“But it’s true. There were also more photos of your wife, but they were sort of boring, nothing out of ordinary. You have a set in the package.”
I say nothing. Paddington probably hacked the other PIs’ server to grab those.
“As for Dennis Dunn, that isn’t his real name. He is actually Dennis Smith. His father was Jack Smith and your wife’s father’s former business partner. Both families lived in the same city.”
So Dennis and my wife weren’t just your garden-variety high school sweethearts whose relationship went sour. I tap my fingers on the smooth desktop and wait for Paddington to continue.
“When their Ponzi scheme fell apart two years ago, Jack Smith gunned down your wife’s parents in front of their home and ate the last bullet himself.”
“Jesus.” The word tears from my mouth before I can stop myself. It explains so much about why my wife won’t discuss Dennis. The past has got to be painful.
“Afterward, Dennis Smith took his mother’s maiden name. She died not too long after the murder-suicide, by the way.” Paddington pauses, as though giving me some time to process all this, then continues. “When your wife was fifteen, she was popular in school, and she hung out with the other popular kids. Typical high school behavior. She was inseparable with her best friend at that time.”
“Name?”
“Traci Burton, who also left Lincoln City. Currently works for Omega Wealth Management as an assistant to Hilary Pryce.”
Mark’s wife. I steeple my fingers together and lean back in my seat. “Continue.”
“I looked into your wife’s finances for the last two years. She has no significant assets to speak of, but she doesn’t have any debt either. However, over the last thirteen months she’s been getting a monthly deposit ranging between one thousand and fifteen hundred dollars from an entity called Life Trust.”
“What is that?”
“It’s a shell company set up overseas.”
“By her father?”
“No. He wasn’t that savvy. It’s quite sophisticated and comes with a contact person in the U.S., Larry Grayson. He’s an independent contractor—or so it looks from the outside, but I suspect he has some kind of stake in the entity. I doubt your wife’s father managed to hide enough assets to have a person doing all this work two years after his death. He seemed to be rather frivolous with money.”
Spots at the edge of my eyeballs start to throb. “So who’s behind Life Trust?”
“Keith Shellington.”
The name hits me like a wrecking ball, and I reel mentally. “What the fuck?”
Paddington stays quiet.
A tangle of emotions jitters through me, and I jump to my feet. “No fucking way. No fucking way!”
“It’s true. I suppose you haven’t forgotten about him.”
I start to shake my head, then remember Paddington can’t see me. “Of course not.” Keith is the thieving son of a bitch CFO who stole from the company Lucas and I started. “Why is he giving money to my wife?”
“That, I don’t know. But I’m certain that he doesn’t know your wife personally because they’ve never met. I already checked.”
That doesn’t mean anything. Keith’s MO is all about plausible deniability.
Paddington continues, “Still, Larry Grayson has provided a lot of help to your wife. She was initially in Las Vegas, but he relocated her to L.A. And he helped her get a job at a restaurant. It was all behind the scenes stuff—paying the manager some money to at least give her a chance. Then when she lost that job, he got her hired at a strip club.” Paddington’s voice is as flat as a professionally ironed sheet, and holds no judgment.
Raking my hair, I start pacing. If it weren’t for Keith’s involvement, I would’ve found Larry Grayson’s effort commendable and thanked him. But this…? This changes everything. Keith blames me in particular for his losing out on millions. But the son of a bitch got too arrogant, too careless, and it was only a matter of time before either Lucas or I caught him red-handed.
“I sent photos of everyone involved,” Paddington says.
My hands shaking, I flip through the folder. I find a photo labeled LARRY GRAYSON. It is a portrait shot, something you might find on an employee badge at a big corporation. His narrow, pale face is completely expressionless. He sports conservatively cut brown hair, and h
is eyes match the shade exactly. Ordinary. It’s the kind of face you’d see and not remember ten seconds later.
But an ordinary man wouldn’t be working for someone like Keith Shellington.