Part 3: The Ghost Account
I needed to know where the money was coming from.
I grabbed my purse, slipped out the back door to avoid the street-facing windows, and walked a mile in the rain to hail a cab. I went straight to the downtown branch of the bank listed on the passbook.
The bank was crowded. I sat in the waiting area, my wet hair clinging to my face, my palms sweating through the fabric of the ledger.
“Ticket 42, please proceed to counter three,” a digital voice chimed.
I walked up to the glass partition. The teller was a young woman in her twenties.
“Hi,” I said, trying to steady my breathing. “I need to request a detailed transaction history for this savings account.”
I slid the passbook under the glass slot, keeping my ID hidden. I was banking on my identical resemblance to Serafina to bypass the security check.
The teller took the book, typed the account number into her terminal, and looked up at me. A strange, deeply uncomfortable expression crossed her face.
She held the passbook up, comparing the digital file on her screen to my face.
“Ma’am, this account is highly restricted,” the teller said softly, her voice dropping. “I don’t have the authorization to print a full ledger. But I can see the overview.”
“Just tell me what the overview says,” I pleaded.
The teller leaned closer to the glass. “For the past three years, on the 20th of every single month, a wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars clears into this account from an offshore holding company. Then, on May 20th of each year, a lump sum of five million dollars is deposited.”
The room tilted. Fifty thousand a month. Five million a year.
Garrison was a mid-level logistics manager. He made eighty grand a year. This was organized crime money.
“Can you trace the origin of the offshore holding company?” I pressed, my voice frantic.
The teller shook her head rapidly. Fear flickered in her eyes. She pushed the passbook back through the slot, refusing to touch it any longer.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “And honestly, ma’am? I advise you to leave this bank and take that ledger directly to the FBI.”
“Why?”
“Because the last private investigator who came in here asking questions about the Blackwood account died in a hit-and-run traffic accident the very next morning.”
The teller hit a button on her desk. “Next ticket, please!”
I snatched the book and practically ran out of the bank.
The last person who asked questions was murdered.
I stood in the pouring rain on the Seattle sidewalk, entirely alone. I couldn’t go to the local police. The text message warned me I was being watched. If I went to a precinct, whoever was protecting Garrison would know instantly.
I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t used in five years.
Griffin Cole. We had dated briefly in college. He was now an independent, highly paranoid private investigator who dealt in corporate espionage.
He answered on the fourth ring. “Brynn? This is a ghost of a call.”
“Griffin, I need your help,” I said, gasping for air. “I need you to pull the records on a fatal hit-and-run involving a private investigator looking into a woman named Serafina Blackwood. Name your price. I just need the truth.”
Silence hung on the line.
“Send me the details,” Griffin finally said, his voice heavy. “But Brynn… if you’re pulling threads on a murdered PI, you need to watch your back.”
(Click ‘Next’ to continue)
