“I still think this was a bad idea. Maybe we should stop looking,” Parrish said. “This is too hard on you. Who knows what else we’ll find? Let the local cops sort it all out.”
“No.” Riley shook her head vigorously. “If the cops were any good, they would have searched this office already. I can’t count on them for answers. If it makes you feel any better, we’ll put everything back where we found it before we leave tonight.”
Parrish picked up the ring from the desk blotter where Riley had placed it. She held it up and read the inscription aloud. “‘AAFY.’ What’s that mean?”
“Always and forever yours. He used to write me the sweetest notes when we were dating, and he always signed like that. Always and forever yours, Wendell. I wonder if he took it off after he realized always wasn’t going to be forever.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Parrish asked, handing it back.
Riley tucked the ring into the jacket pocket. “Keep it. I’ll give it to Maggy at some point. Probably.”
* * *
“Look at this,” Riley said, holding out a file folder. “I know you were joking about a foreclosure file, but here it is.”
Parrish took the folder and examined the documents. “Wow. It’s the mortgage for Sand Dollar Lane. Which you, apparently, signed.”
“Somebody signed it, but that’s not my signature,” Riley said. “And did you notice the copies of all the foreclosure notices there, too? Whoever signed my name on that mortgage must have also signed that I’d received those notices.”
Parrish set the file aside and picked up the one she’d just put down. “This might be something.”
“What?”
“Articles of incorporation for a company called Sand Dollar Development Corp.” Parrish traced a line down the document. “You’re the chief executive officer.”
“What the hell?” Riley said. “Wonder what it means?”
“Dunno. But the business address is a post office box in Wilmington.”
“I guess that could be something important,” Riley said, going back to her search of the desk. “There’s a copy machine over there. Better make a copy.”
“A copier? That’s so old school,” Parrish chided. She whipped her smartphone from her bra and clicked off a couple of exposures.
“Hey, Riles,” Parrish said a minute later. “I found four more articles of incorporation with you listed as chief executive officer.”
She waved a batch of documents in the air. “They’ve all got different names, but their mailing address is that same Wilmington post office box. Let’s see. You’re also CEO of St. Mary’s Holdings, Fiddler’s Creek Enterprises, Oceanview Partners, and Belle Isle Landings Corp. Aren’t those the companies the FBI agent asked about?”
“Yeah,” Riley said. “Come to think of it, he did ask me about those names.”
“Who’s Samuel Gordon?”
“Beats me. Why?”
“He’s listed as the agent of record on all these articles of incorporation.”
“I never heard that name, and I’m pretty sure I never heard Wendell mention him,” Riley said. She took out her own smartphone. “Let’s Google him … what was that name again?”
“Samuel Gordon. Spelled like it sounds.”
Riley typed the name into the search engine and frowned down at the phone.
“He was a lawyer in Wilmington.”
“Was? Did he get disbarred?”
“Worse. He’s dead. I’m looking at his obituary. He died six months ago. At the age of eighty-two. I think you better make copies of all those corporation documents.”
“I’m on it.”
Riley went back to searching the desk drawers. The contents were nothing unusual or very interesting. Until she opened the bottom right file drawer.
A pair of tan-and-white golf shoes sat atop a stack of envelopes. She lifted the shoes out and looked at them. Wendell’s, undoubtedly. His feet were unusually small for a man, a size seven, and wide—he wore a D width, which meant most of his shoes had to be custom ordered. She set the shoes on the desktop.
The entire bottom drawer was filled with unopened mail. Riley scooped up a handful of envelopes. They all had those telltale windows. Bills. Utility bills, credit card bills. And there were official-looking letters from the same source. Coastal Carolina Bank. Dozens of missives from that bank. Dunning letters.
Riley exhaled slowly. “Parrish. I think you better look at this.”
31
Parrish picked up a handful of envelopes and let them drift down onto the desk blotter like oversize pieces of confetti. “Wonder what this is all about?”
“Only one way to find out,” Riley said. She grabbed an envelope and started to rip.
“No!” Parrish snatched the envelope away. “That’s tampering with the U.S. mail. For sure, that’s a federal offense. You can’t open any of these.”
“Watch me,” Riley said. “According to those articles of incorporation you found, I’m CEO of every one of the companies this mail is addressed to. Wendell’s dead. I’m not. It’s as simple as that.”
“I doubt the sheriff is going to see it like that,” Parrish said. “Or that baby-faced FBI agent.”
Riley fixed her with an annoyed glare. “When did you get to be such a rules follower?”
“When I was sworn in to the bar,” Parrish said. “I happen to have an aversion to prison.”
“And I have an aversion to homelessness and poverty,” Riley shot back. She opened the top desk drawer and withdrew a wicked-looking brass letter-opener. “Now. Are you in or are you out?”
Parrish knew she’d been overruled. Again. “God help me. I’m in.”
She picked up a stack of envelopes and began sorting them into piles. “Let’s at least get a system going. Five different companies. Five different piles. We’ll put them in order by date, oldest to newest. Put the bills in one stack, the notices from the bank in another. Got it?”
* * *
It took them an hour to sort all the pieces of mail. “There must be a couple of hundred bills and notices here,” Parrish said. “Some of them are postmarked as long as a year ago.”
“I know,” Riley said. She gathered up the first batch of bills and sat cross-legged on the floor. “I’ll start with St. Mary’s Holdings.”
“And I’ll do Sand Dollar,” Parrish said, taking the desk chair Riley had vacated.
Riley slit open the first envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper. She furrowed her brow as she read the fine print. “It’s an overdue payment notice. From Coastal Carolina Bank. There’s a loan number, and a balance of three million. Jesus! Do you suppose I’m liable for all this debt?”
“Hopefully not. You didn’t sign any loan documents and, from what I can tell just glancing at what we’ve seen so far, the indebtedness is corporate, not personal. But again, I mostly don’t know what the hell I’m talking about here.” Parrish held up the notice she’d opened. “Mine is an overdue payment notice from the same bank. A loan number, and a balance of one point three million.”