“So?” The man in front of me taps his pen on the page. “You’re telling us that four hundred million dollars is just lost? Irretrievable?”
I’m always amused by how people just don’t understand cryptocurrencies. They are always certain that there is a customer service line you can call, or a form you can complete, to retrieve a lost key.
“Unless someone finds the key and knows what it is, and can locate the account address to use it.” I give the same answer I’ve given twice already.
“How would someone locate the account address?”
I shrug. “A good hacker who knows what he’s looking for could find it. It’s not like a key. The addresses are less secure because they don’t really matter. It’s like the account number, which is on the bottom of any check.”
“So the money is gone?” Another suit just can’t keep his mouth closed.
“Yeah.” A week ago, the knowledge would have devastated me. Now I’m just ready to move the fuck on.
CHAPTER 74
LILLIAN
I think that everything is about to end for me. I can barely hold on to Jacob. I follow him as he goes through white hallways and talks to counselors and has his photo and fingerprints taken and put on new identification, but I’m disappearing and then reappearing, blocks of time gone, and I find that I don’t really care what I missed.
My emotions are diluted, my care and concern stretched thin as I watch my husband sign contracts and deliver the secrets and details on what appears to be a criminal organization. How long did he work for them? I don’t care. Did he really have an affair with Sam? I don’t care.
It’s freeing, the loss of human emotions and concerns. Maybe Jacob and Mike will be found and killed—that’s okay. Death is fleeting. I don’t even remember dying. I drank a drug-laced latte and I slept. According to what the police are telling Mike, Sam is likely the one who killed me, and isn’t that amusing? I’m not sure if it was that latte, or if the pills came a little later, but all I remember is the delicious taste of cinnamon and pumpkin . . . and sleeping. Like I said, not a bad way to go.
I do think . . .
I faded for a moment, and now Jacob is on a plane and I’m looking down on Los Angeles and wondering whether my funeral has already occurred. Is it now? Soon? Funny, I put so much thought and importance into obituaries for so long, and I couldn’t care less what mine says. Still, maybe, I should write one last one, for me.
Or maybe I will just go. I’ll just close my eyes and float away . . .
CHAPTER 75
LENNY
The funeral was canceled. I guess the husband organized all sorts of things, but then he disappeared and the funeral home was left with their thumbs up their asses.
I made sure that she got a nice casket—he had prepaid for that—and she was brought here to Angelus Rosedale for her burial. We lower her into the ground using the same crane that was used on Marcella’s small casket, and as the glossy mahogany box hits the dirt, I bawl, just like I did at Marcella’s burial—only this time, Lillian isn’t here to stand beside me. This time, I am alone, and I have to find a reason to keep living because standing at her grave, I was ready to give up.
There is a possibility on the horizon, in the unlikely form of Gersh. He’s called me every day since the raid, and is trying to talk me into coming back on the force. Not as a detective, just a desk job, but it’ll give me a reason to get out of bed, and not drink, and say goodbye to this place and its daily reminder of Marcella’s death.
I do miss the camaraderie. The good fight against the bad. The games of finding clues and sniffing out lies. Even just being on the sidelines of that—it would be nice, and give me health benefits. I could get this damn molar fixed.
I posted the details of the burial online, but only a handful of people showed up. There was Rosa from across the street. Fran from Lillian’s work. David Laurent, who had finally revealed that he’d been investigating Mike Smith and had targeted Lillian to get close to him. Her mother was also there, along with a handful of others.
Most notably absent: Sam Knight and Mike and Jacob Smith. I know where Mike and Jacob are—en route to their new home, with new identities and all the other benefits that witness protection affords. On the edges of the cemetery are plainclothes officers, curious to see if Sam will risk showing up, but I know better. He’s hiding somewhere. Maybe here in the city, maybe not, but there’s a warrant out for his arrest, so he won’t show, not even for her burial.
Sam Knight is, if I look back at the criminals I have encountered, one of the smarter ones. Her body didn’t have any clues or an ounce of discernible DNA evidence; neither did the crime scene. While his presence in the basement hinted at his involvement with the Los Colima cartel, there wasn’t enough evidence to hold him for longer than twenty-four hours. Mike Smith, who had pointed fingers and given the names of at least a dozen key cartel members, had insisted the real estate broker was oblivious to the illegal source of the funds and was there under duress, same as Jacob Smith, so he’d been released.
The path to his warrant had been a cumbersome one, which had rewarded good old police work. A home-security cam from a beach house a quarter mile down the Pacific coast road had recorded 442 vehicles that had passed between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and 4:00 a.m.—which were the body drop times, according to lividity and the tide patterns on the beach. Of those 442 cars, only fourteen made a return trip within an hour of their passing. The camera was angled down the road, which gave a clear view of the tag numbers. Fourteen vehicle owners were researched, none with any direct connection to Lillian or Mike Smith or a motive, but one owner of a black Chevrolet Tahoe—a Tricia D’nario—had purchased her home with Sam Knight. When Gersh reached out to her, she was in France, at her second home, and professed to have not driven that vehicle, which was parked in her LA garage, in three months. When asked if anyone had access to her home, she provided three names, one of which was Sam Knight.
Now, it still wasn’t a slam dunk. The bastard had gone out of his way to avoid any traffic-cam intersections near Lillian Smith’s house, and they still hadn’t tracked down the Starbucks where he’d purchased the latte she drank, but he’d certainly paid cash for it. Forensics had gone over the Tahoe with a fine-tooth comb and hadn’t found a hair or fingerprint from him. Same for Tricia D’nario’s home.
Lillian’s DNA had been all over the passenger side and back seat of the car. No blood, but plenty of hair and prints. That and the camera footage had been enough for a warrant against Sam, though the evidence probably was too circumstantial to hold up in court.
His guilt was cemented, at least in my mind, when he ran. Just disappeared from his multimillion-dollar mansion and his expensive car. Left artwork and furniture, even his pet eels.
Eels. That should have been Lillian’s first sign that the guy was a psychopath.
Everyone left quickly after the grave was filled, but I take my time in laying the sod over the plot and arranging the sprays of flowers. I plant a small rosebush beside the stone, then sit on the hill and watch the first sunset over her grave.
LILLIAN SMITH
MOTHER. DAUGHTER. WIFE.
MAY YOUR LAUGHTER AND SMILE CARRY YOU INTO HEAVEN.