"Yes," I say. "Now, tell us."
"The firefighters found the wallet several feet away from the body after extinguishing the fire. It was burned, and the inside melted, but it was intact enough to remove the identification card and credit cards. There were a couple of badly damaged photos, some burned money, and a hotel room key card inside."
"Credit cards and money?" Dean asks. "So, robbery wasn't the motive."
"Do you have the pictures?" I ask.
Noah walks over to one of the bulletin boards and gestures for me to come with. I stand beside him, and he points to a series of small plastic bags pinned to the board. Each contains a darkened, water-warped picture. I look closely at the images to try to decipher them through the damage. One is of a man who looks like Mason in profile, kissing a woman with dark hair.
"That's his wife," Dean says, pointing to the picture.
"How do you know?" Noah asks.
"Security footage from the bank."
"That must be her, too," I say, pointing to another of the pictures that's too burned to clearly see the face. There's just enough of the hair in the corner to suggest it's the same woman.
"This one looks like it's from a national park or some sort of hiking trail," Dean says, pointing to another image.
It's dark, but I can make out what looks like a large wooden sign held up by two stone pillars with a woman standing in front of it. The picture is from a distance, and the damage makes it hard to see, but it does look like the same woman from the other two pictures.
"None of his son," I comment.
"What?" Noah asks.
"Not many people carry actual pictures around in their wallets anymore. But he does, and these are the ones he picks? Him kissing his wife, just her, and her in front of a sign. Yet, not a single one of his son? No school picture? Not even one of those little tee-ball cards they make up. Nothing."
"Well, you did say he hasn't been in touch with them. If he ran away from his old life, maybe he wanted to just leave it all behind."
Chapter Twenty-Two
"The pictures were scanned into the computer, and I have some of my guys looking to see if they can clear them up a bit," Noah explains. "We've also contacted the credit card companies to get records of recent transactions."
"Have you run the address on the ID card?" Dean asks.
"Yes. It gave us an associated phone number, and that's the one we've been using to try to get in touch with his wife," Noah nods. "Some guys also went up there, but she didn't answer. There were no cars in the drive, so she must not have been home."
"What did you find out about the house?" I ask.
"It's a rental in Salt Valley. The public records show it's been owned by the same woman for fifteen years."
"Have you spoken to the owner?" Dean asks.
"They can't," I tell him. "Until Eleanor is notified of his death, they can't ask questions that would lead someone else to believe he's dead."
"Don't you want to talk to Eleanor about why her husband became a campfire on a barely-used road fifty miles from his house?" Dean asks.
"Yes," Noah responds.
"Isn't that probable cause? You don't have to tell the woman what you want to talk to Eleanor about. Just that you need to speak with her."
Noah clearly doesn't like having someone else tell him how to do his job, but Dean is right. If they're able to approach the owner of the Goldman rental, they might be able to find more contact information that will lead them to Eleanor.
I see Dean looking at the computer with the database again. He reaches for his phone in his pocket, and I turn my attention back to Noah.
“I'm assuming there's going to be an autopsy,” I say.
He looks at me quizzically. “Of course. I think it's safe to assume his death wasn't of natural causes. It’ll probably take several days until all the information is available.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the board several feet away. I hadn't even paid attention to all the notes and displays in the war room. Noah is giving a list of orders to officer Belmont, including an instruction to search out the owner of the house, so I walk over to the board to get a better look at it. I'm a few steps away when I see a familiar face looking back at me. Lakyn Monroe.
The bulletin board looks like a giant high school yearbook collage; all focused on this one girl. Dozens of pictures show her in all aspects of life, from glamorously dolled up for award show appearances to candid paparazzi shots showing her more casual and realistic.
Noah comes to stand beside me, and I glance up at him.
“She changed so much,” I note.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I point to pictures of her walking down the street or having coffee with friends that look to be a couple of years old.
“She's posing here,” I say. “Look at her. She's walking like she's going down a catwalk. Everything about her is choreographed and precise. Her clothes, her shoes, her makeup. Even the way she brushes her hair back away from her face. Look at how she's holding that cup of coffee. The label is turned, so the camera sees it. Everything she does is with complete awareness that people are watching her, and she loves it. She’s trying to get as much attention as she can and pushing this image of who she is.”
“Yeah,” Noah nods. “I think that comes along with the territory of being a celebrity.”
“Right, but now look at these. These are more recent, right?”
I point out pictures of her in almost the same places and situations, but they look completely different.
“In this one, she has a
