CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They waited until they were in the car, headed back to the station before discussing what they’d just learned.
“What do you think Evelyn’s secret behavior was?” Susannah asked Jessie as they pulled out into traffic.
Jessie didn’t have to mull it over for long before replying.
“It could be an affair or drugs, like Callum feared,” she mused, “but my money would be on her attending these secret parties. The only problem is that there were no parties in the last few months, and her GPS location data from prior to that indicates that she never went to any of them anyway. So I don’t know what to think for sure.”
Susannah started to reply but then stopped herself. Apparently, she’d hit the same wall. They sat in silence for a few minutes until their phones rang simultaneously. Jessie looked at hers. It was Jamil. She held it up to show Susannah.
“Put him on speaker,” the detective said.
“What’s up, Jamil?” Jessie said.
“Are you able to speak freely?” the researcher asked.
“Yeah, we’re in the car on our way back,” Jessie told him. “It looks like Callum Clay isn’t our guy, so I hope you have something good for us.”
“I just might,” he said. “I’m starting to get the financial data on the Hartleys that was so difficult to access last night, and it’s very interesting.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Susannah said.
“It looks like those $22,000 monthly withdrawals they made went to an overseas charity called the International Children’s Support Fund or ICSF.”
“That’s one of the blandest charity names I’ve ever heard,” Susannah muttered.
“And I think that may be by design,” Jamil replied, sounding as excited as Jessie had heard him in a long time. “I think this ‘fund’ wants to sound boring to help it slip under the radar, because the more I look into it, the shadier it seems. It has a 401(c)3 charitable designation, but for the life of me, I can’t discern how that originated. It appears to be based in India, but all my efforts so far to contact anyone there have failed. I also can’t find biographical info on the charity’s executive officers that goes back more than three years. I can’t prove it yet, but I’m not sure that any of these people even really exist. It’s like some ghost charity. And whoever created it did a masterful job.”
“Okay, that’s interesting, Jamil,” Susannah said, frustrated, “but if we can’t trace the source of the charity or tie it to anything here in L.A., how does that help us?”
“I’m not sure,” Jumail said, “but I haven’t told you the most interesting part yet.”
While they waited for him to end the suspense, another call came in on Jessie’s line. She didn’t recognize the number and immediately sent it to voicemail. In that time, Jamil still hadn’t shared his big revelation. Under other circumstances, Jessie would have been tickled by Jamil’s newfound flair for the dramatic and teased him a little, but not today.
“Tell us,” she said.
“Evelyn Channing also made monthly withdrawals that were donated to the ICSF. Guess how much she paid?”
“$22,000,” Susannah said with a shrug.
“$11,000,” he said.
A tiny explosion of recognition went off in Jessie’s head.
“Why is that significant?” Susannah asked. Apparently, she hadn’t made the connection yet.
“Because it’s exactly half what the Hartleys donate,” Jessie said. “But most charities don’t require donations to be a specific amount. They’ll take whatever you’re willing to give. But you know who does?”
“Who?” Susannah asked.
“Clubs—secret clubs,” Jessie said. “I think these are monthly membership dues. $22,000 for a couple like the Hartleys. Half of that for a single member like Evelyn. Is that what you’re thinking, Jamil?”
“Yes, Ms. Hunt,” Jamil replied enthusiastically.
“And I get the feeling that you’re holding back one crucial detail, aren’t you Jamil?”
“Yes, Ms. Hunt.”
“Well, go ahead and tell us,” she said. “This is your moment.”
“Those payments—or membership dues—were withdrawn from their accounts on the first of March and the first of April.”
Jessie saw the pieces start to fall into place for her partner.
“So this secret club is still active after all!” Susannah said.
“That’s right,” Jessie agreed. “These parties might not be happening at abandoned warehouses or empty mansions anymore, but they’re still happening. And you know what that means.”
“What?” Jamil asked, apparently stumped for the first time in this conversation.
“It means that our party planner friend, Valentina Russo, wasn’t completely forthcoming with us. I knew she was holding something back, but until now, I didn’t know what. These parties—possibly with attendees wearing masks like the ones found on our victims—are still happening and she knew it.”
“Isn’t she supposed to be coming into the station this morning with that memo describing the design instructions for those masks?”
“She is,” Jessie said, “but considering her lack of forthrightness, I think it’s time we checked in with Ms. Russo—forcefully.