AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“My father collected rare coins as did his father before him,” Carla said. “Dad had his father’s collection, too. I didn’t want him to keep it here. It was too valuable. But it brought him such joy, especially since we lost my mother. I didn’t want to deprive him of what little joy he had left.”
“The coins were kept in a small trunk with pullout drawers,” Vanessa said. “Looked like a jewelry box. I’ve taken photos of the collection in its entirety for insurance purposes.”
Kit’s head began to throb again. “All right. Is it possible that Mr. Dreyfus moved the collection somewhere else in the apartment? He was—forgive me—forgetful.”
Vanessa’s husband came into the living room from Mr. Dreyfus’s bedroom. “No, Detective. The collection is not here. I’ve checked the bedroom. We’ve checked everywhere.”
Conversation exploded then, with the three family members talking over one another.
Kit raised her hands like a traffic cop. “Please. Stop.” The talking abruptly ceased, three pairs of panicked eyes shifting to her. “When was the last time you saw it?”
Carla closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, she appeared to have gathered her composure. “Six days ago. I’d come to dry out the dehumidifier, which they also took. Detective, my father’s collection was featured in magazines. It was a true treasure. Our family’s legacy. My grandfather was able to hide some of their rarest coins in the lining of my father’s coat when they fled Europe in 1939. We have to find them.”
“Okay,” Kit said, hoping she sounded calm. Because this just muddied the waters further. Had someone stolen Mr. Dreyfus’s collection? When? Had Frankie Flynn known? Was that why he was dead? Was that why Mr. Dreyfus felt responsible? “What was the value of the collection?”
Vanessa sank onto the sofa, next to her mother. “Four million dollars.”
It was only her ten years as a cop that allowed Kit to keep her composure. Four million dollars? Which he’d kept in a cabinet in a freaking retirement home? What the actual fuck? She didn’t think she’d ever understand rich people.
“I see,” she said, hearing how breathless she sounded.
Vanessa’s husband sighed. “I think we may be more amenable to your request for an autopsy, Detective.”
San Diego PD, San Diego, California
Tuesday, November 8, 1:55 p.m.
Lieutenant Navarro pinched the bridge of his nose, his frustration all too apparent. “So let me get this straight.”
Kit glanced at Connor, who grimaced. This really had become a highly visible shitshow, with one of the victims being one of their own.
Navarro’s small office was crowded. The captain was there, along with CSU’s Sergeant Ryland, ME Alicia Batra, Detective Bruce Goddard from the robbery unit, and one of the civilians from IT named Jeff Mansfield.
The assistant chief—the captain’s boss—had even invited himself, having served under Flynn more than thirty years before.
So…no pressure.
And, of course, there was Dr. Sam Reeves, whom Kit had personally invited because Connor was right. Sam noticed things. And he had the ability to pour oil on troubled waters.
Hopefully they wouldn’t need him for that during this meeting, but Kit wanted to be prepared.
Navarro got up to pace, then realized his office contained too many people for that, so he stood with his arms crossed over his chest. His face was more lined than it had been six months before, his hair a little grayer. But his focus was the same and Kit was grateful that he’d returned from his personal leave in time to preside over this case, because Navarro could manage the brass without them knowing he was doing so.
“We have three dead men,” Navarro said. “Flynn, an obvious homicide; Crawford, a faked suicide; and Dreyfus, who may or may not have died from natural causes. Crawford might have been stealing from someone—maybe Shady Oaks, maybe somewhere else—and had an offshore bank account with a lot of cash that his salary doesn’t support. And finally, we have a missing coin collection, worth four million dollars. And somehow there have been no cameras anywhere that have caught any of this, despite their incredibly intricate security system. Is that right, Detectives?”
“Mostly, sir,” Kit said. “There is still no footage from the hallway outside Mr. Flynn’s apartment at the time of his murder, but we checked surveillance footage from the other on-site cameras.” It had been a quick search, to be honest, right before the meeting. They’d have to go back and review all the footage in more depth later, but they’d found at least one useful thing. “We found someone leaving through a rear door with a box about the size of the missing coin trunk. This was at four fifteen a.m. on Saturday, three days ago.”
“Were you able to get an ID from the video?” Navarro asked impatiently.
“Not exactly, sir,” Kit said. “His face is hidden by a cap. But the clothes the man was wearing fit the description of what was missing from Kent Crawford’s suitcase, and he was about the same size as Crawford—five ten, maybe two hundred pounds.”
Sergeant Ryland frowned, puzzled. “I thought Crawford was dead by four fifteen on Saturday morning.”
“Hard to say,” Alicia said. “He died sometime Saturday, but I can’t give you a specific TOD. My best estimate is between midnight and eight a.m.”
Navarro sighed. “So Crawford could have stolen the coins from Shady Oaks, come back to the motel, gotten himself murdered, then…what? His killer stole the coins from there?”
“Maybe,” Kit said. “We believe Crawford was stealing from someone. We’re waiting on the warrants to be signed giving us access to his offshore account information, but at this point, his spending indicates more income than he was legitimately making at Shady Oaks. He could have been stealing from the residents all this time. He had the access with his master key. With Mr. Dreyfus, he would have hit the mother lode.”
