32. Noah

NOAH

T he stale air in my office is punctuated with coffee that’s about six hours cold. Lucky for me, there’s still a half-eaten box of donuts calling my name, generously gifted by Lottie this morning as I stopped by her bakery to wish her a good time at the shower. But for as much as I’d like to dive into that box and finish it off, my appetite seems to have up and vanished.

The papers strewn over my desk are sitting in a jumbled mess, and the letters printed over them are starting to move around like an army of angry ants.

I rub my eyes as I try once again to make sense of it all.

My phone vibrates over my desk, but I ignore it.

My mind races faster than my pulse. I’ve been playing this game of cat and mouse for hours now, and I think things are actually starting to click into place.

Pieces of the puzzle begin to shift and lock together in my mind.

Francine’s strange behavior, Orson’s dodgy demeanor, the suspicious activity surrounding the hotel.

Something in me doesn’t believe this is about Francine. It can’t be. It’s too easy. Francine may have had a motive, but she doesn’t fit the profile of a killer no matter how many different molds I try to squeeze her in.

This isn’t just about Francine’s righteous rage. It’s about something bigger. Something darker.

I glance at a picture of the Fletcher Hotel with its chipping facade that masks the corruption that lurks within its walls.

My gut tightens.

The illegal casino. That has to be the key.

I pull out my phone and dig into the real estate records. I’ve learned enough from some of Lottie’s successful investigations to know that secrets like these are buried in the details. Heck, all of Lot’s investigations have been successful. In fact, I’ve learned more from her stubborn curiosity than I did in school.

I do a few quick searches, dig through some old deeds, and then I see it.

“Orson Wingate?” I inch back as I look at the screen once more.

The man who’s been playing the part of a grieving widower owns the very building housing the casino.

My heart pounds.

There’s no way this is just a coincidence. How is it that every trail I follow leads back to him in one way or another?

Just to be sure, I put his name into the search engine and hit enter. The screen populates with far too many options, so I begin scrolling through several pictures and articles.

One photo catches my eye—an event for the hotel’s grand reopening a few years back. And there, in the background, I see him.

“Tom Darius?”

He’s standing there as if he belongs, with a drink in hand, clinking glasses with none other than Orson.

Tom was more than just a victim. He was part of this. They both were.

I grab my coat and run out the door and straight out of the precinct.

The illegal casino, the corruption, the murders—it’s all connected.

I pant as I race to my truck, my breath visible in the cold night air.

I need to speak with Orson Wingate one more time.