Chapter 3 - The Pattern of Predators
Marcus Reed arrived at 11:45 a.m., carrying a leather briefcase that looked like it had been through a war and a travel mug of coffee the size of a small bucket. He was in his late fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair cut military short and scars on his knuckles from a case that had gone sideways in ’09. He took one look at Daniel’s face, then at the command center set up in the office, and let out a low whistle.
“Okay, spill. What did Barbie and her evil mother do this time?”
Daniel didn’t bother correcting him. He handed Marcus the evidence bag with Diane’s note first. Marcus read it, his eyebrows climbing higher with every word. When he finished, he looked up at Eli — who was now building a Lego set on the floor — and his expression darkened.
“They left a twelve-year-old alone for four days? In Florida? With twenty bucks and a frozen pizza? That’s child neglect right there. I don’t care how ‘mature’ they think he is.”
“It gets worse.” Daniel opened the first folder and slid it across the desk. “Take a look at the signature on the third will. Tell me what you see.”
Marcus pulled on his own magnifying visor — an old-school headband model he refused to replace with newer technology — and leaned in. For ten minutes, he said nothing. He flipped between the wills, checked dates, made notations on a legal pad. When he finally looked up, his face was grim.
“Tracing. Amateurish but effective. The baseline is too perfect. No tremor, no natural variation. And look here —” He pointed to a spot on the signature. “The pen lifted where it shouldn’t have. Old Harold was an engineer. He wrote with one continuous motion. This forger stopped three times. Diane?”
“Diane, almost certainly. Possibly with Lauren’s help. There are nine folders here, Marcus. Nine different people. All elderly. All widowed or alone. All with estates that magically ended up in Diane’s pocket.” Daniel handed over his calculations. “I’m estimating north of four million dollars. And that’s just what’s in these folders. God knows how many more she’s got stashed somewhere.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “You know what this is, right? This is a classic predatory care scheme. The FBI’s got a whole task force on this now. These women — usually middle-aged, charming, great at selling themselves — they target lonely seniors. Isolate them from their real families. Become their whole world. Then bleed them dry. We’ve seen cases where they get power of attorney and sell the victim’s house out from under them while they’re still living in it.”
He paused, looking at Daniel with an expression that was half sympathy, half professional concern.
“Daniel… you realize what this means about your marriage, don’t you? Lauren didn’t just happen to bump into you at that auction two years ago. That was staged. You were a target. Think about it. You’re a high-end appraiser. You’ve got connections to every wealthy estate in Central Florida. You authenticate wills and signatures for banks and courts. Who better to have in your pocket — or in your bed — than the man who could potentially validate their forgeries if things ever got questioned?”
The words hit Daniel like a physical blow. He had suspected it, of course. The realization had been forming since the moment he saw Emily’s locket in that cigar box. But hearing it said out loud — by Marcus, who had seen this pattern a hundred times — made it real.
His marriage. The dinners. The vacations. The whispered “I love yous” in the dark. All of it. A performance. Two years of his life wasted on a woman who had probably been laughing at him behind his back the entire time.
“Dad?” Eli was standing by the desk, his Lego forgotten. He had heard the tone in Marcus’s voice, seen the look on his father’s face. “Is everything okay?”
Daniel pulled himself together. He stood and lifted Eli onto his hip — the boy was getting too big for this, but Daniel didn’t care. “Everything’s going to be fine, buddy. Marcus is just here to help us make sure the bad people get in trouble. Remember what I told you? We’re the Fosters. Fosters don’t break.”
May you like
He looked at Marcus over Eli’s shoulder. “So what’s the play? We’ve got until Monday evening. Four days.”
Marcus opened his briefcase and pulled out a whiteboard and markers — he always traveled prepared. “First, we secure the scene. Every piece of evidence in that wardrobe gets photographed, cataloged, and moved to a secure location. Second, we pull every public record we can find on every name in those folders. Births, deaths, probate records, real estate transactions. We build the timeline. Third, we find out exactly what Lauren knew. Because if she was involved — and I’d bet my pension she was — she goes down too. Fourth… we set the trap. They’re coming home Monday thinking they’ve got away with it. We need to make sure the only thing waiting for them is handcuffs.”
