by Jenn Faulk
“What?” he asks. Then, “I’m not done trying to find him . . .”
It’s embarrassing, how this brings a lump to my throat. Or it would be, if I wasn’t just so touched. I hardly know Peter, but knowing that I’m not on my own in this is so comforting that I wonder how I would have survived these last two days without him.
“Really?” I ask softly.
“Well of course,” he says, sounding surprised that I didn’t already know this. “I still think I can track him down . . .”
“How?” I ask. “What can I do to help?”
“The way I see it,” he begins, “there are two things that could have happened. First of all, he could have really been robbed—like he said. The other thing that could have happened is that he could have been working with someone to make it look like he got robbed. At first, I thought maybe that’s where Crystal would fit into all of this—I thought that maybe she helped him rob himself—you know . . . so they could get the insurance money?”
“Insurance money?” I ask. “If he was entitled to insurance money, then why would he run?”
It doesn’t make any sense to me. Maybe I’m not devious enough to think up reasons why someone would deliberately cheat and lie like this, but I can’t fathom why Brandon would do any of this when he was doing so well already. He had a good life. The only thing I thought might have made him run was running away from Crystal and taking Emma with him . . .
Does Peter even think that Emma is still with Brandon?
I take a breath at this, even more terrified at the thought of Emma with someone else.
But who?
“Peter,” I ask, “do you think he still has Emma with him?”
“Well . . . well I don’t know,” he admits. “Where else would she be? Right now I’m just trying to figure out if he was involved in the robbery or not. If he was, then I need to track down the money. If not . . .” he hesitates. “Then I don’t know exactly what we’re going to do to find him.”
“How are you going to find out if he was involved in the robbery?” I ask. “Is there something I can do? I feel like I’m just waiting around, helpless . . .”
“What can you tell me about him?” Peter asks. “Like, who worked for him? Where did he hang out? What did he do in his spare time?”
It’s pitiful how little I actually know. I had a child with the man, but I’m not totally clear on all the details of his life.
That’s how he was. On his phone so much, working all the time, dismissing my questions with a smile because Maggie, let’s not spend the time we have talking about business . . .
But I know a few things.
“He has a couple of employees in his office,” I tell Peter. “A receptionist. Another travel agent. He also has people who work for him remotely—taking calls when he or the other agent can’t answer the phone. But the police have already probably searched high and low and looked into the business records, his employees’ personal accounts, all of that.”
I take a breath, wondering if maybe one of them is involved.
What did Brandon do apart from the time he spent on his phone, working on the go? What did he do when he wasn’t in the office?
“He worked out a lot,” I say. “Always coming or going from the gym, with that phone up against his ear. That’s how I met him. Well, not at the gym but at the coffee shop. He’d work out in the mornings then come across the street to get coffee.”
“Which gym?”
“Powercross Gym,” I say, refraining from rolling my eyes. “It’s like a cult. Personal trainers, minimalist equipment. Brandon tried to talk me into it, back before we got involved, but it was too intense.”
He’d talked me into plenty, but I had no desire to go over and be a part of the competitive, testosterone-fueled sweat fest in that place. Even the women were obsessed with it.
“Okay,” Peter says, and he sounds like he might be writing something down. He’s quiet for a minute before he says, “This helps a little bit . . .”
“Not really,” I say, thinking of how hopeless this all is. We’re no closer to Emma than we were when we started. I wonder what Peter is really thinking, if there’s something he’s not telling me.
Right now, though? The only thing I can do is trust him.
“But I trust you, Peter.”
And that’s going to have to be enough for now.
~Peter~
After I get off the phone with Maggie, I spend over five hours trying once again to figure out exactly where the money went. I have to find Brandon—by Thursday—so I have to find the money. That Brandon worked out a lot and enjoyed drinking coffee doesn’t seem too important. That he has a couple of employees who worked out of Serra Travel in North Naples, however, does.
Transfer requests from one account to another, or from one bank to another, would have been fairly easy to trace. You can’t just take money from a bank without leaving a record of exactly where it went. But Brandon’s money disappeared without a trace and it takes me quite a while to figure out exactly how Brandon’s business worked and exactly how his accounts were drained. Once I piece it together, though, I must admit that I kind of admire whoever did it. Whether it be Brandon himself, or someone who ripped him off . . . it was rather genius.
Years ago, Brandon set up Serra Travel so that each customer had an account into which they could deposit money to pay for all of the expenses associated with their trips. They could add on tours or upgrade rooms at any time, simply by putting more money into their accounts. The business would then remove the money from the accounts and directly make whatever payments were necessary to various cruise lines, hotels, or tour companies. Payments could be made from the accounts to any place, at any time.
On the day that Brandon’s accounts were emptied, relatively small payments—less than $5,000 each—were placed from Brandon’s accounts into over 200 of his customer’s accounts. Then the same amounts were immediately transferred out . . .
Who knows to where.
Normally I could trace it—find out exactly where the money had gone. But every single customer account and the entire payment system itself, was gone. Closed down. Wiped clean.
There was undoubtedly a record somewhere—a way to trace things—but I don’t have any idea what it is. My abilities to hack into accounts don’t do any good when those accounts don’t exist anymore.
It’s still fairly early, but my searches are getting me nowhere and I’m exhausted. Closing my computer, I crawl into bed, only mildly discouraged that I haven’t yet figured out where Brandon’s money went. Mostly I feel better that I understand more about what was going on, and I’m now certain of one thing: whoever did this had intimate knowledge of how Brandon’s business was run and exactly how customer accounts worked. I’m also confident that whoever it was had direct access to every single username and password of each customer Brandon has ever had.
As I fall asleep, I remember what Maggie told me at the coffee shop: He has a couple of employees from his office. A receptionist. Another travel agent.
It’s time for a visit to North Naples.
~Maggie~
“Golf clubs?”
The chicken I’ve raised to my lips using my chopsticks teeters just a fraction of an inch from my mouth. I look at Tanner, acknowledging the question, and nod before taking the bite.
It’s good. So good. Had Tanner not come into town late tonight, I probably wouldn’t have eaten. It’s easy to skip meals when all I do is worry, but just like he’s always done during times of need, Tanner has come through with a meal and honesty.
“They talked about golf clubs?” he clarifies, his blue eyes meeting mine across the table. I can see the absurdity of what I’ve just shared, right there in his gaze.
It’s comforting, knowing that I’m not crazy.
“Yes,” I say. “All the questions I would have asked, and Peter just sat around and talked about golf clubs.”
“You would have asked,” Tanner points out
, taking a bite for himself. “But you didn’t. You said you didn’t manage to say anything while you were there.”
True. So true.
“What could I say?” I murmur. “She was just . . . I don’t know. I was just frozen.”
Frozen and embarrassed and terrified and apprehensive and . . .
Just a whole lot of emotions involved when you meet the wife of the man who’s fathered your child and all, which you would expect.
“I don’t know,” Tanner says. “You could have asked her how long she’s known about Emma, whether she knows Emma’s missing, where she is—”
“I’m sure she doesn’t know any of that,” I say. “Peter said that she doesn’t know where Brandon even is.” I take a breath, thinking of how Peter almost absolved her from all wrongdoing. “Peter doesn’t think she’s involved in any way.”
Tanner gives me a funny look.
“You irritated with Peter?” he asks.
My tone likely suggests it, but that’s not what my irritation is about.
“No,” I say. “No, I’m fine with Peter. He’s great, and he’s still working on finding Emma. He just . . . he just took her side.”
There I go again. There are no sides in this. It’s not about Brandon or their marriage or any of that. It’s about Emma. It’s all about Emma.
But still. Something about Peter, almost defending Crystal . . .
Tanner puts down his chopsticks and looks at me.
He raises one eyebrow and grins, just slightly.
“What?” I ask, refraining from rolling my eyes. “What are you thinking?”
“Took her side?” he asks. “Didn’t know it was you against her.”
“It’s not,” I say. “It’s just Peter was helping me, is still helping me, and . . . I don’t know. He just took me over there and was strong and capable with his questions to her, with giving her answers, with getting me out of there when it was clear that she was done with us. It felt like he was . . . you know, with me in all of this. Like he wanted to find Emma as much as I did. And not just because I’m paying him.”
Payment. That’s something that Peter and I haven’t talked about yet. There’s no telling what all of this is going to cost me.
“With you, in all of this,” Tanner says, quoting me. “Even though he’s weird.”
Well, yes, he’s weird. But I find myself wanting to stand up for him.
“Maybe a little,” I say. “But he’s genuine. And caring. And . . .”
I think about Peter and all that I don’t know about him. But what he’s shown me so far, what I know to be true—
“Good grief, Maggie,” Tanner sighs. “Do you have a crush on him?”
At this, a little bit of rice starts to go down the wrong way. I put my chopsticks down and cough into my hand, as unladylike as possible.
I glare at Tanner.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “You’re the one who said he was caring.”
“You’re caring,” I say, my voice finally back. “And I don’t have a crush on you.”
“Let’s hope not,” Tanner says. “Because eww.”
“And I think I’m just about done with men, given the current debacle I’m facing because of a man,” I say. That’s the honest truth.
Maybe.
“Uh-huh,” Tanner says, like he knows something I don’t.
“Shut up,” I say. “I don’t have a crush. He’s still weird, remember?”
“You may have mentioned that,” Tanner agrees, picking his chopsticks back up.
“Besides, all I can think about is getting Emma back,” I say, taking a breath and glancing at my phone again.
I’ve had it right next to me all evening, just waiting for a word from Peter.
Tanner notices and looks at me questioningly.
I think of Emma, wondering if Peter’s having any luck.
“Just waiting on a miracle.”
~Peter~
Serra Travel is located just off Vanderbilt Beach Road in North Naples, and I find it easily despite the morning traffic. It’s a small building but not modest. Modest wouldn’t really fly in North Naples. From the antiqued brick facade and terra cotta tiles on the overhang to the wrought iron window boxes overflowing with geraniums, I feel like I’ve suddenly been dropped down into the other Naples . . .
Inside, things are just as impressive, and I have the strongest desire to actually visit Italy. I’d always envisioned a travel agency as having a bunch of posters on walls and brochures on counters. Those items are here, but their presentation is unbelievable. I can’t imagine how much Brandon paid an interior designer to make this place feel so authentic and welcoming. I have absolutely no money, but I’m ready to book my flight.
“Good morning,” A woman rises from her leather swivel seat and smiles at me warmly. “Come right in. How can I help you?”
She is about sixty years old. Very well put together. Friendly. Competent. Exactly the kind of person a wealthy traveler would want to have in charge of their vacation plans.
“Hello,” I say. “My name is Peter Garrison. I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me.”
She smiles again. A warm smile. “It’s so nice to meet you. My name is Catherine Thomas,” she says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’ll do my best to answer anything I can.”
Yep. I’m going to Italy one day.
“Do you know where I can find Brandon Keller?” I ask.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “but Mr. Keller is out of the country right now.”
“I consulted with the police about three weeks ago,” I tell her. “They were investigating a large sum of money that disappeared from Brandon’s accounts. Do you know about that?”
“Of course,” she says, no longer smiling. I watch her face. So far, it has betrayed nothing.
“Brandon talked to me, too,” I say purposefully. “He gave me his account numbers and everything. He was cooperating.”
“Of course he was,” she says. “He didn’t—” All of a sudden she stops midsentence and narrows her eyes. “You’re the one who convinced the police he was involved somehow.”
“That’s what I thought,” I admit. “But now I’m not so sure.”
“He didn’t have anything to do with it,” Catherine insists, shaking her head. “Mr. Keller would never do such a thing. He’s a fine man. A wonderful man. So full of integrity.”
Integrity?
“Do you know Emma?” I ask. That kind of slipped out . . .
“Of course I do,” Catherine says, the smile returning to her face. “She comes in here and plays when Brandon has work to do. I get to watch her.” Absolutely beaming now, Catherine continues, “She calls me Kitty Cat. We were trying to get her to say ‘Aunt Cat,’ but you know how toddlers are.”
Actually I have no idea how toddlers are, but I nod.
“Do you know where Emma is?” I ask.
“She’s with her mother.”
“No.” I shake my head. “She’s not.”
“But Brandon went to Sicily on Friday,” Catherine says slowly, looking puzzled. “He dropped Emma off at her daycare on his way to the airport.”
“No,” I say again. “He never dropped her off at daycare . . . and he didn’t go to Sicily, either.”
Catherine’s eyes widen.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say. “The police confirmed that he never made his flight.”
“Where is he?” she asks with growing alarm.
“I don’t know,” I remind her. “That’s why I’m looking for him. I’m trying to find Emma.”
She looks away, her brows knit in puzzlement.
“Emma,” she says softly, mostly to herself. Then she looks back to me. “She’s not with her mother?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Her mother hired me to find her. Do you have any idea where Brandon might have taken her?”
“Brandon wouldn’t take her anywhere!” Catherine cries. “Have
you gone to his house? Have you talked to Crystal?”
I nod. “Crystal hasn’t seen him since last week.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Catherine says, her hand flying to her mouth. “She must be absolutely frantic. I haven’t heard anything about this! Why haven’t the police been in here asking questions? Why hasn’t this been all over the news?”
“Because the police aren’t looking for him,” I explain. “They believe that he left of his own accord.”
“But if Crystal reported him missing—”
“Crystal didn’t report him missing. She thinks he left of his own accord, too.”
“He wouldn’t just disappear like that,” Catherine says worriedly. “It’s just not something he would do. If he’s missing, it’s because something has happened to him—something horrible! I can’t believe the police aren’t looking for him.”
“I’m looking for him,” I say carefully.
She eyes me uncertainly.
“I just want to talk to him,” I assure her. “I want to make sure Emma’s okay.”
She presses her lips together and surveys me for a long moment before finally nodding.
“Will you help me?” I ask.
She nods again.
A few minutes later I’m seated in Brandon’s office in front of his computer. There’s a large monitor on the wall displaying the same things shown on Brandon’s smaller desktop monitor. “For his clientele to be able to see everything comfortably,” Catherine explained to me. Now she’s seated where clients would sit, watching the big screen as I view the smaller one.
“What are you looking for?” Catherine asks after many minutes of futile searching.
“When something’s been deleted,” I explain, “it’s not usually really ‘gone.’ It’s stored in memory until that space is needed.”
“What do you think has been deleted?” she asks. “What are you after?”
“The program he used for client accounts. The one that disappeared.”
“That was on his laptop.”
His laptop.
I sigh and sit back.
