you usually bring things like that to people serving time for murder?” I ask.

  “This isn't a prison, Agent Griffin. He was brought here to this particular facility during the review of his trial and conviction so he can be more closely monitored.”

  “Are you telling me this is a psychiatric unit?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “Not officially. But we are better equipped than other facilities to manage more particular needs, like Renton’s.”

  “What management are you talking about?" I ask.

  The warden offers a vaguely condescending smile.

  "Drawing. Therapists, if he wants to take advantage of them. Exercise programs. As I said, Agent, it's not a psychiatric facility," he tells me.

  "I should get in there to him," I say.

  I go through the process of checking into the facility, and they take me to a different room than the one where I first met Xavier. This one is smaller, more restrictive. There are only two wooden chairs with thin cushions and a table between them. Xavier is walking around the edge of the table under the intensely watchful eye of the officer standing by the door again.

  "Xavier?" I say.

  He looks up, and when he sees me, he rushes toward me. The officer lunges forward to get between us.

  "No touching," he says.

  "Take the drawings from the table," Xavier says. "Find them. Find them. Find them. She doesn't call anymore. Not even on Tuesdays. She doesn't call. Find them."

  "Find the drawings?" I ask. I walk over to the table and pick up a stack of papers. "These? Is this what you wanted me to find?"

  "Find them," Xavier repeats. "I tried to tell her not to. I tried to tell her. They build people from nothing. They make people into nothing. From clay to mud."

  "Do you mean ashes to ashes?"

  He shakes his head so hard I'm afraid he's going to fall over. "No. Prometheus. Clay. She called. She always called. She said she always would. Find them. I almost did. I almost did."

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Xavier suddenly looks exhausted and drops down to sit in one of the chairs. I notice the package of peanuts sitting on the table and wonder if another snack ever chooses him.

  "They're all around. Hiding in plain sight," he mutters. "No one knows what they're capable of."

  "Who, Xavier?"

  "I never found out."

  "Did Lakyn?"

  It's a guess, but his hand clenching a piece of paper tells me I'm following the breadcrumbs.

  “She was going to. She never came back. I told her not to. She wasn't ready.”

  “Am I ready?” I ask.

  He looks at me as if he's teetering on the edge; all the tight, contained sparks inside him are sizzling and shooting out, bouncing erratically around the room. I crouch down beside the table, softening my voice, so it's just the two of us.

  "A ceiling is not a floor; a floor is not a ceiling. There's space between them. Space and air. Andrew knew that. He knew there was air. He knew about the emergency air supply you built into the garage. And if I'm not wrong, he knew the way you built to get out. No one else knew. Only the two of you. He couldn't escape because he was already gone by the time he was put in there. By someone you didn't trust and who didn't know that secret. It wasn't Andrew's turn, and it wasn't yours. But maybe I can take mine now."

  Xavier’s eyes change. He's here again, the energy that was frantic around the room now contained back within him.

  "Find them."

  I leave Xavier and go to the administrative offices. Warden Light is standing at the receptionist's desk and looks up curiously when he sees me.

  "Agent Griffin. Is everything alright? Did something happen with Renton?" he asks.

  There's an edge to the way he asks it, as if he's waiting for something terrible to happen with Xavier. I shake my head.

  "No. You're right, he's agitated, but he's trying to get people to listen to him," I tell him.

  "It's impossible to make sense of anything he's saying. That's the problem," the warden says. "I would think you would have listened to what the sheriff told you."

  My spine straightens, and I do my best not to let him see that he's getting to me.

  "I think you're mistaken about what listening means. On both accounts. I can tell you that Xavier Renton might think differently than you do, but it's not impossible to make sense of what he's saying if you try. Stop just hearing the words he's saying and try listening to them separate from anything else. You might just find that he makes a lot of sense. And the reason I'm here is because he told me Lakyn Monroe called him, but she stopped. That she said she would call, and she didn't," I say.

  "He's talking about the message system,” Warden Light says. He starts walking toward the back of the offices, and I fall into step behind him. “Having people on the outside being able to call into a jail is not practical. That's why the vast majority of facilities only allow outgoing calls. That's the case for us, as well. But we have implemented a message retrieval system that allows people from the outside to communicate with an inmate without that inmate having to call them.”

  “So, people can call in, but they can't speak directly to the inmate,” I say.

  “Exactly,” he nods. He leads me into another office and walks up to a tall desk. The woman behind it looks up as he drops his hand to the top of the counter. “This is Ruth. She can tell you all about it. Ruth, this is Agent Griffin. She wants to know more about the messaging system. I'll be in my office if you need me.”

  He walks away, and Ruth turns in her chair to stand up and walk around to me, suggests for me to follow her, and we walk through a glass door into another room filled with small computer consoles.

  “This is the messaging center,” she explains. “Essentially, each of the inmates has an individual line. They can give their codes to friends and family. Anybody they want to. Those people can then use that code to call in and leave a message for the inmate. The messages are kept here and reviewed by staff a few times a day. Messages are then played for the inmates if they are deemed appropriate.”

  “What happens to the messages then?” I ask.

  “They're kept for six months. That way, they can be reviewed or referenced if there are any complaints, questions, anything that might be answered by them,” she says. “When staff listens to the messages, they give a voice tag they indicate they are starting to listen, then another at the end to record the date and time when that message was listened to by the inmates. That creates accountability and ensures all inmates get the messages they are supposed to get when they're supposed to get them.”

  “Could I listen to the messages to Xavier Renton?” I ask.

  She hesitates, and I hold up a hand. “Don't worry about it. I'll go ask the warden.”

  I don't want to put the responsibility on her shoulders, to ask her to make a decision she might not know how to make. She knows her job is sensitive in nature and might decide just to keep the recordings from me to protect herself from getting in trouble. But I need the best shot I can to get my hands on those tapes.

  The receptionist directs me to Warden Light’s office, and I knock on the door. He immediately calls to invite me in. I try to open the door, but it won't move. A split second later, there's a click, and I'm able to open the door. He smiles at me when I walk inside.

  "I'm sorry about that. The door has an automatic locking system for security. I have to remember to deactivate it when someone comes to the door. Did you find out about the messaging system?" he asks.
<
br />   He's holding something in his hands, rolling it back and forth through his palms and fingers. Occasionally I catch a flash of glossy black before it disappears behind his skin again.

  "Yes. It's really an interesting system. It's a great way to make sure people can stay in touch with their loved ones and give them information they need, even if they aren't able to talk to them immediately."

  "That was the intention," he says with a wider grin. It's the type of grin my grandmother would have called a “good-old-boy smile.”

  "I came to ask permission to listen to Xavier Renton's old messages. Ruth says they are kept for six months after they're left. They might contain information about Lakyn Monroe that could prove helpful."

  "If there was information about her whereabouts on those messages, we would know," he tells me. “We listen to every one of them, and if anything is suspicious or questionable, someone brings a report to me.”

  “I understand that,” I say. “And I am sure if she called during the time when she was supposed to be missing, or she left a message indicating where she was going, that you would know immediately. But she might have said something that isn't as readily recognizable. Something that can have to do with other pieces of the case. I would really appreciate it if I was able to hear those messages. I'm sure if you asked Xavier, he would give permission for me to listen to them.”

  The warden stares at me for a few seconds then sets the small black ball he's holding down on the corner of a stack of papers in front of him.

  “I'll have to get him to sign a release, but if he gives permission, I don't see any reason you shouldn't be able to listen to them.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He makes a few calls, then walks over to a large filing cabinet on the far side of the office. He pulls out a file and brings it back to the desk.

  "So much of what we do is kept on computers these days, but there's nothing like solid, reliable paper," he says.

  It sounds as if he's trying to make a joke, but I actually understand the files. Computer files are easily corruptible or could be deleted. Even if they are completely secure, they require technology to access, and that isn't always possible or convenient. A paper file can simply be handed from person to person, and all it takes to read what's inside is to open it. I've known of countless other facilities that keep hard copies of all records and regularly scan them into the computer system for a backup.