TWENTY-SEVEN
Carter
Back at Guardian HRS headquarters, the disappointment of what we’ve seen hangs heavy in the air. The team is quiet as we file into the briefing room, each of us lost in our thoughts.
“We need to go over everything, piece by piece.” Blake is the first to break the silence. “There has to be something we missed.”
“That place was wiped clean. Sanitized. Lots of money behind that cleanup job.” I scratch at the back of my neck, feeling stumped.
“I agree with you there.” Ethan leans back, frustration evident in his tone.
“From utility records, it looks like that place has been abandoned for at least two years.” Mitzy leans toward her screen.
“Where does this leave us?” Gabe pushes back from the table with a groan.
“We lean on old-fashioned detective work.” I hate to come across yet another dead end, but it’s part of the process.
“Such as?” Blake’s eyes narrow, the hint of superiority clear. He doesn’t think my old detective methods will find anything Guardian HRS can’t.
“We trace the funds used to build the place. The funds used to maintain it.” I scratch my chin, thinking. “They had to have maids and gardeners. Security was probably handled internally. In my experience, the little things always lead us to whoever’s behind this.”
Blake’s skeptical expression doesn’t waver, but I press on.
“We look at utility bills, deliveries, maintenance records. Who delivered their food? What about waste disposal? Someone had to pay for electricity, water, and internet.”
I pace a bit, the gears in my mind turning. “We dig through property records and zoning permits. No matter how well they think they’ve covered their tracks, there’s always a paper trail. We can check for any nearby businesses or residents who might have noticed unusual activity.”
I stop and meet Blake’s gaze, making sure he understands. “And don’t forget surveillance footage from traffic cameras or neighboring properties. We chase the money and look for patterns in everything surrounding the building. Someone, somewhere, saw something.”
With years of detective work behind me, I know what to look for. It’s going to be a slog, but I don’t mind hard work.
“Carter’s right.” Mitzy is already typing furiously on her laptop, furrowing her brow in concentration. “I’m on it.”
“It’s more than maids and gardeners.” I pull at my chin, feeling the scruff of a beard poking through. “It’s the carpenters and repairmen. Windows need replacement. Doors need new seals. Tiles get cracked. A florist, if they bothered with flowers. Security cameras and others. If we can get the serial numbers…”
“Already on it. Sending the bumblebee drones in to pull that data,” Mitzy interjects without missing a beat.
“That’s great.” Yet again, Guardian HRS impresses me with their capabilities. “They can do a lot of things internally, security being one of them, but they still had to buy the hardware. And then there are the service providers—the electricians, plumbers, HVAC specialists. They leave traces.”
I pace a bit more, the puzzle pieces coming together in my mind. “We need to look at delivery logs and supplier lists. They might have used aliases, but there are always consistencies. Even fake identities leave patterns. ”
Mitzy kicks Ethan’s foot, prompting him to switch places with me. “Swap with Carter. It’s time to pick your detective’s brain.”
Ethan grins, shifting his chair. “Alright, Carter. Let’s dig deeper. What about the surrounding area? Any chance neighbors or local businesses noticed something?”
“Absolutely.” I appreciate the quick shift in gears. “We canvas the area. Talk to anyone who might have seen unusual activity. Delivery drivers, joggers, dog walkers. Everyone’s a potential witness.”
I take a seat, leaning over the table. “We also check for any unexplained surges in utility usage. Sudden spikes in electricity or water can indicate recent activity. Plus, we look at any unusual shipments. High-frequency deliveries of specific items can point to what was going on inside. I’m thinking booze. My guess is we’ll find large purchases of top-shelf alcohol. Those kinds of requests spark questions and curiosity. If we can find who supplied alcohol to that place, flowers for events… Catering.” My mind spins with possibilities.
Mitzy types rapidly, capturing every detail. “Got it. I’ll start compiling the data and cross-referencing with what we have.”
“Good.” I feel a renewed sense of hope. We follow every thread, no matter how small. It’s the meticulous work that breaks cases like this wide open. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that patience and persistence always pay off.
I appreciate Mitzy’s comment. I’ve felt a bit useless with the power and might of Guardian HRS. Their resources make me feel as if I have little to contribute to the case.
But the devil truly is in the details. That’s where I thrive, and I know exactly where to look.
The next few days are a blur of activity. Sam, CJ, and Ethan pore over satellite images of the compound, looking for any signs of recent activity. Stitch and Jeb comb through financial records, scouring public records to trace back the construction of the compound as far as possible. Blake, along with Gabe, Walt, and Hank, pore over the few physical pieces of evidence we managed to collect, hoping for a fingerprint, a stray hair, or anything .
No stone is left unturned.
It’s grueling, frustrating work, with each dead end and false lead chipping away at our resolve, but I refuse to give up, refuse to let Jenna or the girls down.
Mitzy and I work shoulder to shoulder, digging through the weeds, looking for anything that will tell us more about this organization.
But it’s slow going, and as the hours tick by and the days pass, my frustration mounts. Every dead end and false lead feel like a personal failure.
It’s late when I finally make it back to Jenna’s apartment. She’s curled up on the couch, Max’s head resting comfortably on her lap. The goofball has definitely made himself at home.
His tail thumps lazily against the cushions, but he’s too content soaking up all the attention Jenna’s giving him to get up and greet me. I chuckle at the sight.
“Some guard dog,” I mutter under my breath, finding it funny as hell, but then I notice the tension in the room, the way Jenna’s shoulders are hunched.
She looks, her eyes shadowed and heavy with a haunted look.
“Hey.” I sink down beside her, pulling her into my arms. “Rough day?”
“The memories… They’re getting worse.” She leans against my chest, her fingers curling into my shirt. “It’s like, now that I’ve started remembering, I can’t stop.”
“I’m so sorry. I wish I could make it all go away.” My heart aches for her, for the pain she’s enduring.
“You being here helps.” Her voice is soft, muffled against my shoulder. “Knowing I’m not alone.”
We sit like that for a long time, just holding each other. Max whines softly, nuzzling Jenna’s hand. Even he can sense her distress.
That night, the nightmares come again. Jenna thrashes in her sleep, whimpering and crying out. I hold her close, whispering soothing words, but it’s like she’s trapped in a place I can’t reach. When she finally wakes, she clings to me, her body shaking with sobs .
“It was so real,” she gasps. “I was back there, in that room…”
“You’re safe now.” I stroke her hair, trying to calm her, but words offer only so much comfort.
The next morning. I kiss her forehead and gently extricate myself from her grasp, leaving a note on the nightstand before heading out.
Back at Guardian HRS, my determination is renewed. I comb through every piece of information. Hours pass, and I finally stumble upon something—a tiny discrepancy, easily overlooked. A delivery of flooring materials for an addition to the estate.
I dig deeper, tracing the company to its source. It’s a shell, of course, but every shell has an origin. I follow the paper trail, each step taking me deeper into the labyrinth of false leads and useless data.
I keep going, however, pulling threads that lead me through a tangled web of front companies and dummy corporations. It’s tedious, frustrating work, but I refuse to give up.
And then, buried under layers of obfuscation, I find it—the banker who financed the construction. Marcus Levinson, of Levinson & Associates. His name is the key that unlocks the next part of the puzzle. I follow the money, each transaction pulling back another layer of the veil.
Blue Ridge Holdings, LLC. The official owner of the estate.
I lean back in my chair, the pieces finally fitting together. Now, I have a lead—an address, a name, a direction. It’s not much, but it’s a start.
The sense of victory is tempered by the knowledge that this is just one step in a long journey. I glance at my phone, where a picture of Jenna smiles at me. Her nightmares might be relentless, but so is my determination to bring those responsible to justice.
It’s not a smoking gun, but it’s a start. I feel we’re closer now, but I also know the closer we get, the higher the stakes become.
My eyes blur from staring at screens and shuffling through papers. The hours melt away, each one blending into the next. My phone buzzes with a message from Jenna. Just a simple ‘I miss you,’ but it warms me from the inside out .
I glance at the time and curse under my breath. I’m late once again. This case consumes me, and the hours fly by without me realizing it. Guilt gnaws at me as I try to call her back, but it goes straight to voicemail.
I send Jenna a text, letting her know I’ll be late.
The trip back is a beast. The traffic is a snarl, and the minutes tick by with agonizing slowness. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, impatience bubbling under my skin.