Chapter 10 Griffin #3
“There are voice messages too, six of them.” She switched the phone to speaker and played them.
The most recent was a welfare check from the Fitch cop, just after Lana’s visit.
The next from two weeks ago: “Vivien? This is Chase. Dunno if you still want the room, but your down payment’s run out.
I’m gonna have to start selling your stuff.
” A robocall from her bank, saying her account was overdrawn.
And two from Lana, begging her to call. Lana cut those ones short.
“If she’s lying low somewhere, it’s not at home.
And if she’d left town, wouldn’t she take her things and quit the lease?
She doesn’t have the money to pay rent on a place she’s not living in. ”
“We should go there anyway. See if we can find any…”
“Clues?”
“I’m aware I sound like a character in one of my movies—though my characters don’t tend to do a heap of thinking.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“You said there were six messages? That was only five.”
Lana played the last one. Muffled voices, a series of mechanical beeps. After several minutes, a man cursed, and the phone went dead.
“A butt dial?” Griffin said.
“If so, it suggests they were in contact. Hard to pocket-dial a wrong number. Wait.” She opened the text messages. “That last text Vivi sent, the one begging for help—it’s the same number.” She took a deep breath. “I’m gonna call it.”
It rang out, with no message. Lana tried again. She was about to give up when a man answered. “I told you not to contact me,” he said, whispering, his voice gruff. “Not until … not until it’s all over.”
“But I…” The line went dead. “Until what’s over?” she said to Griffin.
“That voice—it sounded familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“Someone from the set?”
“I don’t think so. Some other connection. I have a buddy who might be able to help us trace the number.”
“So those guys at the set desperately want to talk to her, and this guy desperately doesn’t—but both believe she’s out there somewhere.”
Lana tried the other missed calls without IDs. They went straight to “number not in service” or “number not available.”
“Probably burners, since abandoned,” Griffin said.
“So, criminals?”
“Not necessarily. Let me call my guy. Okay if I tell him about Vivien?”
“Sure.”
Darnell picked up on the second ring.
“Hey buddy!” Griffin said. “You’re up?”
“Time is a construct, my friend. Just came in from a surf. What’s happening?”
“I’m sitting here with a friend, and she’s got a situation. There’s a couple of things we could use your help with.”
Darnell was silent a few seconds, no doubt contemplating the news that Griffin was with a woman this early on a Saturday. “All ears.”
“I’m putting you on speakerphone.” Darnell would take that as code for don’t say anything too personal. Griffin gave a brief rundown—Vivien’s disappearance, the phone, the chase on the set, the morning’s developments.
“So, you want to ID this guy she’s been talking to,” Darnell said. “Forward me the number, and that pocket dial message. I’ll see what I can make of it.”
“Thanks. We’re going to check out Vivien’s last-known address.”
He hung up and sent Darnell the details, including the burner numbers, just in case.
“He’s a private investigator?” Lana said.
“Something like that. He can be trusted.”
It took them a while to get through the Saturday morning traffic to Vivien’s address, which looked even worse in reality—less paint, longer grass, crappier cars.
“No sign of her car,” Lana noted while they waited on the doorstep. A man walked past, pushing a stroller. He looked up, and Griffin turned away.
The door opened. A red-eyed twenty-something stood on the threshold, scratching greasy blond hair—a stoner, still going on last night’s bender, or maybe starting over, judging by the weed smell wafting around him.
“Chase?” Lana said.
“That’s right,” the guy replied warily.
“I’m Vivien’s sister. We’re looking for her.”
“You and me both. She skipped out a month ago. You gonna pay me what she owes?”
“How much does she owe?”
“Three grand.”
Griffin crossed his arms. “He’s lying.”
Chase took in Griffin, his head shifting back and forth like he was trying to get it to a distance where his eyes would focus. “Two-and-a-half grand, then. Lucky I made her pay the first month in advance.”
“Still lying,” Griffin said.
Chase swore. “Okay, it’s fifteen hundred. But if she doesn’t pay up soon, I’ll have to sell her things.” Finally, he seemed to get a fix on Griffin’s face. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Griffin Hart?”
“Once or twice.”
“Mind if I look at Vivien’s room?” Lana said.
Chase led them into a living room that lived up to the exterior. Another guy was asleep on the sofa beside a bong. He stirred.
“You gonna clear out her stuff?” Chase said.
“Not right now.”
“Shit, man!” The guy on the sofa sat up. “That’s Griffin Hart!”
“Dumbass, it’s not Griffin Hart. You know why the cops were here?” Chase asked Lana.
“They were? When?”
Stoner Two jumped up. His blanket slid to the floor, leaving him in tighty-whities that hadn’t been white in quite some time. He pointed at Griffin with both hands. “That is Griffin Hart. Shit, where’s my phone?”
“A detective came by a few weeks ago,” Chase said, leading them down the hallway.
“Maybe a week after Vivien split? Maybe less? She asked to check her room, wouldn’t say why.
I thought she’d bust us for the weed but…
She left a card.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Dunno where it is.”
“We used it to cut lines,” his mate called, laughing.
“Shut up, dipshit!”
“Was it Detective Keisha Graham, by any chance?” Lana asked.
“Yeah, that’s the name.”
“Did my sister say anything to you about being pregnant?”
“What? No! I wasn’t screwing her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I … wasn’t, but okay.”
Chase pushed open a door to a simple room overlooking a small, overgrown yard. It was tidier than the rest of the house. His buddy staggered up the hallway, aiming a phone camera at Griffin, who held up a palm. Chase pushed the guy back to the living room, yelling.
“I got the impression from the cop that no one was looking for Vivien,” Lana said to Griffin. “But that detective came here? That’s something, I guess.”
Griffin picked up a book from the windowsill. “The adoption book.”
“It’ll be well overdue now—not that that matters! There’s a laptop charger here, but no laptop. And a phone charger. If you were going away, you’d take your chargers.” Lana opened and closed some drawers and checked the closet.
Stuck to the wall above the bed were snapshots—photos of Vivien at various life stages, some with Lana, some with a couple who had to be their parents.
“You’re such a mini-me—both of you,” he said, peering at a picture of Lana as a baby and Vivien as a grinning toddler at a lake with their dad.
All three pairs of eyes could have been cloned—the deep shade of brown, the shape.
“Oh, this is cute.” Lana picked up a piece of paper from a desk—a photocopy of an old newspaper.
“That’s my parents.” She pointed out a couple in a photo, raising champagne glasses.
He wore a suit; she a slinky dress. “‘Revelers at a Christmas Eve party in the city center,’ the caption says. Dunno which city, or which newspaper.”
“They looked happy to be part of the world then.”
She pointed to the date. “The year before Vivien was born. They moved to the commune after I came along.”
“So you weren’t born there?”
“No. Dad fell out with his family after that, so we hardly ever left again. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but his father didn’t approve of us joining a ‘cult.’” She air-quoted cult. “Dad had a sister, but she died young—car accident.”
“Where are your mom’s family?”
“She was a foster kid, and never really had a family until we came along. Now it’s like her every second word is ‘family.’ If it were up to her, we’d all live in the same house together, forever.” Lana took some photos of the room.
There was a tap on the window. A man’s face appeared—graphite-colored hair shaped into a retro flat top. Lana yelped, and jumped backward, into Griffin. He caught her with both hands. “It’s okay, that’s Darnell—my buddy.”
Griffin opened the window. “The hell are you doing here?”
“You’re not answering your phone, so I came after you. But I’m not the only one.”
“Holy shitballs!” Stoner Two was standing in the hall, staring at the window. “That’s Darnell Lascelles!”
“Right, man,” Chase called, from the living room. “Makes total sense that Griffin Hart and Darnell Lascelles would be in our shithole of a house. What are you on, literally?”
“Holy crap.” Lana planted her hands on her cheeks, staring at Darnell. “That is Darnell Lascelles.”
“I told you!” called Stoner Two. “Didn’t I tell you? From the old detective show.”
“Shut it a second, okay?” Griffin shouted. “I can’t hear.”
“There’s three men and a woman parked outside in a black SUV,” Darnell said. “Dressed in black, keeping their heads down, watching this place.”
“Crap.” Griffin turned to Lana. “We need to get out of here.”
“And the show’s not that old!” Darnell shouted to the stoners.