"Don’t blame me if a few of your fries go missing!”
I wave him away over my head as I rush outside to call the number on the business card Detective White slipped me before we left the bank. By the time I get back to the table, our food is already there.
"This looks good," I say, slipping back into the booth and setting my phone down before plucking a crispy golden fry from the pile and munching on it.
"What was that all about?" Dean asks. He picks up a bottle of ketchup from the end of the table and shakes a pool onto the side of his plate.
“I wanted to call the detective to ask if they spoke to the people in the shops. But I had to go through a whole bunch of rigmarole just to get to him. His cell phone, which was the number on the card, redirected to his office. The woman who answered told me he wasn't available because he was doing interviews. But then I told her who I am, and she redirected me… to the jail."
"The jail?" he asks.
"Turns out, Detective White has a source."
“A source at the jail?” Dean asks.
I nod. “Yep. But he wouldn't tell me anything about him. He wouldn't even confirm it had anything to do with the investigation into Lakyn’s disappearance. But I asked him about the other little shops. He said after they got a tip, he spoke with the owner of the boutique that is in the closest proximity to the bank. She said she didn't even know who Lakyn Monroe was and wouldn't have any reason to photograph her car. He was satisfied by that and decided that whoever sent in the tip must have just happened by.”
“Seriously?” Dean asks.
“Yeah, that was kind of my impression, too. But he did ask for my help,” I say.
“And let me guess. You're going to take him up on that.”
"The least we can do is look around a little."
Chapter Eighteen
“So, we're going to drive all the way back here tomorrow?” Dean asks.
“No, I figured we would go back to the town near the bank. There has to be a hotel or inn, or something nearby. We'll stay the night, and tomorrow we'll do a little more investigating,” I say.
He takes a bite of his sandwich and shakes his head. “Why do I feel like if I'm going to be spending time with you, I should start traveling with a bug-out bag in my car?”
“Probably wouldn't be the worst idea,” I tell him. I narrow my eyes slightly at what he's eating and tip my head toward it. “What is that?”
"I got the same thing you did, just hold the tuna."
"So… a grilled cheese?"
"No," he says, shaking his head. "If it was a grilled cheese, there would be tomato soup on the side. No soup, no grilled cheese."
I press my lips together and nod as I pick up my own actual tuna melt. "Glad I know the rules now."
"Well, the more you know."
As I chew a bite of the decadent, nostalgic sandwich, a thought pops into my head. "I never asked you. What were you doing with Ethan?”
“Oh, that's right, I didn't tell you. The whole thing about the wife going back to the security deposit box and only staying there for a couple of minutes has really been sticking with me. It just seems particularly odd. But I wasn't really sure why. I mean, I've never had a security deposit box, so I don't really know how they work. I didn't know if that much time made any sense. So, I asked Ethan if he could take me back to the vault and show me the boxes.”
“He didn't show you the Goldmans’ box, did he?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I don't have authorization to see that. But there were some empty boxes he was able to let me open up. Just so I could see how much time it took. It's not a long process. I mean, you have to access the box, unlock it, and open it, but that took less than a minute. I went over two minutes in a short time, but if she just went back there, accessed the box, opened it and looked inside, then put it back, it could have worked.”
“So, you think she just went in there and looked inside the box? Just to see what was in there, the same as she was checking the balance of the bank account?” I ask.
“It's possible,” he shrugs. “Ethan said he didn't notice that she was carrying a bag or anything else when she came in, so she didn't have anything to put in the box, or anywhere to hide anything she might have taken out of it.”
“No bag? Not even a purse? Then how did she take out her bank card and her identification? If she was checking the balance on the account, she would have to have at least her ID. And that's if she was able to rattle off her account number from memory. Most likely, she also had to show her bank card or a deposit slip with the information on it.”
“Apparently, she had a little fabric cardholder. Just a folded piece of cloth with two pockets. She was holding in her hand when she came in,” he says.
Nodding, I take another bite and think this through. I don't know why it bothers me. But something about it sticks into that little place in the back of my mind where thoughts go to aggravate me until I figure them out. Sam calls it the waiting room of my brain. He wonders what kind of magazines are there. It's moments like that when I remind myself I love that man and all his bizarre little idiosyncrasies.
We finish eating and get
