“No, look. Here are the signatures from the day of the funeral service,” I flip back to the other page. “And these are the ones from the day he signed it. The ink is different. The ones from the day of my mother’s service are blue. Every other one on the page with this signature are black. The pens are different. This is him. He signed it, but for some reason, he turned to another page.”
“So no one would notice?” Bellamy offers. “Maybe he didn’t want anybody seeing his name in the guest book.”
“Why would it matter if anybody saw his name if he was there?”
“He left before anybody could notice him,” she points out. “Don’t you think her friends might find it odd to see someone who looks just like your father when they know he isn’t there?”
“We know Catch Me was there,” Dean muses.
“How do you know that?” Bellamy asks.
“One of the clues he left in Feathered Nest,” I say, suddenly remembering it. “It was talking about Marren’s roses. He said the flowers at my mother’s funeral were beautiful, but he wondered why the casket seemed so light.”
“They did bury a casket,” Bellamy says. “The people in Florida thought they were at a real funeral.”
“So, what were they burying?” Dean asks.
“I don’t know, but I think we need to find out. That casket needs to be exhumed.”
“You’re going to have to petition the court for that,” Bellamy says. “People get squeamish when it comes to digging graves up.”
“I know. That’s why we’re going to ask Creagan to put in the request.”
“Creagan?” Bellamy asks, surprised. “I thought you didn’t want him to have anything to do with the case. You didn’t want the Bureau to get involved.”
“I don’t,” I admit. “But the courts tend to act a lot faster when law enforcement is greasing the wheels. A judge might go a bit slower if it was just me asking them to disinter my mother’s casket because I have suspicions about the burial. But if the Bureau in conjunction with a sheriff were to put in a request as part of an ongoing investigation, we’d save a lot of time.”
“What investigation?” Dean asks.
“My mother’s murder. It was never solved. The official police report says she was shot multiple times, but they never found any leads about the assailants.”
“Assailants? Multiple?”
“Evidence at the crime scene including footprints and inconsistencies with the blood splatter suggests there was more than one person there the night she was killed,” I explain. “And I’m sure a judge will be sympathetic to the FBI wanting to further the investigation, especially with the cooperation of a sheriff who has taken a special interest in the safety of the murder victim’s daughter following a series of unsolved break-ins at her home.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Sam asks.
“Are you?” I ask.
“Of course, I am,” he agrees. “I’ll do anything I can to help you. I just want to make sure you’re ready. You could be tangling up a pretty tight web here, and courts don’t always respond well to skirting the truth so closely.”
“I said I would do what needed to be done. I’m not doing anything that isn’t legitimate. Her case is cold. It does need further investigation. I have no interest in getting Creagan any more involved than he already has gotten, but some quick thinking and fancy footwork will get me what I need and still keep him from taking over control.”
“Alright,” he sighs. “Then let’s go talk to him.”
I look over at Dean.
“You coming?” I ask.
“I think I’ll sit this one out. Get caught up on some work.”
I nod.
“See you back at the house later?”
“Sure.”
I give him a tense smile and start for the door but pause when he calls out to me.
“Emma.”
“Hmm?” I turn back to him.
“What’s his name?” he asks. “You saw his signature. What’s his name?”
My breath slides out of my lungs, and my mouth twitches, not even wanting to say it.
“Jonah,” I finally tell him.
“Jonah,” he repeats softly, nodding.
“It would almost be funny if it wasn’t so horrific,” I say.
“What would?”
“Lotan and Leviathan. Jonah and the whale.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I didn’t expect my visit to the headquarters to go quickly. It was never going to be as simple as just walking in and having a meeting with Creagan. This used to be where I spent every day working. For a few years, I saw the inside of FBI headquarters more than I did my own home. In fact, there were more nights than I like to admit that I spent on a cot in the barrack-room rather than making the drive back to my house. Especially in the midst of a difficult case, when I needed every second I could possibly juice out of the day to concentrate on untangling the clues or planning operations, it was just easier to be able to drop down for an hour or two then roll right back up than it would be to commute.
Now it’s been so long since I even stepped foot in the building, and my colleagues are eager to stop me and talk. I have to be careful about what I say to each of them. Despite the FBI’s record for secrecy, there’s very little discretion when it comes to sharing case details with your colleagues. It’s kind of an open secret. What I say to one will eventually trickle its way to others, so I have to be sure to give the exact same details and reasoning to each. It’s not quite the same as juggling elaborate lies, but I feel like I’m putting the truth through a sifter. All the fine details fall away, and I offer up only the most prominent, unobtrusive facts.
I don’t mention
