by G. K. Parks
I sighed and rubbed my neck. “Did you ever check into Griffin’s B&B story?”
“Not yet.”
“Want to take a drive? Maybe between now and then, I’ll get something more concrete for you to run with.”
“What the hell,” he put on his jacket, “I need to go down there anyway before I can close the interview file.”
* * *
I was sitting in the passenger seat of an unmarked police cruiser as Det. O’Connell drove down Route 9 toward the Cat’s Cradle. What types of people actually enjoyed the B&B experience? B&Bs were never my thing. It was the equivalent of being subjected to staying in a room in a stranger’s house, eating meals with even more strangers, and having to share a bathroom; it was like prison or college. My characterization was frighteningly similar to staying at Martin’s residence. Maybe I was a closeted B&B enthusiast. I shuddered at the thought. Luckily, I was rescued from this chilling realization by my phone ringing. It was Martin.
“Hey, everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he sounded preoccupied, “I got a call from the bank. The funds were authorized by Blake Denton.”
“So he stole the money?”
“I don’t know. It was his authorization code, but our banker doesn’t know who made the transfer. It was done electronically. You know Denton. He likes to delegate duties all over the place.”
Actually, I didn’t know that, but I kept my mouth shut. “Is Mark there?” I asked, changing the subject.
“No, he got called away on some work thing.” I could tell from his tone that Martin was reading something. “Rosemarie and Marcal are here. We’re fine.” Having extra people in the house was supposed to reassure me, but it didn’t. Regardless, I was too far away to do anything about it.
“Okay. Stay safe. Call if you need anything.” I hoped to get through to Martin, but I knew how he could be when he was focused on work.
He emitted a non-committal sound and hung up, leaving me to stare at the end call message on the screen.
“Good news?” O’Connell asked. I sensed a note of sarcasm.
“Do you think you might be able to subpoena someone’s financial records on a little more than a whim?” I asked. He gave me a quizzical look, and I told him about the missing funds, the twenty-five thousand dollar withdrawal, and my suspicions on how the money withdrawal matching Todd’s payoff seemed too coincidental.
“It’s worth a shot. I’ll pass it along and see if we can find a sympathetic judge to give us the go-ahead.” He pulled out his phone and relayed everything to Thompson. We might as well get the ball rolling in the right direction.
We pulled up to the Cat’s Cradle. It wasn’t much to look at, but hopefully, the management would remember Mrs. Griffin and be able to give us some details concerning her stay. We got out of the car, and he looked at me.
“Let me do the talking,” he warned. “I have the badge and the gun. You’re just here to silently observe.” I made a face but agreed to his terms.
We were greeted by a woman at the front desk who inquired if we would like a room. O’Connell flashed his badge and asked if she wouldn’t mind answering a few questions about a recent guest. The woman seemed surprised but located the relevant guest information from last weekend. I was amazed it wasn’t right on top, considering it had only been three or four days since Griffin’s alleged stay. Maybe the B&B business was much more lucrative than I imagined.
“Suzanne Griffin,” Ilene, the woman at the counter, repeated as she found the proper paperwork. “She stayed here Friday and Saturday night.”
O’Connell and I exchanged a glance. “Would you mind taking a look at a photo, just to make sure it’s the same Suzanne Griffin?”
Ilene looked at the picture. “That’s her. They were a very pleasant couple. What’s this all about?”
“Couple?” I blurted out, and O’Connell gave me a look. I shut my mouth and attempted to blend into the very busy wallpaper. A decent enough defense attorney could make a case for justified homicide based on the wallpaper pattern alone.
“She wasn’t alone?” he asked, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes since I just asked the same question.
“No, she was here with her husband. Well, I believe it was her husband. They checked in under Mr. and Mrs. Griffin.” She flipped the page around to show O’Connell the information. He glanced back at me. Sure, now you want my help, I thought, but I remained silent.
“Can you give us a description of the man?”
“I’m not a good guesser at age, but I’d say forties, brown hair, pretty average. Sweet man, though.” She was trying to think, or maybe she had gone into a trance from staring at the walls too long.
“Did anything stand out about him or their visit?” He was trying to cover all his bases, and she came slightly out of her trance.
“He left early Saturday before she did. He said something came up at work.”
“Where does he work?” I inquired, expecting O’Connell to glare at me again, but he let it go.
“I don’t know.” Ilene went back into her trance-like state.
Who was Griffin’s mystery man? The description was too old to be Todd; plus, he worked Saturday. But average described pretty much everyone.
“Thank you for your time. If we need anything else, is there a preferred number where we can reach you?” Ilene handed him a business card. He pocketed it and smiled at her. “Thanks. You have a lovely place. I might have to bring my wife for a romantic weekend.” He was buttering her up, hoping compliments would lead to more useful information, but Ilene just smiled. I didn’t think she knew anything else.
“Please tell me you really don’t think that’s a lovely place,” I whispered as we went to the car.
“It is lovely. What’s wrong with it?” he asked. My assessment actually confused him. I shook my head. The wallpaper violated the Geneva Convention’s sanction prohibiting torture, but I kept that thought to myself. “Any idea who might be Mr. Griffin?”
I had a hunch, but I wasn’t sure if it would pan out. “Give me a minute.” I dialed Martin’s number, and he answered on the second ring.
“What?” he greeted.
“Can you text me one of the photos you were e-mailed?”
The light bulb clicked on for O’Connell, and he enthusiastically agreed this was a good idea.
“I guess. Why?” Martin asked, confused.
“Just following a trail of breadcrumbs. Everything still quiet?” I asked.
“Okay, it’s sent.” He didn’t answer my second question.
“Thanks.” I waited to see if he was going to say anything else.
“I’ll see you later.” He disconnected, causing me to involuntarily roll my eyes. How could he still be in workaholic mode right now? Maybe he was keeping himself busy in order to avoid thinking about everything else that was going on.
“You want to go back in there and ask if that’s the guy?” O’Connell brought me out of my reverie.
“Yeah.” I opened the car door, and we went back inside. Zooming in solely on Blake Denton, I handed O’Connell my phone.
“Can I help you?” Ilene asked from the counter. Had she forgotten us already? Luckily, I saw recognition on her face. “Oh. Is there something else? Did you want to make a reservation now?”
I hid my chuckle, and he gave her a bright smile. “Actually, I have to check with my wife first to see when she’s free. But would you mind taking a look at this photo for us?” He held my phone out to Ilene, and she took it from him.
“That’s Mr. Griffin,” she said, proud of herself.
“Are you positive?”
“Absolutely.”
We exchanged a triumphant look. He thanked Ilene again for her time, and we got back into the car.
“I’ll bring Mr. Denton in for questioning. He might be a material witness in an ongoing homicide investigation.”
I rubbed my palms together. We were making progress.
“What was the
other call you were waiting on besides the bank information?” he asked as we headed back to the city.
“An image enhancement from the sabotage at Martin’s plant.” Full disclosure seemed fair at this point in the game. “But Agent Jablonsky got called away on something else,” I relayed Martin’s message, “so I don’t know when I’ll get it.”
“You think it relates back to this Denton character?” He sounded like a television cop.
“I don’t know. Martin isn’t even sure the bank authorization traces back to him, and that seemed like solid proof.” Martin knew Denton better than I did, so I was giving credence to Martin’s opinion since mine was already so negatively biased.
O’Connell caught on to my displeasure. “Just between you and me, do you think Denton’s involved?”
I mulled it over for a few moments. He was smart enough, capable, and in the right place at the right time, but he had also been one of the few people who opposed Martin relinquishing the company. Something just didn’t sit right.
“Honestly, I don’t know.” Denton’s drunken verbal assault at the charity banquet had thrown my instincts off. Whoever was behind this knew I wasn’t an assistant. The proof was in the box left on my table. Was Denton that great of an actor? Had the entire night been staged just to force me to react? And if it was Denton, did he hope I would tip my hand? “I can’t tell because even though I think it’s him, the only reason I think that is because of my great loathing for him.”
O’Connell seemed puzzled for a moment before replying, “It’s a good thing I’m a detective. If not, I wouldn’t have a clue what you just said.”
We rode the rest of the way in silence. O’Connell dropped me off at the precinct, and I got in my car and went back to Martin’s. I wasn’t comfortable leaving him alone any longer, not when things were so precarious right now. O’Connell promised to keep me in the loop, and I just hoped we had overturned the right stones to get this investigation back on track.
Thirty-one
When I arrived at Martin’s house, I expected to see Marcal in the garage or Martin working in his second floor office. Instead, no one was to be found. I tried to keep my paranoia down to a minimum as I went up the stairs to the fourth floor. I knocked on the bedroom door.
“Martin?” I called through the door. I heard movement inside and waited, resisting the urge to pull out my gun. Martin opened the door, wearing nothing but a bath towel wrapped around his waist. “Sorry,” I said, flustered. “I just wanted to let you know I was back.”
“It’s okay.” He smirked, clearly amused by my embarrassment. “I just came in from a swim and was going to take a shower. If you want, you can join me to make sure it’s safe.” He cocked an eyebrow up and grinned wolfishly. He was going to be just fine.
Gracing him with my withering stare, I turned back to the stairs. “Maybe next time,” I mocked serious.
“Tease,” he called, shutting the door. Depressed Martin was bouncing back, even if it meant he was turning into womanizing Martin. In his case, having extreme mood swings was a beneficial thing.
I took the stairs down to my room to hang up my jacket and freshen up. Opening the closet, I noticed my dirty dry cleaning had been taken away and brand new clothing now stood in its place, tags still attached. I went into the bathroom. The towels had been changed, and everything had been tidied up. On my way out of the room, I noticed my sheets had also been changed and the carpeting had been vacuumed. At least Martin was on the level about Rosemarie being here earlier.
I rummaged around in the kitchen, still waiting for more calls to come in. The role I had initially adopted as Martin’s assistant wasn’t as much of an act as it was intended to be since a large portion of my job revolved around making calls or waiting on calls. Opening the refrigerator door, I made myself some lunch. The fridge had been restocked with freshly purchased items, and the pantry closet had been replenished. If Martin had gone out while I was gone, I was going to kill him. Taking my sandwich to the table, I sat down to eat. He came into the kitchen just as I was finishing my lunch.
“Food fairy brought all this stuff?” I asked around a mouthful of turkey and bread.
He sighed and sat across from me. “Marcal went grocery shopping. He does that, weekly even.”
I swallowed. “I noticed the clothes. You didn’t have to. It wasn’t necessary.” But he waved it off as if it were nothing.
“Thought you could use them. It’s just a few things to tide you over until everything calms down. Consider it part of expenses and incidentals.” The events of yesterday came crashing back to the forefront of my thoughts, and I shuddered, thinking about my apartment. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“No, it’s not that.” He understood and didn’t push the issue. “So, I went with O’Connell to check on some leads.” I hesitated, unsure what to tell him about Griffin and Denton. Maybe I needed to let things slide until something absolute surfaced. He sensed my trepidation and looked confused. “I don’t know what I should tell you and what I shouldn’t. Not anymore. It’s your business and your case, but the people involved, or who might be involved, you have personal relationships with them. Perhaps I should only give you information once it’s been corroborated.”
“I want to know,” he stared me down, “regardless.”
“Okay.” I filled him in on everything we learned today.
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“I don’t know. We’ll see what O’Connell finds out. In the meantime, it’d be nice if Mark got back to us with that photo enhancement.”
He let my comment go. Even though he wanted his life back, he probably wasn’t in a rush to find out, or potentially find out, people he trusted betrayed him and conspired against him.
He was acting a little squirrely, and I eyed him suspiciously. “I’m getting a bit stir crazy,” he admitted, and I stifled my laugh. “I know I haven’t been cooped up that long, but I’ve run out of things to do.”
“You must suck at vacations.”
He considered my comment for a moment. “Guilty as charged.”
“When this is over, I’ll find you a W.A. meeting to go to,” I promised, but he looked perplexed. “Workaholics anonymous.”
Chuckling, he took my empty plate to the sink. “Couldn’t you just take me along to your normal meeting?” he quipped.
“Ha. Ha. I am not that bad. I’ve successfully been unemployed for a few months. Well, before this job. Thank you very much.” I stopped and considered my own words. Since when was unemployment a bragging right?
“Normally, I have projects and hobbies and other things I can work on, but now I’m stuck.” He turned toward me, his eyes sparkling. “Maybe I’ll take up painting. Do you want to model?” I narrowed my eyes. “Just a thought.”
“So tell me something.” I leaned back in the chair as he finished putting the dishes away. “Tell me something about you. Something real.” I was attempting to have a genuine non-case related conversation. I’d been living at Martin’s for almost a week, so maybe I should know something about my employer.
He sat down and thought for a moment. “Well, I’m a Libra, but most people figure I’m a Taurus.” Why did I expect him to be serious about anything? “Okay, you want serious?” The way he said it sounded like a challenge.
“Go for it,” I taunted.
“I inherited Martin Technologies from my father when I was twenty-six years old. I had just completed my MBA from Harvard and had no idea what to do. I was a crazy kid, thinking I could build an empire.” He was a little lost in thought. “I made a lot of mistakes starting out, bad investments and unreliable people. Dad’s motto was if something doesn’t work, then work harder. I guess you could say I’m still doing that today.” He seemed sad.
“You have an empire,” I replied. “You are allowed to stop working so damn hard.” He shrugged it off. “I’m sure your dad would tell you the same thing.”
He laughed cynically. “I doubt that. He loved one thing,
and that was the company.”
“What happened to him?” I regretted asking the moment the words left my mouth.
Martin frowned and barely shook his head, quickly changing the subject. “Let’s see, what else?” He looked at the ceiling, contemplating what to say next. “I tend to favor smartass brunettes, especially ones who aren’t afraid to call me out on my shit.” He grinned and flipped a piece of my brown hair over my shoulder.
“Don’t forget the part about how I could probably kick your ass fairly easily.” I made a so-so gesture with my hand, and he laughed.
“You wish.”
I got up from the table and stood in front of his chair. “You know what? I have an idea.” I winked and went into the living room, surveying the area. Too much furniture. I opened the door to the garage and headed down the stairs. “Are you coming?”
Besides having a large garage/showroom, the first floor was divided into a few extra rooms I hadn’t noticed. There was a small home gym, a bathroom and shower, what I assumed was Martin’s work area, complete with power tools and things of that nature, a small lounge like area, and plenty of empty open spaces.
“What do you want to do? Inhale paint fumes or carbon monoxide?” he asked, heading down the stairs.
“We can do that later, when we get bored.” I stretched my arms and back, enjoying the puzzled look he was giving me. “Limber up. I’m going to teach you some basic defenses. You never know when you might need them.”
“Please,” as if it were beneath him. I continued to stretch, and he gave in and played along. Luckily, he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans today instead of a suit. But his shirt alone cost more than everything I had on. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he patronized.
“As if you could,” I trash talked in the hopes of getting him to go along with my plan. He seemed unperturbed by my challenge. “Fine. How’s this sound? If you hurt me, you get to kiss it and make it better.” I pursed my lips and blew a kiss. He laughed, and a mischievous glint quickly crossed his features. I was aware of my flirtation, but I was just happy he wasn’t depressed. “So, let’s say I’m unarmed,” I said, circling around.
