Ford
DAVID HAS FOUND TANGIBLE PROOF.
I stayed up late last night on a call with Genevieve. She claims that her mom ambushed her as soon as she entered the house while her lips were still swollen from our cherished kiss and shot a barrage of questions her way about me and our budding relationship. Genevieve didn't offer any answers for me and I didn't invite the challenge of seeking them out. Instead, I wanted to just talk to her without the mention of Red Alert and the murders and Jasmine Collins.
And we did.
Sometimes comfortable silence dwelt, and it spanned a few minutes, but then we'd spark up a new conversation. It was almost two in the morning by the time she was yawning incessantly down my ear. Endearing, if not a little annoying, and by that point she had to call it a night. I didn't manage to sleep until five in the morning, and by that point I only had a couple of hours.
Somehow, I'm still functioning on minimal sleep and I can only pray it wouldn't affect my boxing match on Friday. Not with Genevieve in the audience for me.
Not as Harris' girl, but as my girl.
It's during one of my victimology lectures when my phone vibrates in my pocket with a message from David. My body perks up almost as much as it did when I dropped Genevieve's hot chocolate round to her house this morning and she thanked me, all smiles and bleary eyes.
Another dose of Bullet to destroy her.
I promise David that I'll be round in a couple of hours when I'm done with college for the day.
I make good on that promise. This time I arrive without Jeremiah as he's still got lectures in the afternoon. David is grave as he opens the door to me, ushering me in without vocal commands. I find myself in his lounge as he holds up a few pieces of paper, all folded down the middle quite neatly, I can't help but perceive. He appears conflicted as he doesn't offer them to me immediately.
The envelope with the three bullets is nestled in my car ready for me to drive straight to see Detective Barrera following this meeting with whatever evidence David has for me. I'm tantalised with the hope that this can lead us to the hitman performing these killings, whereby I can exhibit the hitman profile for Detective Barrera with my laptop that's also in my car.
"I've found a bank statement with the bank details of where the money was transferred from into my account. Whoever the email address belongs to who sent the email initiating contact, it's anonymous, but I suspect you'll have more use with it than I will. There's a chain of emails attached with it, all timestamped up until the point of confirmation of payment. Then all contact ceased. As far as I'm aware, I never heard from him again."
My eyes bow to the small pug curled up on one of the recliners, all dozy and docile. When I latch my gaze to David again, I can see the moral obligation he experiences to hand over the records, though it battles with his desire to protect his past secrets and the life he's built with his wife. He must also mistake my silence for intimidation, because he continues to ramble on before abruptly cutting short and shoving the papers at me.
As I take them, I peruse them quickly. The documented email chain doesn't seem to miss a single email and the bank statement includes a bank account number for which the money was transferred from. Before I hand them over to Detective Barrera, I'll configure a quick West Point process to search for the pertinent email address and bank account number. Truthfully, I'm not entirely hopeful for the results.
"It's old shit," David argues, his confidence waning, especially considering the profile is seven years old. "But—"
"No, it's great. Thank you. Even if it's old, it's something. West Point, as I'm sure you know from your private investigator days, offer some exploitations that may be useful for tracing other emails from this address and associated bank accounts and a profile."
