Chapter 11
The pizza boxes lay open on the floor in front of them as each pored over documents and notebooks, trying to avoid getting pizza grease on any of them.
A voice at the back of her head was telling her they shouldn’t be handling them at all—what if they were evidence? But on the other hand, it wasn’t like no one had touched them since her father packed them up... not to this extent, but they had been handled.
"I just got word… my friend in the department just got back from a welfare check on Bee’s place," Byron said, "she wasn’t there, but her neighbor told them she asked her to sign for any packages in the next few days."
"Oh," Cleo said, "right... But... she’d still have her phone, right? Like... she could have answered me or texted me."
Abigail and Byron shared a look. Abigail wasn’t sure why Cleo was so upset either, but she also knew her friend wasn’t one to be upset easily.
"They’ll keep an eye out, pass by the truck and follow up," he said, tapping away at his phone.
She tried to crane her neck slightly to see if it was the same conversation as before, but she couldn’t quite see.
"I just don’t get why these things are all together," Cleo said suddenly, "or how any of it helps.”
"What do you mean? They all seem logical," Byron gestured to the papers scattered around them, "business musings, financials, and notes? The one notebook is... well, obviously out of place, but other than that, I don’t understand?"
Cleo gestured to the stack of instruction booklets, "Did her dad forget all his super illegal money laundering thoughts were in here when he needed to store his bread maker user manual? Why did he put a coded notebook with documents containing conspiracy theories about company structures—do they talk about the same stuff? I don’t know because I can’t even figure out one of these damn clusters! It’s not fair… I always ace the cryptic and the Sunday Weekly Codex in the paper..."
"Bread maker?" Byron said, standing and grabbing the stack of booklets.
He frowned at the top one for a second before his eyes went wide, "Abby, you’ve got the notebook right? Just... read it out to me a sec."
“Uh, okay," she said, picking up the notebook from where it lay, "BT-150 19/1, 19/6, 28/2…"
"No, not the clusters, just the first parts."
Abigail paused, looking for the odd ones out, "Okay, BT-150, ST-9-XL, MLB-1925—"
"That one! MLB-1925! It’s the bread maker," Byron said, "It’s the model number."
He looked around at them expectantly but was met by two confused faces.
"It’s a book cipher, but with user manuals..." he explained.
"Ugh!" Cleo slapped her forehead with her palm, "Seriously!? How did I miss that!"
"It doesn’t matter. Get a pen," Byron said, "read out the clusters, and let’s check if we’re right."
"Okay, okay," Abigail said, rushing, "MLB-1925 6/55.”
After a few seconds of frantic rustling through pages, Byron called out, "Y."
"9/24."
"A."
"69/84."
"K."
"6/88."
"O."
"9/4."
"B."
"8/7."
"T."
"6/88."
"O."
"5/2, 5/2."
"B," Byron said, dropping the instruction manual and typing into his phone, "Yakob Todd.."
"Yakob? Like Jacob?" Abigail asked, her heart pounding.
"No," Byron said, his voice small, "Yakob Todd, drug and weapons kingpin from LA in the nineteen-eighties."
He turned the phone to face Abigail, and she recognized the face of the man displayed. He was one of the men photographed on her father’s couch.
"This... this says he died," Cleo added, holding her own phone up, "way before the photo was taken."
The trio shared concerned looks and Abigail thought she might be sick.
"Come on, let’s do the others," she said, "Byron?"
Nearly an hour later, they had a list of names.
Shane Hopgood
Yakob Toll
Shaylee Parsons
Katelynn Bentley
Marley Henderson
Julien Bautista
Jake Newman
Teagan Kidd
Adolfo Gibbs
Alfred Shepard
Nora Ward
Emilio Moses
Leonard Crawford
Mira Holland
Quincy Lawrence
Trisha Lawrence
Ali Winters
Lailah Shaw
Kaliyah Frank
Leah Schmitt
Leia Mclaughlin
Demetrius Kane
Genevieve Haley
Kody Walker
Macie Durham
About halfway through, they reached the three that interested her most of all—Mick Givens, Helen Givens, and Jacob Givens—but she insisted they continue on.
"They aren’t all photographed," Cleo said, "like, only Jacob’s dad is in this photo..."
"But all of the people photographed are on the list," Abigail countered, "except one... who you couldn’t find, right?"
She turned to look at Byron, who nodded but looked away quickly. He seems nervous, Abby thought.
"I want to go to New York," she announced.
"What?" Byron asked, confused. "Why?"
"Because I don’t think Jacob killed himself."
He didn’t react, not even slightly! Abigail thought angrily, he knows...
"Why?"
"Because it doesn’t make sense," she replied, "and Cleo agrees."
Her friend nodded. "Actually my theory was that he was murdered by the people running that big financial scam... but—"
"But what?" Byron asked.
"Well... I mean, half of these people are supposed to be dead! The other half disappeared!" Cleo said, exasperated, "There are barely any records of the time this house was a holiday rental, and there’s crazy security in the walls! Come on, really? None of that adds up to witness protection for you two!?"
Cleo’s suggestion hit Abigail like a physical blow. That would make so much sense, but why her house? Is that why they moved?
"I don’t think you should go to New York," Byron said.
"Why not?" Abigail replied, her tone daring him to tell her not to.
"I just..."
He seemed lost for words, and his sentence faltered. They just stared at each other. In the silence, Cleo’s phone rang, making them all jump.
"It’s the hospital," she explained, standing to go take the call.
The second she was out of the door, Byron moved closer.
"At least let me come with you," Byron whispered, "I can see you’re not going to be put off..."
"Correct, and no," Abigail replied, "you’re not coming."
As if to deliberately goad her, he rolled his eyes, "Abby... it could be so dangerous! Even if I’m being over dramatic—which I don’t think I am—going on your own is... not a smart idea."
"Are you calling me dumb?" she asked, leveling a glare at home, "because I’m not so dumb as to not realize that you’ve not been honest about Bee once—and what are the odds that the single photo we couldn’t match a name to was the one she saw right before she freaked out and ran?"
It was beyond satisfying to see his face fall. He wasn’t so sneaky after all. Byron cast a look at the door.
"Fine, if I tell you, will you let me come with you to New York?"
Abigail grit her teeth.
"Sure. But it’s not like anyone even knows I’m involved!"
After another look at the door, he ushered Abigail over to the window, which was as far away from the hallway as possible.
"You cannot tell Cleo," he said, "promise?"
"Okay..."
He glared.
"Okay, I swear!"
"Sorry," he said, "it’s just... I could get into a lot of trouble, and people could get hurt..."
"Okay, I understand," she replied softly, her resolve weakening.
Byron cleared his throat. “I know Bee from before, though I don’t think she knows that I know. You know I worked in Law Enforcement, right? Well, I did, then I got more involved in protective security than… you know, being a cop. Bee is not her real name, or even a nickname. Her father was—is—Quincy Lawrence. He was a major player in some very nasty stuff. I was assigned to her case, they provided information in exchange for safety and immunity for her father.”
She stared at him as he spoke; Abigail couldn’t process what he was saying…
“Did you…? Are you? Here for her?”
“What? No! No, I’m not on her case. I’m retired.”
Was Bee a criminal? Abigail trailed through her memories of conversation with Bee over the past few months and several things fell into place.
Her comments about understanding Abigail’s feelings around her dad and finding out her dad was a whole other person than who she’d thought he was.
“Oh my God,” she said, “so is she just gone now?”
“I don’t know, and I can’t find out.”
“What do you mean! Why not?”
Byron shook his head. “Even if I asked, there’s no way they’d tell me. What if I was compromised?”
“Uh, guys?”
Cleo had entered the room, but they hadn’t even noticed. She held up her phone.
“I just saw this on your doormat,” she said, “I went out to take the call…”
She handed over a piece of paper. It was a note from a delivery company.
We are sorry to inform you that a parcel we are delivering has been damaged by fire and is undeliverable. Please contact your sender for insurance details.
Abigail looked up, “Shelley sent two boxes of my dad’s files… do you think this was the van fire from the other day?”
With a shrug, Cleo answered, “Maybe. It would be about the right timing—the cops left here real quick to deal with it.”
Byron looked down at her. “What were you saying about no one even knowing you’re involved?”
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BOOK 5 in the Newport Beach Series…