Chapter 5: Unanswered Calls

Marcus Bell moved with an urgency that matched my own simmering frustration. Our focus narrowed to Mark Jenkins, the notary. We knew his office address, his name, but getting him to talk was another matter. He seemed to have vanished into thin air.

First, Marcus tried the direct approach. He called Jenkins’ office phone repeatedly, leaving concise messages, identifying himself as an investigative journalist. Each time, he was met with the same polite, yet unhelpful, resistance.

“Mr. Jenkins is currently out of the office,” a chirpy receptionist’s voice informed us on the speakerphone. “He’s out of town indefinitely.”

The phrase “out of town indefinitely” grated on my nerves. It sounded too rehearsed, too convenient. It was a professional deflection, a polite lie.

“Any idea when he’ll be back?” Marcus asked, his tone unwavering.

“I’m afraid I don’t have that information,” the receptionist replied, her voice saccharine sweet. “He didn’t leave an itinerary.”

Marcus hung up, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Indefinitely. That’s a classic stall tactic. Croft has either scared him off or paid him to disappear.”

We tried visiting his office in person. It was nestled in a non-descript downtown building, a small brass plaque on the door stating “Mark Jenkins, Notary Public.” The office itself was locked, the blinds drawn. A small “Will Return Soon” sign hung crookedly on the door, gathering dust.

“Soon could mean anything,” I mumbled, pressing my face against the glass. The empty office felt like another insult, a silent taunt from Croft’s network.

Marcus sighed, running a hand through his hair. “He’s ducking us. Smart move, from his perspective. Don’t engage, don’t admit anything.”

The petty cruelty here was the deliberate stonewalling, the refusal to even acknowledge our existence, as if Isabella’s life and legacy were so unimportant they didn’t warrant a single conversation. It solidified the feeling that Jenkins was deeply complicit.

“We need to find him,” I insisted, my voice tight with frustration. “He’s the only one who can tell us what Croft did.”

Marcus was already several steps ahead. He pulled out his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He was checking public records, property databases, anything that might give us a hint of Jenkins’ whereabouts or recent activities.

“Jenkins isn’t a ghost,” Marcus muttered, his eyes glued to the screen. “People like him always leave a paper trail, even if it’s hidden.”

A few minutes later, Marcus let out a low whistle. His expression shifted from focused determination to genuine surprise.

“Well, well, well,” he said, turning the laptop screen slightly towards me. “It seems our discreet notary has suddenly come into some serious money.”

The screen displayed property records. A luxury property listing in Malibu, a sprawling, cliffside home with an ocean view, had recently been purchased. The owner’s name: Mark Jenkins. The purchase date: just three weeks after Isabella’s death.

“Malibu?” I exclaimed, my eyes widening. “A notary public doesn’t buy a Malibu mansion on a notary’s salary.”

The cost of the property was staggering, easily in the multi-million dollar range. It was far beyond the means of even a successful notary, confirming my suspicions. This was a clear sign of illicit earnings, a direct payout from Croft.

“This is our red flag,” Marcus stated, pointing at the screen. “A notary public’s income typically hovers around forty to eighty thousand dollars a year. This property is worth at least five million. He didn’t just win the lottery.”

The sudden acquisition of such a lavish property, so close to the timing of Isabella’s death and Croft’s consolidation of her assets, was damning. It was the material proof of Jenkins’ corrupt dealings, a clear quid pro quo. Croft paid him off to disappear, or at least to stay silent.

“He’s been paid to keep quiet,” I said, the realization hardening my resolve. “Croft bought his silence with a mansion.”

Marcus nodded grimly. “That’s the most logical explanation. And it means he knows something significant. Something Croft is desperate to keep buried.”

The image of the beautiful, expensive house flashed in my mind, a stark contrast to Isabella’s final moments and the quiet injustice she suffered. The blatant display of Jenkins’ newfound wealth, directly tied to Isabella’s tragedy, felt like a deliberate, almost mocking, cruelty. It was a tangible reward for his betrayal.

“A five million dollar home is a lot of money to protect,” Marcus mused, leaning back in his chair. “That gives us leverage. But we still need to approach this carefully.”

He closed the laptop, his expression thoughtful. The evasiveness of Jenkins, combined with the sudden wealth, painted a clear picture of his complicity. We had found the financial thread connecting Jenkins to Croft’s scheme, but pulling on it would require more than just phone calls. It would require official intervention.

“It’s time to bring in the big guns,” Marcus decided, looking at me. “Detective Ramirez. He’s been reluctant, but this might just be enough to get him to open a file.”

The idea of involving the police, of bringing official law enforcement into this tangled web, was both terrifying and exhilarating. It was the next step, a necessary escalation, but it meant stepping further into Croft’s dangerous orbit. The anticipation of confrontation was now a tangible thing.