Chpater 126

Chpater 126
Chapter Title: The Search for the Truth

Reynolds

It had been over a month since the Senator's birthday.

Yet that single day had changed Crisfield forever.

Chief Morgan had been arrested for murder.

Crisfield Mayor Wilcox stepped down pending an inquiry.

Senator Henry Williamson vacated his seat in the Senate.

Ace and Archer were buried beside their parents, their funeral attended by crowds of people coming to pay their respects. Meanwhile, no one came to bid Divine one last farewell.

The Williamson mansion was up for sale. Sweet and Savory was closed. Henry, Hank, Kimberly, and Hastings were gone. Cole and Emma were never seen outside of their homes.

Many things didn't add up about that night, although those who made it out alive gave the exact same story: Divine shot first—once at
Kimberly, then at Hastings. Then Archer shot her.

Then Hank shot Archer.

It explained Ace's angry reaction.

But it felt coached. Memorized. Forced. Yet, the psychologist assigned to the case claimed that was a normal response to trauma.

I didn't buy it.

I reviewed the audio from that night. It went completely silent right when Divine—I assumed it was her—spoke. It was ingenious. She took all the blame without ever defending herself. It made her look completely guilty.

I also didn't buy that Archer did this alone. He had help. There was way too much confusion, misdirection and diversion. The bombing, the scam hub, the death of the cook at Delish, the murder of Clyde and the dock worker—it was simply too big for a single killer.

Then Hastings disappeared from the hospital before anyone could interrogate her. When I called
Howard to ask about her, his phone was suddenly out of reach.

I tried calling D.C., but I only received a terse reply: "Special Agent Hastings is undergoing debriefing."

I asked Nick to ping a location on her phone, but it was entirely off the grid.

Then, there was Gray.

Gray showed up out of nowhere, leaning against my car.

"So Divine, Archer, and Ace are dead," he said. "That must have been messy."

"It was," I replied. "What are you doing here?"

Gray crossed his arms. "I said I'd help, remember? That I owe it to Benny."

"You don't believe Archer killed him?" I asked.

"No. Archer had a good relationship with
Benny," he answered quickly. "And Archer was earning almost fifty G's a month from Benny. It was Benny's way of looking after his own. Haven't you seen Archer's boat? It's even nicer than Hank's."

"No, but I've seen his car," I said, pulling my keys from my pocket. "Anyway, thanks for passing on the information. If you'd kindly—"

"It doesn't make sense that the killer didn't demand a confession about Rocky," Gray cut in.
"Don't you think if Archer was the one holding the gun, he'd have made Benny confess to killing his father. Instead, Benny talks about Kelly Lawrence."

"You said so yourself—Benny didn't kill Archer's father. If you knew that, I assume Archer knew it too." I narrowed my eyes. "So what are you implying?"

"If Hank forced the confession, Benny would have probably called Kelly 'your girlfriend.' If it was Kimberly, he would've called her 'your sister,'" Gray pointed out. "But he addressed Kelly as 'the girl.'"

"It must've been Archer, then," I said with a shrug.

"But Benny sounded so... formal in that confession." Gray paused, his expression tightening. "He only talks that way to one specific person."

“After your theory about Kimberly and Hank fell apart, I'm done listening to your conspiracy theories,” I scoffed.

Gray lifted a brow and pushed himself off my car. "You guys didn't look through the photos in
Benny's safe?"

"Tate did," I said.

"And did she see the ones of him with all those girls?"

I knew where this was going. "She only mentioned one photograph. The one with Marissa Vega."

"That's it?" Gray exclaimed, a flash of genuine concern crossing his face. "He must've gotten all the evidence, then."

"What do you mean, Gray?"

"I had taken tons of photographs... of all the working girls he leaves with," he said. "And you only found one photograph?" He paused, looking suddenly terrified. "Forget I ever said anything. Better yet, you never saw me."

He turned and quickly walked away.

A week later, I got a call from Agent Miller. Gray had been found dead in Baltimore. Miller suspected there was a mole, and warned me to declare the case closed.

But I didn't listen to him. I wanted the truth.

After a month with no new leads, I was about to declare the case closed.

Then, out of nowhere, the phone number we found on Marissa Vega's patient file—the one registered to R. Ryder—suddenly pinged in Snow Hill, near the marina.

Archer had been dead for weeks.

Which could only mean one thing: one of his idiot accomplices had turned the phone on without realizing we were still tracking it.

So I went to Snow Hill. It was a bright, sunny day, although summer was finally winding down to make way for fall.

I headed to the marina, just snooping around, when I noticed a boat mechanic with a twin-blade tattoo on his arm.

He was white, roughly five-foot-ten, and appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. As I approached, he noticed my badge, dropped his tools, and took off running.

I chased after him.

Good thing Tate was with me as backup. As he emerged from an alley onto the street, she popped out from around the corner, swung her arm forward, and hit him square in the chest.
He crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain.

“Why the fuck were you running?” Tate asked as she hauled him against a wall and patted him down.

“It was time for my exercise. My smartwatch vibrated,” he said, pointing to the notification on his watch.

“We don't look like paying customers to you?” I asked, glancing down at my suit.

“Most of my customers come with a boat,” he scoffed, “and wear a shirt worth more than your salary.”

“True. But you see, I have the power to throw you in jail for assaulting a police officer, obstruction of justice, and whatever other mundane crime I can think of,” I gritted out. “So if you value your freedom, you'll be a good little boy and answer my questions. Okay?”

He rolled his eyes, then nodded. “Fine.”

“Let's start. What's your name?”

“Mike. Mike Danner."

I showed him a picture of Hank's small yacht. “Have you done any work on this, Mike?”

He stared at the photo, then swallowed before nodding.

I showed him a picture of Hank. “Was he the one who hired you?”

He shook his head, already sweating.

“You look scared, Mike,” I said. “What are you so afraid of?”

“If they catch me talking to you, they'll kill me,” he said. “And I mean literally.”

“And if you don't talk, I'll haul your ass to jail.”

“They'll kill me in there, too,” Mike said, taking a deep breath. “Mr. Ryder, the Big Boss, hired me to fix that boat.”

I glanced at Tate before showing Mike pictures of Archer and Ace.

“Which one is Mr. Ryder?”

“None of them are,” he squeaked.

“Can you describe Mr. Ryder for us?” Tate asked.

“He's older. Tall, around six feet. He has dark hair with white at his temples, like wings,” he described.

I pulled out a photo of Henry Williamson. “Is this him?”

He nodded.

“What did he have fixed?” I asked.

“On that boat you just showed me? Carbon-fiber retrofitting, propeller upgrades, and the installation of gas turbines,” he said. “He wanted speed and stealth. That was fairly easy. His other boat was more complicated.”

“His other boat?” I asked.

“Mid-sized black-and-white yacht,” Mike blurted out. “He wanted a hidden safe room that was acoustically isolated. He got really pissed when he said he could still hear a sound on the upper deck even if someone was inside it.”

My brow furrowed. This was getting weirder by the second.

“Have you seen him around Snow Hill lately?”

“No. But I did see him a couple of weeks ago at a restaurant. He was with this younger woman.”

“Can you describe this woman?” I asked.

“I didn't get a good look at her,” Mike said. “But she was hot and had blonde hair. Too bad she's into BDSM.”

“BDSM?” Tate repeated.

“Mr. Ryder has Lester ‘The Razor’ Trent bring him girls who like to be chained up and whipped. That woman must be his favorite, because he was dining with her like a normal couple. I've seen Mr. Ryder feed submissives off the floor.”

He knew a lot about Mr. Ryder. He was trusted.

I had a hunch.

I showed him three pictures of the women who had gone missing from Crisfield. “Have you ever seen these women before? They've gone missing.”

His eyes widened. “If I tell you where you can find them, will you help me get out of Maryland? Witness protection. New identities for me and my family?”

“I have some friends who can make that happen,” I said. “Now talk.”

Suddenly, gunshots erupted.

Tate and I scattered in different directions, diving behind trash bins as a car full of goons opened fire. Then they sped off.

Tate and I were fine.

Mike wasn't. He was dead.

A piece of paper fluttered near our feet. I picked it up.

Something's waiting for you in Crisfield.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated.

Grandma.

I answered—and heard her crying.

“Blake, your grandfather...” Her voice broke. “He's been murdered.”

I couldn't breathe.

The words echoed in my head.

Your grandfather... he's been murdered.

My hand tightened around the phone. My vision blurred, and for a moment, I forgot where I was.

The gunshots, the marina, Mike's body on the ground—it all faded into the background.

My grandfather was dead.

Tate stepped closer. “Blake? What's wrong?”

I swallowed hard, forcing the words out through the knot in my throat.

“I'm declaring the Archer Ryder and Divine Williamson case closed,” I said.

Tate stared at me. “What?"

I looked at her, my eyes burning.

“I just lost my grandfather.”