Chapter 7 – LISA
LISA
It takes three trips from my car to my desk to carry in all the files Beau put together on the Holloway fraud. A tiny, bitter part of me wonders if he did it on purpose. Maybe the bottom of these boxes are filled with reams of blank paper.
But he seemed just as surprised as I was to be working together.
Dropping the final box onto my desk with a thud, I take some joy from the way it makes Morrison jump.
“No butler to carry in your stuff, princess?” he calls loudly, drawing all the eyes in the office to me. When I scowl at him, he leans over, whispering to Holt, and they both laugh, at my expense no doubt.
I ignore them. I've got bigger problems than their bullshit today.
As I pour myself a large mug of tar-like coffee, my stomach finally feeling better, I eye the boxes with suspicion.
They’re mocking me, and by extension, so is Beau.
There are colour-coded tabs, highlighted sections and cross-referenced documents.
These boxes showcase hours and hours of meticulous work, all organized so neatly, that it makes my type-A heart sing with joy.
Beau’s right, he’s good at his job. Very good. I hate that he's so good at it because it means that all of my comments were unfair and unjustified, and I owe him yet another apology.
Unable to avoid starting any longer, I sink into my chair and pull the nearest box toward me.
"Glad I didn't take that call," Holt comments, probably parroting the exact same joke Morrison made to him two minutes ago.
Rolling my eyes, I stonewall them, refusing to give them the attention they want.
Instead, I trawl through the files, careful not to disrupt Beau’s meticulous system.
There are bank statements, invoices, corporate registration documents, photographs of them leaving work, at the bank, on holidays.
Every detail the prosecution will need to put Sandra and Bill away for a long time is here.
It all needs to be double checked and recreated by me, but he’s done most of the leg work.
Unlike my colleagues, I don’t mind getting under the hood on a case like this. It might not be glamorous but at least Mrs. Holloway will get that satisfaction of proving she was right, or seeing her employees punished, even if they've blown all her money and she has no hope of getting it back.
My hands move through the paperwork, but my brain is struggling to cooperate. I read the same line three times and still couldn't tell you what it says. So, I shove the file aside and reach for another.
I know exactly what the problem is, I just don’t want to admit it. Beau’s handwriting is everywhere.
He’s made neat annotations in the margins, added sticky notes with smart observations, and connected related documents. Everything has been numbered and listed on a master sheet. It's meticulous, and I adore it, except that every page I touch reminds me he exists.
Skimming my finger over the dried ink, I picture him sitting at a desk, in the dark, painstakingly putting this together. Checking that nobody's looking first, I bring the A4 sheet to my nose to see if it really smells like him or if that’s just my overactive imagination.
Overactive might be playing it down. Obsessive is more accurate, because ever since he got me dripping wet just by reminding me how thorough he is, my mind is feeding me a Beau highlight reel on a loop.
And it’s very distracting. But I badly need an even more distracting distraction to get him out of my head. So, when my phone rings, I pounce on it, answering without looking, still scanning the notes I've made on a legal pad as I hold it to my ear. "Detective Harris."
A pause.
"Hi, Detective. It's Zara. Zara Reeves." Another pause, like she's regretting calling already. "I'm sorry to bother you. I know you're busy."
I wince and curse inwardly. It would be nice to have some good news for her, or any news really, but there’s been zero progress since I called her a few days ago, evidenced by our suspiciously empty case board, and the general feeling of frustration that’s hanging in the air.
"You're never a bother, Zara. What can I do for you?" I set down my pen, leaning back in my chair, and give her my full attention.
"I’m wondering if there’s anything new in Amber's case." Her voice is carefully steady, a devastated sister attempting to hold herself together by sheer will through the worst thing anyone can experience. "The press was here again today, asking questions."
Of course, they were. Damned vultures. One look at Zara Reeves would tell you she’s struggling, yet these assholes keep turning up shoving cameras in her face.
"We're following up on a few things, but nothing that I can discuss yet, and nothing that I’d classify as a concrete lead," I tell her, being careful not to get her hopes up. We're following up on each and every credible tip we’re receiving about Amber’s possible whereabouts, we're just not finding anything that checks out.
"I'll call you the second we have anything to tell you, I promise. "
Waiting, I give her the space to bring up what she really called to say.
That we aren’t doing enough. That the officers, and the press, keep defaulting to Amber running away, unable to cope with the pressures of being a rising star.
Or more recently, the popular theory that maybe she’s gotten into drugs and has sequestered herself away in a luxury rehab without telling anyone.
Even the people who’d be worried sick about her.
Because obviously, all actors have drug problems.
"Okay. Sure. Thank you." She sounds like she's about to hang up but doesn't. "Detective, this is going to sound really strange."
I’ve been doing this job for long enough that nothing is strange to me anymore. Holding my breath, I pray she’s about to give me some little tidbit of information that seems weird or insignificant but blows the case wide open.
"Try me."
She clears her throat, and I can almost picture her wringing her hands on the other end of the line. Zara’s beautiful, just like her sister, but much less outgoing, she’s been surprisingly stoic considering what’s going on.
"I keep getting this feeling when I'm out. At the grocery store, walking to my car, even at home sometimes. Like someone's there watching me." She laughs, embarrassed. "I know that's crazy…”
I press my lips together and speak quietly, not wanting anyone else to overhear her concerns. "You’re not crazy. How long has this been going on?"
Morrison crosses to the whiteboard and removes a photograph of another man we were looking into.
His shoulders slump as he adds it to the pile of ruled out suspects with a dejected sigh.
We’re clearing people with ease, which is all part of the process, but have no new faces to look into.
It won’t be long before we hit a dead end if the case continues like this.
"Since Amber's face started showing up on the news, so a couple of weeks maybe. Which makes sense, right? People are probably looking at me because they know what’s going on. But this just feels… different. Intense." Another self-conscious laugh. "Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it."
“No, of course you should have told me.” Tapping my pen against my lip, I soften my tone, wanting to make sure this next question doesn’t come off as dismissive. “Do you think it could be more press? I know they’re giving you a hard time.”
There’s a long pause, and for a moment, I think I’ve blown it and that I’ve insulted her by suggesting she doesn’t already know it might be the media looking for a picture of her in her worry and grief.
“No. This… I can’t explain it… it just feels… off. You know?”
I know that feeling. Every woman who’s walked down the street and had the hair stand up on the back of her neck does. I call it a gut feeling. My grandmother used to say it’s dormant senses we can’t control anymore but still have. Whatever it is, we ignore it at our peril.
I'm already on my feet, reaching for my jacket on the back of my chair. "I can come over and look around, see if anyone’s hanging around and make sure everything's secure."
It could also be absolutely nothing, and this poor woman is just terrified, but making sure she’s okay is all part of the job.
"Oh no, please don't come over here just for that.
Honestly, I'd feel like such an idiot dragging you out to my apartment because I've got the creeps.
" The mortification in her voice is genuine, which also means she’s probably not telling me just how scared she really is.
"Forget I said anything. You should be working, not babysitting me. "
I mouth to Morrison that I’m heading out and walk toward the door, using being on the phone as the perfect excuse not to talk to anyone.
“I could do with a change of scenery anyway.”
Pushing out into the darkening street, I suck in a lungful of crisp evening air and walk the couple of blocks to Zara and Amber’s apartment.
I press the buzzer and wait, scanning the doorway for any signs of tampering, or anything else unusual.
She lets me in immediately, and before I step inside, I check up and down the street to see if anyone’s watching the building.
There’s nobody that looks suspicious or anything out of the ordinary.
When I get to her door, I’m relieved to hear the deadbolt slide before the door swings open.
She’s installed some extra security as we recommended.
As Zara steps back and lets me in, I realise just how thin she’s gotten.
Holding up the bag of chips I found in my car as an offering, I follow her inside, kicking off my shoes and hanging up my jacket.
I’ve been here enough times now that she doesn’t wait, going to the kitchen instantly to make tea.
“You didn’t need to come,” she repeats, looking embarrassed as I slide onto a high stool at the kitchen counter.
“Of course I did.”