Chapter 8- Breaking Off
Helen sat at the computer in the bedroom, feeding the locusts.
Her journey into the dark web took an interesting turn when she began to enter locations in the computer, starting with her home address in Indiana.
It only provided the basic information. She remained logged into the browser but also opened the search application that came with the Technician laptop.
There, she entered her address again, and this time it returned with a great deal more information.
“The property is owned by Greenson Enterprises,” Helen said, not knowing what that was.
She entered a new search for Greenson Enterprises to discover assets nearing one billion in app development and properties on the West Coast. One of the properties recently sold was Mustang’s former home with the vineyard.
“Holy shit,” she said, looking at what the house sold for. “He is really rich.”
She sat for a moment, her mind whirling. “Who is Greenson?”
She typed in ‘Greenson Enterprises owner,’ and was rewarded with a lot of legalese and shell companies.
Then, for some odd reason, she entered ‘adoption, Jarius Neary and Greenson.’ Helen fondled the return button and then pressed enter.
Records began to appear of a young Mustang, his grandmother, and sealed court documents.
Ronald Greenson, a noted drug dealer and small-time thug, was killed in a gang related matter in the Fall of 1995.
“Mustang would have been ten,” she said, looking at the face of the man who also had her husband’s face.
She couldn't help herself; being down the rabbit hole, she searched for his mother, finding the woman and wishing she hadn't.
Lola Roberts, age 20, died of a drug overdose and was found in an alley in Eau Claire.
The report read she left one child, a Marcus, who was given by the courts to Raina Greenson to be raised by his living relative.
“His actual name is Marcus Greenson, the owner of Greenson Enterprises,” she said. “Interesting information that I have no idea what to do with; therefore, I shall tuck it away in my little brain file.”
Another thought crossed her mind, and she pulled out her planner. In the back, she listed the addresses of the properties she'd shut down. The first address was entered, revealing the property owner to be a company, and a search for the company yielded no results.
“How did Donovan find Sour Grapes?” she asked, and maybe after dinner, she'd get him to walk her through what he did and how it happened.
A light tap came to her door, and she looked at the clock.
It was nearing five and time for more bland ass food.
Helen called out, hearing Tiffany's voice announcing dinner in ten minutes. Quickly, she made notes of what she’d accomplished and the results.
She added a sweater to cover her heavy cotton blouse.
Layers worked really well in such a cold climate and the sweater made her look a little dressier than normal.
Across the hall in the loo, she washed up and checked her hair and then bound down the stairs.
She arrived at the dinner table to a white fish covered in lemons and capers, white rice, and blanched broccoli.
Physically, she reacted to the meal and decided at that exact moment that she was not staying in Mendota Heights for three months.
If it meant she would fail as a Technician, she wasn't doing it on a sour stomach and farting all over the damned place.
There was no way in hell she was eating this woman's tasteless cooking and not having the nutrition needed to use her brain.
Evidently, Donovan felt the same way as he looked at the meal.
They both blessed the food, pushing it about on their plates.
Donovan impressed her by eating most of it.
Helen only took in half of the meal. The broccoli was a bit too undercooked for her, and she would more than likely belch it up all night.
After dinner, she excused herself to make a few calls, promising to return once they were made. The first call went to Azrael. She pressed one on her phone and waited for the voice.
“State your need?”
“A steak, a glass of red, vegetables that are actually cooked, and to get the hell out of here,” Helen said into the line.
The droll voice replied, “Can you be more specific?”
“The weird vibe in here is messing with my calm, and the food is messing with my bowels,” Helen replied. “If I have to stay here for three months, I quit. I want no more of this place, and it's colder than hell.”
“Are you learning anything?”
“Yes, my levels of tolerance for banal food and white women,” Helen said. “I'm a friendly sort, but I'm not okay here.”
“It is only your second day.”
“But it feels like a month of Sundays. I'm not going to make it,” Helen repeated.
“How much time do you think it will actually take?”
“Give me a cheat sheet of codes and send me home to figure it out. I can zoom with her and ask questions. This is not for me. I can't do it. I'm withering inside,” Helen said, making no mention of Donovan.
The voice came back after a few seconds of silence, “And the man, is he part of the issue?”
“Not my squirrel; those are not my nuts,” Helen said.
“Is he part of the issue? How did he find her?” Azrael asked. “When you find out how, then perhaps you can leave.”
She ended the call, leaving Helen to stare at the neat reading chair in the bedroom. Frustration ran through her as she grabbed her personal phone to call her man. He answered right away.
“I want to come home. I don't like it here,” Helen whined.
“You need me to come get you?”
“No, I want to unplug my car and start driving all night until I can get home to you, a chunk of red meat, a serious cup of black coffee, and some wine. Lots and lots of wine,” Helen mewled.
“Are you learning anything?”
“I guess,” she paused. “I learned today your mother has turned me into a food snob.
This woman stuck a fish in the oven and covered it with lemons.
Halfway through the bake she tossed on some capers.
It was served with white rice and blanched broccoli.
I'm leaving. I quit and I'm packing my shit and coming home.
In the morning, there will be a boiled egg served in an egg cup and a piece of white toast. I've died and gone to white hell. I'm not going to make it.”
Mustang howled with laughter into the line. Helen found no humor in it and wanted him to stop laughing at her expense.
“It's not funny. Last month, it was a crazy woman out shooting and skinning squirrels, trying to save the mini fur pelts to line her boots, and now this bullshit,” Helen said, falling back on the bed.
“Squirrel stew is disgusting I will have you know. I refused to even deal with the mental trauma of walking into the kitchen to discover the raccoon she had on her counter soaking in milk, and now I am having fish covered in lemons with no seasoning. Just boiled white rice and that boiled egg this morning has given me gas. I hate it here.”
“Helen,” he said, trying to punch down his laughter, “can't you cook your own meals?”
“There is a situation in the home unbeknownst to me,” she said. “I cannot, and I don't know what Azrael is expecting of me in this situation. I don't know what I'm expecting of myself. There is a reset which must happen here, but I'm not the conduit. I want to leave.”
“Take the evening, read and have your settling tea, and in the morning, it will all make sense,” he said. “You have the ability to sleep on it and wake refreshed.”
“I also have a crafting machine where I can think of a hundred other things to do, and this ain't one of them,” Helen sighed deeply.
“You'll figure it out,” he said. “I love you, if that helps.”
“It does because I love you as well,” Helen said, adding a few other words and ending the call.
Helen sat for a moment, then righted herself.
She exited the bedroom and went down the stairs to find quietness.
Then she heard Donovan speaking, almost challenging someone.
Fear struck her heart as she entered the dining room to find him at the table with Bella playing cards.
Bella evidently was trying to pull one over on him and he caught her.
“Ms. Bella, you're going to have to do better than that,” he said. “I spent my summers playing Pinochle with my Gran. I know how to play the game.”
“Your Gran didn't teach you this,” Bella said, slapping cards on the table.
Donovan looked up at Helen. “My Gran taught me a lot of things. I bet our friend over there was taught a lot of things by her Gran as well. Like making a good vegetable soup with either some hot cornbread or mouthwatering biscuits. My friend, do you know how to make those things?”
“I do,” Helen said looking at him.
“Ms. Bella, does that sound good for tomorrow? To let our new friend make us some biscuits or cornbread with a hearty pot of veggie soup? I mean I know you would love a break from cooking for a day. Would that work?”
“A pot of soup sounds divine,” Bella replied, slapping more cards on the table, winning the hand.
“You beat me again, Ms. Bella. Thank you for the game,” Donovan said, rising.
He walked towards Helen, grazing her arm for her to follow him.
She did, going to the laundry room out of earshot of Tiffany and her mother.
He lowered his voice. “I'm sorry. It's not a black thing, but anything you cook has to be better than that fish she made tonight. I will help, if need be, but I am not eating any more of her cooking. Hopefully, I can be out of here in a day or so and on about my life.”
“I was thinking along similar lines, but I have a question,” Helen said. “I want to learn how you tracked her money. There are a few people I need to dig down into or rather find, and that money tracking thing may be just the ticket. Can you show me?”
Donovan watched her face. “What is your name?”
“Shenita,” she told him without a pause.