Page 55 of Sinister Secrets

“About that.”

“What about it?”

There’s a lengthy pause filled by the nausea-inducing sound of his chewing. A gulp as he swallows. Then, “None of them have working cameras.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I assure you, it’s not.”

“Lyle, there are three restaurants and four gas stations on that list. Are you really going to tell me that not one of them has any footage we can use?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

He has to be lying. Anger burns bright inside me, igniting the remaining fumes of my hangover into flames. Do I deserve this? Is this my punishment for letting loose last night?

“Have you checked to see if any of the nearby businesses have cameras that show the parking lots? Requested footage from any of the tollbooths along the route? Talked to any of the employees who were working that day, maybe sent them a photo to see if they recognize me?”

“Nope.”

“Are you planning to?” When he doesn’t answer, I ask, “You don’t really believe I had anything to do with this crime, do you?”

“Quite honestly? I don’t know what to believe. All I know for sure is that there are only twenty-four hours in a day and I’m already working too many of them. If you want someone to jump through all these hoops for you, you’re going to have to find someone else. It’s not my job.”

My mouth drops. I stare at the phone in my hand.

“Are you kidding me? That’s exactly what—”

The call timer vanishes. He’s hung up.

I don’t know why I’m so surprised, but I am. The man would gladly see me go to prison for a crime I didn’t commit if it meant more time for him to slack off. It was foolish of me to believe otherwise. I don’t know why I ever trusted him.

But why had I trusted him? I knew the kind of man he was. Had a handful of civil words from him actually been enough to make me overlook our past interactions? Or had I been so desperate to believe that all my hard work and sacrifices over the years actually meant something? That the girl from the swamp had managed to mature into a woman who deserved respect.

My fingers tap at the screen, bringing Jake’s number up. I stare at it, unable to decide what to do. Was I being stubborn yesterday, falling back into my old habits when I kept what was going on to myself? Or is handling this without his help really part of my healing process?

I know I can find a way to solve this on my own, but should I? I decide to hedge my bets and come up with a third option—middle ground.

Setting the phone down, I grab my laptop and forward the emails I sent Kingston yesterday to Director Lopez. I hate to do it—I’m sure I must be making a horrible impression on my new boss—but I have to keep ahead of what’s happening.

It’s better he learns about the twist this case has taken from me than anyone else, and he’ll be able to put in the requests for the footage that will prove my innocence without me jeopardizing the integrity of the evidence by doing it myself. But it’s not enough. I need a backup plan.

Bringing up the photo app on my phone, I locate the picture I took of the account statement I found in the box of Gordon’s belongings from the real estate office. The bank is one that I recognize, not a national institution, but a regional one. Though the name of the account holder—Greg Moore—is common enough to generate endless hits, if I narrow it down by the area of Southwest Florida where the bank has locations, maybe it will leave me with a manageable list.

Accessing the bank’s website, I discover that they only operate in two counties. Using that information in conjunction with the name Greg Moore, I scan the results. Immediately, I’m able to discount any social media profiles with the name. If Gordon truly was using it as an alias, he wouldn’t have a picture of himself associated with it.

I’m not left with much. Several links to Florida’s mugshot database, the county’s criminal case search, and the voter roll, none of which are likely to pan out. Some Yelp reviews, also not likely. And a news article about a hit and run. Curious, I click the link.

Skimming the page that opens, I learn that last year a sixty-three-year-old man had been struck from behind while walking home from his shift at the local water department. Given the victim’s lack of family, one enterprising young reporter had taken it on herself to ask the neighbor who rented the other half of the duplex the slain man had lived in for a quote. That neighbor’s name? Greg Moore.

This could be nothing, just someone who actually bears the name, and yet there’s no denying the tiny hitch in the beat of my heart. The one whispering for me to keep digging.

Going back to the top of the article, I read more carefully, but no address is listed, only the street where the victim lived. It doesn’t matter, though. In Florida, municipally owned utility records are open to the public. Using the name of the water department the man worked for, I’m able to find an address for Greg Moore on the road in question.

Entering it into the navigation app on my phone, I discover that it’s just over an hour away, but from town it would be closer—certainly close enough for Gordon to make the drive on a regular basis. True, Gordon had a place of his own, but if I were in collusion with a shady company that had me trying to dupe an entire neighborhood into selling their houses, I’d want a place where I could retreat to and hide out in case something went wrong.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Judging by the amounts of the deposits, he was certainly being paid enough to fund a backup plan. And if an angry mob was after you, an irate homeowner with vengeance in mind, or a real estate mogul that you failed to secure a property for, like when my grandfather refused to sell, you wouldn’t want to risk going anywhere they knew they could find you.

Bringing up the county’s property tax appraiser website, I use the address to check for the owner of the duplex. Learn that it’s titled under Sun Rentals, LLC. A quick search provides me with a number to call.