8. Holt
HOLT
They were standing on a sidewalk in downtown Miami with nothing to show for the last forty minutes except a confirmed cab drop and a lot of closed doors.
Holt stood outside the last store on the block and looked at the street around him, and felt the frustration of a man who knew he was missing something and couldn’t yet work out what.
The cab company had confirmed the pickup from June’s address.
The cab driver had identified June from her photograph without hesitation.
One woman, they’d told him. No companions.
Dropped at this exact intersection somewhere between fifteen and twenty minutes before Holt, Rad, and Willa had arrived.
Fifteen minutes.
They’d missed her by fifteen minutes.
His mind kept circling back to the woman across the road from June’s house. The Cane Corso named Clarence. The passenger door that hadn’t opened. The figure he was convinced had ducked down as they’d pulled up.
His contact had come back on the woman within the hour. Engineering professor at the University of Miami. Renting the Airbnb while her apartment was being renovated. Clean record. Nothing flagged. Nothing that should have set off the alarm bells currently going off in the back of Holt’s head.
She’d checked out.
But something still didn’t sit right.
Who puts a dog in the passenger seat of a car?
He shook the thought aside as Willa came out of the coffee shop at the end of the block and started walking back toward him.
“Nothing,” Willa called out when she was close enough. “The barista remembered a few regulars but no one matching Mom. They’ve been busy all afternoon, though, so he couldn’t be sure.”
Rad came up from the other direction, shaking his head before he got to them.
“The clothing shop was a dead end too,” Rad told them. “The manager hadn’t seen anyone matching your mother’s description. No one matching Victoria or Alfred either.”
“Did any of them recognize Victoria or Alfred?” Holt pressed.
“No,” Willa and Rad answered together.
Holt looked up and down the street.
Why this street?
This wasn’t one of June’s usual spots, according to Willa.
June had no business here that anyone in their group knew about.
But she’d taken a cab here within thirty minutes of walking out her front door, and she’d come alone, and she’d left again before they arrived.
Which meant she’d either met someone here or she’d come here specifically to do something.
Holt’s eyes moved down the block and settled on the one building they hadn’t yet checked.
Miami National Bank.
“You said your mother doesn’t bank at Miami National?” Holt asked Willa.
“Not as far as I know,” Willa confirmed. “And Carmen said the same thing when I checked with her earlier.”
“Did you bank there?” Holt asked. “Or Shaun?”
“No,” Willa shook her head. “None of us ever have.”
“Maybe she just went there to use the ATM,” Rad suggested. “One of the big machines takes deposits if you need to move cash.”
“Let’s check it anyway,” Holt decided.
The lobby of Miami National was cool and quiet, the kind of subdued, purposeful silence that older private banks cultivated deliberately.
Holt showed his badge at the front desk and asked to speak to a manager.
The young woman behind the counter picked up her phone, spoke briefly, and gestured to them to a small waiting area near the window.
A few minutes later a tall, silver-haired man in a well-cut gray suit came through the interior door and crossed the lobby toward them with the calm, practiced stride of someone who’d been in banking for decades.
“Marcus.” Willa’s face brightened with recognition. “You work here now?”
“Willa.” Marcus crossed the remaining distance and shook her hand warmly. “How are you? It’s been years.”
“I’m well, thank you,” Willa replied. “I didn’t know you were at Miami National. Marcus, this is Director Holt Dillinger with the FBI, and his son Rad. Director Dillinger, this is Marcus Robinson. He used to manage my mother’s bank in the city center.”
“Hello.” Holt extended his hand.
Marcus shook it with a firm, easy grip. “Director Dillinger. A pleasure. And Rad, welcome.” He gestured toward the interior door. “Why don’t we step into my office? It’s quieter.”
“We appreciate that,” Holt replied.
Marcus led them through the door and down a short corridor to a well-appointed office overlooking the rear garden. He gestured for them to sit, then took the chair behind his desk.
“What can I do for you?” Marcus asked pleasantly.
“We wanted to know if June Carter—” Holt began.
“Has my mother been here today?” Willa cut in, her voice tight. “We’re worried about her. We think she might be in trouble.”
Marcus’s brows lifted. “June is in trouble?”
“We’re trying to locate her,” Holt said carefully, watching Marcus’s face. “She left her house this morning, and we have reason to believe she may be at risk. Her cab dropped her on this block.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she’s all right.” Marcus’s expression was one of genuine concern. “Why would June come into this particular bank? Has she changed banks recently?”
“Not as far as I know,” Willa replied. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Unless June has moved her accounts without mentioning it to me, she doesn’t bank here,” Marcus told her. “I’d have seen her name in our system if she had. In fact, I believe there’s now a new branch of her regular bank just a few streets over. It opened earlier this year. She may have gone there.”
“Which street?” Rad asked.
Marcus gave them the street and the cross-reference.
Holt watched Marcus carefully and said nothing for a moment.
“So June hasn’t been in this bank today?” Holt asked.
“As I mentioned, unless she’s changed banks without telling any of us, she doesn’t bank here,” Marcus repeated, his expression easy.
Holt nodded slowly. He gave Marcus a tight smile and extended his hand.
“Thank you for your time, Marcus.”
“Of course.” Marcus stood and shook his hand. “If June does come in for any reason, do you have a card? I’ll make sure to call you immediately.”
“Thank you,” Holt replied, pulling a card from his wallet and passing it across. “That would be appreciated.”
Marcus took the card, glanced at it, and slid it into the top drawer of his desk.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked.
“No, thank you, Marcus,” Willa said, her voice quieter now, the hope visibly draining out of her expression. “Thank you for your time.”
“Any time, Willa.” Marcus came around the desk to walk them out. “I truly hope you find her quickly. Please let me know when you do.”
The three of them stepped back out onto the sidewalk. The afternoon sun had moved, and the street was in partial shade now, the temperature dropping slightly as the shadows lengthened.
Holt stopped at the corner and looked back at the bank.
“Was it just me,” Holt asked, “or was that man hedging?”
“Why would you say that?” Willa asked before Rad could.
“Because he never actually answered the question I asked,” Holt pointed out. “I asked if June had been in the bank today. He didn’t say no. He said she doesn’t bank there. Those aren’t the same thing.”
Willa’s eyes widened. “You’re right. He deflected the question every time.”
“Which is interesting,” Rad added. “Why would he deflect?”
“And why would June come to a bank where she doesn’t have an account?” Holt asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked back at the bank’s imposing facade. “What does Miami National specifically offer?”
“They have one of the largest and most secure safety deposit box facilities in the state,” Willa replied. “It’s part of their reputation.”
Holt’s brows shot up.
His memory jolted to the case he’d just finished working on.
The man who’d killed his father had used Miami National to hide a significant portion of his financial records and contact lists.
Holt had spent months trying to get a warrant to access those boxes, and even with FBI authorization and a legitimate court order, the process had been brutal.
“Miami National is one of the most difficult banks in the country to get access to those boxes,” Holt said slowly.
“The box holders are protected by a tiered privacy system. Even with a federal warrant, you have to demonstrate probable cause tied to the specific box, not the account holder. If you don’t know the box number, you don’t get access.
Period.” He looked at Willa. “If you wanted to hide something where no one could find it without knowing exactly what they were looking for, this is the bank you’d choose. ”
“Do you think June has a safety deposit box here?” Rad asked, frowning.
Willa shrugged as she looked between them.
“I’ve just found out that my mother kept the biggest possible secret from me for nearly forty years,” she said quietly. “I’m starting to realize I don’t know her the way I thought I did. So yes, she could have a safety deposit box here, and I wouldn’t have known.”
“Or Shaun could have opened one,” Holt offered.
Rad and Willa turned their heads to stare at him.
“Do you want me to go back in and ask?” Willa said. “I’m his widow, I should have some rights to?—”
“If you don’t have the original paperwork or a court-ordered letter of administration specific to that box, it won’t help us,” Holt told her gently.
“Miami National requires the original rental agreement or a court order specifically naming the box for spousal access, not just proof of marriage or death. That’s exactly why people use this bank when they want something kept safe.
” He paused. “If Shaun did open a box here, it was because he wanted to make sure no one could get to it without knowing it existed.”
“You mean like whatever Gilbert, Shaun, and the others had uncovered?” Willa said.
“Exactly.” Holt nodded.
“So either June had a box here, or Shaun does, and he sent the key to June?” Rad figured. “Why would he send it to June?”
“Look In Miami!” Willa repeated. “What if Shaun’s and Judy’s words didn’t only mean the brand name but actually meant to look in Miami?
” Her eyes widened more. “We need to get back to my mother’s house.
To find the gift Shaun sent her a few days before he died.
” She drew in a breath. “That is why we’re in Miami in the first place, but we got distracted trying to find my mother. ”
“Do you think Shaun sent her the key to the security box?” Rad asked.
“Or he sent whatever it was he needed to hide,” Willa told him. “She looked at Holt. Did you find anything in the box or Andy’s shoes?”
“No,” Holt said. “But I have to get them to the FBI field office.”
“I don’t think you’ll find anything in them,” Willa said with confidence. “Shaun would never have put Andy at risk like that.” She shook her head. “But he knew my mother had a lot of contacts, including some old ones of my father.”
Holt knew she hadn’t meant to, but saying “her father” in the context of Trevor Carter stung, reminding him of all the years he’d missed with Willa. He longed to have her call him father or dad in the easy way she referred to Trevor.
Holt’s eyes were scanning the street now. “We need to find out what your mother has been doing today. Card transactions. ATM withdrawals. Anything.”
“Or debit cards, or cash withdrawals,” Willa said, already reaching for her phone. “My aunt can check. She has Mom’s phone now, and my mother does all her banking through it. They share access to each other’s accounts in case anything happens to either of them.”
“Smart,” Holt said, and couldn’t quite stop the small smile that came with it.
That was exactly like June. Always planning ahead. Always building a contingency into everything.
He watched Willa step away to make the call and felt his chest tighten in the same way it had been tightening all day whenever he looked at his daughter.
She moved the same way June moved. She held her shoulders the same way.
But there was something else there too, something that reminded him unbearably of his sister, and the ache of it sat in his chest for a long moment before he pushed it down again.
His own phone buzzed.
Holt looked at the screen. A message from his contact at the Miami field office.
It seems June Carter’s neighbor across the road is associated with someone you know.
Holt’s brow furrowed. He typed back immediately.
Who?
The response came through a moment later. A single name.
Holt stared at the screen.
“Son of a...” he breathed.
“What?” Willa had just finished her call. Rad looked at his father.
“What did you find out?” Holt asked Willa first, pushing the name out of his immediate attention while he processed it.
“My mother drew thirty thousand dollars from five different ATMs today,” Willa told him. “Three from machines in this area and two from machines across town.”
“Where across town?” Rad asked.
“What part?” Holt pressed.
Willa named a neighborhood south of the river, an older industrial district that had been slowly gentrifying but still had sections Holt was familiar with from his early career. It wasn’t a part of town that a respected Miami attorney had any professional reason to visit on a Tuesday afternoon.
“What on earth would she be there for?” Holt asked.
Willa hesitated.
“I’m guessing it’s a rougher part of town,” Rad observed.
“Rougher in certain pockets, yes,” Willa confirmed.
“There’s a man down there. His name’s Dagwood.
” She pulled a face. “He’s an informant for several criminal defense attorneys at my mother’s firm.
He deals in things that help people who need to move quickly.
Fake IDs. Burner phones. Electronics that happened to fall off trucks. That sort of thing.”
“How do you know this?” Holt’s eyes narrowed.
“Through my mother.” Willa’s cheeks pinkened slightly. “She introduced me to him once. For professional reasons.”
“Or for a fake ID,” Rad muttered under his breath.
“Regardless,” Holt interrupted, deciding he genuinely did not want to follow that thread right now, “we need to get moving. Willa, you can tell us about Dagwood on the way. If your mother was getting cash and heading to someone who deals in fake IDs, we need to know why.”
“What did you find out?” Willa asked as they walked back toward the rental van.
Holt looked at his daughter.
“That everyone in this situation is lying for your mother,” he told her. “Or for Victoria and Alfred. Or for all of them.” He held up his phone. “The neighbor across the road from your mother’s house, renting the Airbnb, isn’t just some engineering professor. She’s Clive Morrison’s fiancée.”