CHAPTER TWELVE
The storage facility consisted of a long low complex of corrugated metal units behind a sliding security gate.
Agent Hahn had learned about it during his rapid dig for more information on Jennifer Parsons just before he’d left for Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
Honestly, on the surface, it didn’t seem like that big of a lead, but he also knew the sort of stereotype storage facilities had when it came to obscure murder cases.
To not look into it, he thought, would have been irresponsible.
A day of background research on Jennifer Parsons, buried in a credit card statement from fourteen months ago: a recurring monthly charge to Portland Safe Storage. The charge was still active.
He’d already been in New Hampshire for almost an entire day, burning a small portion of the goodwill he had accumulated with Ortega.
He had no task force support on the ground, no local FBI presence worth leveraging, and the Portland PD contact Ortega had arranged had been politely indifferent in a way that made clear she considered the whole thing a waste of his time.
Hahn had thanked her and stopped calling.
He worked better alone anyway, or at least that was what he told himself on the days when alone was the only option available.
He had driven past the facility twice before stopping, not out of hesitation but out of habit.
He liked to look at a place before he walked into it.
The facility appeared unremarkable in every visible respect, standard self-storage with numbered units in long rows and a small office building at the front of the property.
There was a camera above the gate and another above the office door. He got out of the car and went inside.
He smiled and showed her his badge quickly, but not in a rude manner, letting her know he was of some importance and that he was in a rush. "Special Agent Tim Hahn, FBI. I'm hoping you can help me with something."
She looked at the badge and then at him with an alertness that suggested she took it seriously. “I can certainly try.”
"I'm looking into a woman named Jennifer Parsons. I have reason to believe she rents a storage unit here."
The manager pulled her keyboard closer and typed. "Parsons," she muttered, eyeing the screen. After a few moments, she frowned slightly. "I do have a Jennifer Parsons in our system. Had, technically."
"Had?"
"Yeah. She came in about three weeks ago and requested a name change on the account.
Happens sometimes when people get married, or if they're moving it over to a business name.
We allow it as long as the billing stays current.
" She looked up with an apologetic expression that looked quite practiced; he was pretty sure this was not the first time she’d given it.
"I'd love to help you further, but I can't let you into the unit without a warrant.
I'm sorry. The owner is very firm on that. "
"I understand completely," Hahn said. And he did. But that didn’t mean it didn’t irritate the hell out of him. "Can you tell me what name the account was changed to?"
She nodded as she glanced at her screen. "Nelson Banks."
Hahn kept his expression even. "And billing is still active under that name?"
"Current as of this month, but I can’t—"
“You can’t give it to me. Yes, I know. Tell me, has Ms. Parsons been in since the change? Accessing the unit herself?"
"Not that I've seen, and I'm here most days." She paused and frowned again. "Is she dangerous? Should I be concerned if she comes in?"
"She's someone I'm trying to learn more about, and that is all," Hahn said.
"I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily.
But if she does come in, or if you see anyone you don't recognize accessing that particular unit, I'd really appreciate a call.
" He took a card from his jacket and set it on the counter.
"My cell is on there. Feel free to call me at any hour. "
He nodded and went back outside. He sat in his car outside the gate for a few minutes, working through what he had.
Nelson Banks was a name that had appeared nowhere in his research on Parsons, which meant it was either someone she trusted enough to put on a storage account or an alias she had constructed for the purpose.
Either way, she had put deliberate distance between herself and the unit three weeks ago.
People didn't do that without a reason, and the most common reason was that they didn't want the unit connected to their name if someone came looking.
He thought about the fourteen months of cesium purchases, spaced carefully across multiple vendors to avoid triggering any single company's internal flagging.
The employment history that gave her working knowledge of procurement systems. The storage unit now sitting under a name that wasn't hers.
Each piece had an individual explanation.
Together they described someone who had been planning something for a long time and was careful about not leaving a straight line back to herself.
He opened his laptop on the passenger seat and began working on the warrant application.
He had most of the supporting documentation already compiled: the purchase records, the employment discrepancy, the social media post, the timeline.
The storage unit and the name change would add meaningful weight.
A judge looking at the complete picture would see what he saw.
While the document was open, he texted an analyst named Chadwick back at the field office, someone fast who didn't ask unnecessary questions.
He sent the name Nelson Banks and asked for a full background workup, anything connected to Portland, Maine, Portsmouth, New Hampshire, or to Jennifer Parsons directly.
Chadwick responded in under a minute: on it.
Hahn had worked with Chadwick twice before on smaller cases, and the man had a talent for finding connections in records that looked unrelated on the surface.
If Nelson Banks had any documented existence anywhere, Chadwick would find it.
If the name was entirely constructed, that absence would be its own information.
Hahn set the phone down and looked out at the facility gate.
The units sat in their rows behind it, identical and windowless, and one of them held whatever Parsons had been building toward.
He was aware of how thin parts of it still appeared from the outside.
Suspicious, certainly. Enough for a warrant, he believed.
But not yet enough for an arrest, and the distance between those two things was where the remaining work was.
The thought moved through him that he might be wrong about all of it.
That Parsons was a private person with unusual interests and a legitimate explanation for every purchase, and that he had spent three days and most of his standing with Ortega chasing a thread that went nowhere.
He let the thought complete itself and then set it aside.
He knew the difference between a hunch built on nothing and a pattern built on verifiable evidence, and what he had on Parsons was the second thing.
He put the car in gear and pulled out of the lot, the warrant application saved and ready to file.