Near Miss

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Network

But who was in the car?

No matter how much Rhiannon pondered the case, she always seemed to come back to that fundamental question- the idea of someone being in the car with Malachi. They, whoever they were, had run him over- on purpose, presumably, for some unknown, unfathomable reason. Someone he knew? Almost certainly. Someone he was close with? Possibly. Someone Rhiannon had talked to? Probably, she thought to herself, seeing as the "gang theory" didn't really hold up. It could have been Jorgeson, lying about his alibi, or Dorian, in an instance of brotherly collusion, or Yvette, offering to drive Malachi home, or Sonia Baird, who was still oddly suspicious despite being exposed as a flat-out thief. Or it could have been Clive Cottrell, or Lucia Valenti, or Gina the trailer park owner, or one of the as-yet-uncovered Other Lindquists, or- or, Rhiannon had to admit, it could be a total stranger.

She might never know.

At this point, she needed to start accepting that possibility. Yes, Rhiannon had never failed on a case- on a real case, at least- but this was an entirely different kind of investigation from Alistair's murder earlier in the year. This wasn't based on alibis or wills or carefully administered poison, but on a series of interpersonal relationships between people she knew nothing about. There were no set suspects, there were no easy alibis, there was no clear monetary motive. She couldn't narrow down who it could have been, and she couldn't understand who would even want to kill Malachi in the first place. He had no prospects, a job in a restaurant, a home in an RV park, a brother he was probably just trying to suck up to for an apartment, and even his closest friend didn't seem to be very affected by his death.

There was no monetary reason, at least... but if the motive was something more akin to hate...

Rhiannon was just reaching for her notepad when her phone rang. Abruptly, she changed course and picked it up.

"You know, Rhiannon, I just had the funniest phone call," Greene said dryly.

"What? What happened?" Rhiannon said eagerly, scrambling into a more comfortable position.

"It was with Jorgeson," Greene said obliviously. "He called to let me know about a call he'd had with some clients of his, the other Lindquists."

"And?" Rhiannon said expectantly.

"And," Greene snapped, "the other Lindquists have tried three times now to contact the office of S. Connor Greaves, and met with no response. They want you to call them back."

"I didn't call them back?" Rhiannon realized, horrified. "I must have missed them- I must have thought they were spam, or something..."

"You must have," Greene said in a sing-song voice.

"I'm so sorry," Rhiannon answered weakly.

"You broke it," Greene reminded her. "Now go and fix it." And with that, he hung completely up.

Rhiannon closed her eyes and rested her head in her hands. He was right- it was her fault. She was the one missing the important clues, and she was the one who was going to end up dropping a crucial insight. She was capable enough at gathering clues, she was competent at arranging the evidence and drawing conclusions, but she was also in an unfamiliar situation.

She tapped the voicemail button. There were three new messages she hadn't realized she'd been ignoring.

Rhiannon held the phone to her ear.

"Hello, this is Anna Lindquist, my husband and I received a call from our financial advisor saying to contact..." There was a brief pause, as if she was verifying a name. "S. Connor Greaves? Apparently we have to come forward about something. Well, whenever you're available, please call us back so we can set something up..."