“Maybe he was researching his own case,” Sam says. “Trying to find ways to prove he didn't kill Andrew Eagan.”
“I thought that, too. But I've looked into these murders. None of them has anything to do with Xavier's case. None of them involves best friends who killed each other; none of them involves carbon monoxide poisoning in a garage, or anywhere else, for that matter. None of them has any question of the validity of the case, even. That one, Brad Coleman, was stabbed to death. This one was found drowned at the bottom of the lake with a cement block on his ankle and extremely high doses of prescription medication in his system. And this one was run over,” I explain. “They don't have any connection to Xavier's case. The only connection at all is that this murder, Raymond James, had the same presiding judge as Xavier's case. But they are years apart, and I would venture to say it's not all that unusual for a judge to hear more than one murder trial.”
“So, what's all this?” he asks, pointing to all the notes that I've made under their names.
“I can't figure out how they're connected to Xavier's case, so I have to find something else. It's not obvious, but there has to be a reason Lakyn was mentioning them. So, I'm researching each person and the cases. I've talked to a couple of people involved in the investigations and the trials. There are some I still have to get in touch with. Of course, the only connection I've been able to find is that judge, and he won't find the time to talk with me. Maybe I'll find something. As for right now, it's all a mystery,” I explain.
“Then you can add this to it,” Dean says, coming in right as I say that.
“Add what?” I ask. He tosses a folder onto the table and gestures for me to open it.
I do and immediately look back up at him. “Are you serious?”
“What is it?” Sam asks.
I slide the folder over to him and rub my temples, squeezing my eyes closed.
“The body they found burned isn't Mason Goldman,” I sigh. “They finally did the full autopsy and were able to find a dental implant engraved with an identification number registered to William Mulroney.”
“Who is William Mulroney?” Sam asks.
I throw my hands up in the air. “Who the hell knows?”
“So, what does this mean?” Dean asks.
“It means somebody else was murdered, and the police made a mistake identifying him,” Sam says.
I shake my head. “No, this wasn't just a mistake. Mason's wallet was found right there near the body. Who would have his wallet?”
“More important than that,” Dean says. “If that body wasn't Mason Goldman, where is he?”
My hands planted on my hip, I let out a breath, then nod.
“Sam, I need you to find Noah and tell him we need to talk to him. He has to keep the information about the identification of the body under wraps for a couple more days,” I say. “Dean, have you gotten anything from Lydia Walsh?"
I purposely gave Lydia an email address I only use for investigations, and the number to a burner phone Dean carries. It ensures she can get in touch but doesn't get too close. I'm wary of her, especially after her comments about being a fellow investigator. Something about her doesn't sit right with me, and I want to keep her at arms' length until I figure out what it is.
"No," he says. "I check a few times a day, but nothing has come in."
"Perfect." I let out a breath. It's been more than a week since my conversation with her, and she still hasn't sent the notes she promised me.
"Maybe you should have been a little more careful about the way you talked to her," Dean says.
"No," I say. "I just should have waited to say them until after she sent the notes. Alright. Well, I guess that's not that important right now. She only said she was going to send notes about the case Greg contacted her about, so it wouldn't help right now anyway. What I need you to do is do that voodoo that you do so well and find out what Mason is being accused of. Lydia mentioned a murder and embezzlement. She didn't give any names but see if you can dig around and find out what happened with that situation."
“What are you going to do?” Sam asks.
“I'm going to go see a man about a lasagna,” I tell him.
Lorenzo's restaurant looks packed, and I have to pull around back to find a parking spot. I notice two back doors and can't figure out which one to go into until one of them opens, and a startled cook looks out at me.
“Sorry,” I say. “I couldn't find a parking spot, so I came back here. I didn't know which door to come in.”
Without saying anything, he points at the other door and sinks back into the building. I go through the door he pointed out to me and find a long, narrow hallway with green carpeting and wood paneling that don't quite fit in with the aesthetics of the rest of the restaurant. I've only gone about halfway up the hallway when a door opens to the side, startling me.
“Agent Griffin,” Tarasco says. “What are you doing?”
“There were no parking spots at the front of the restaurant,” I say, trying to remind myself he doesn't know I'm repeating what I already said, so I keep the tension out of the words. “I parked in the back.”
“Oh, well, customers rarely use the back door. Usually, they walk around,” he says.
“I'm sorry,” I tell him. “A cook came out and pointed to this door when I asked how to get in.”
His eyes slide over to the side, in the direction of the kitchen. When
