Triple Digits

Corey Strickland

He could hear Claire crying through the walls of the apartment.
Her sobs were muffled, but there was no doubt about what they were, making Corey's heart twinge with sympathy. His own grandparents had died years ago, so he understood her grief.
Still, she'd shut herself in her room. There was nothing more he could do to help, other than go with her to the funeral for support. She needed someone there, awful family or not.
Corey's guest room was better than his room at his own house. This one was painted to match the rest of the apartment, with a lime green feature wall that he'd seen mirrored in Claire's own bedroom. The floor was the same, expensive wood, with a grey rug with black stripes thrown over the floor. He had a double bed with thick, freshly-washed cotton sheets, and an oak dresser with brass handles. Corey had already packed the clothes he'd picked up on the way home into them, and placed the eclipse pin atop it, beside his notes on the case. He would look over them tomorrow morning before going to visit that girl at the supermarket.
At the end of the bed, pushed against the wall, was a second TV on a stand, the remote waiting on the bedside table with a note reading 'Corey Strickland', written, cheekily, on the back of an old ticket he'd given her, a twin pack of unopened shampoo and conditioner bottles, a freshly bought packet of three pairs of socks, and the password to the computer sitting on a desk parallel to his bed. When had Claire found the time to make up a care package for him? Still, he was flattered by the effort.
There was a massive window right next to the bed, offering a view across the side of the building and out the fields.
Grabbing the paper with the password, he pulled out the rolling chair, taking a seat and logging into the computer. The screensaver was just a photo of the Mid-City university café where Claire worked. There were no files saved to it, just a piece of technology on offer to Claire's guests. He wondered if she got many of them.
Curiosity got the better of him, and he jumped onto the internet, typing in 'Redwood Miles'.
Rather than bring up Claire Miles' family, it brought up an airplane flight club located in Redwood.
Biting his lip, Corey erased the search, instead typing 'Redwood Miles heart surgeon.'
This time, old news articles came up, boasting about the achievements of Redwood City's greatest heart surgeon. It was a report about his heart attack.
Scrolling through the information, he found the name of Claire's mother. Serena Serrano.
Searching her name brought up even more information, including an active website for interior decorating. A photo of her mother was plastered on the front page.
She was an older woman, who clearly used botox to hide some of the wrinkles of age. Her lips were too big for her age, her forehead suspiciously smooth, and her cheeks were pulled back. Blonde hair was styled in a modern twist at the nape of her neck, kept in place with two diamond pins. Matching earrings and a necklace adorned the woman. She had blue eyes.
She was wearing a bright white, button-up blazer that was low enough to show off the diamonds around her neck.
According to the articles on Serena, she was twelve years younger than Claire's father, but worth far more than him. She had a net worth of fifteen million.
After starting her career for interior decorating, she made a name for herself in Redwood, decorating for celebrities and other rich families, which was where she met Claire's father. At the time, he'd been married, but in the process of a divorce.
They'd tied the knot, and not long afterwards, Claire Miles, their daughter, was born.
This article, written at the time of Claire's first birthday, boasted about the elaborate party thrown for the little toddler. Serena was heavily pregnant in the family photo taken, where Claire stood in front of her parents, clasping her hands and wearing a grey blouse, black jeans, and a miniature fur coat. A pair of sunglasses sat atop her head, and a designer purse hung from her arm. At her feet was a mound of presents, most of them expensive labels or jewellery; no toys- nothing a toddler would actually want.
Looking at Claire now, who wore hoodies and sweatpants, you wouldn't think she'd come from money. In the photo, Averie sat cross-legged next to Claire, looking sullen and moody, like she'd been forced to pose for the photo. She looked around eight or nine.
Barely a year after Claire's birth, Brittani Miles was born. Her birthday had been just as expensive as Claire's. Brittani took after her mother, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Even as a toddler, she appeared to have a sneer on her face. In the photo on her birthday, it was clear that she was pinching Claire while Averie struggled to subtly separate them.
The three girls were photographed often, by parents and paparazzi alike, but eventually, as Averie's dress became more and more gothic and outlandish, the oldest girl began to vanish from the photos. Then, it was Claire who looked sullen, often to the side while her parents and younger sister posed for the cameras.
The photos that continued after that contained only Brittani and her parents. No sign of Averie or Claire. But she'd mentioned something about running away from home, so it made sense that she would no longer be in their photos.
Brittani looked surprisingly like Claire, if it weren't for the way she dressed, or the blonde hair and blue eyes. She had all the same features, just younger. More babyfaced despite the makeup she used to make herself look older. In the most recent photo, taken a month ago, Brittani Serrano, as she'd called herself since just before Claire's disappearance from the photos, was wearing a matching white blazer with her mother, and a white pencil skirt, paired with heels that gave her two inches of height over her mother. She was curvy and posing for the camera, blowing a kiss to the photographer caught taking their photo. They appeared to be outside some kind of high-end restaurant.
Claire's father was standing next to his wife, looking sickly and crooked, although he was straining to stand up straight.
If Claire was unlucky, her father would be following the grandmother to the afterlife.
Shaking the awful thought from his head, Corey erased the search results, logging out of the computer. Rising from the chair, he paused midway across the room, listening.
Claire's sobs were gone. The apartment was silent.
Peeling back the sheets to his bed, he sunk into the soft mattress, marvelling at the luxury and dragging the blankets back over him.
Once he was settled, he clapped his hands like the note instructed, the lights flicking off overhead.
Somewhere in the room, a speaker began to play gentle thunderstorm sounds, Corey drifting off in seconds...
When he awoke the next morning and emerged from his shower using the bottles he'd been gifted, Claire was nowhere to be seen. Helix was sitting at the dining table, eating his way slowly through a pile of maple-syrup soaked pancakes.
"You sleep like the dead," the blue-haired man grinned around a mouthful of food, "Miles called out to you twice before she left. She told me to let you know that she was going to work at the café, and that the plane tickets were booked to Redwood. You guys will leave tonight, at seven. You should get there at about one in the morning." He'd had the best sleep of his life, so Helix wasn't wrong, strictly speaking.
Corey should probably pick up a suitcase while he was out today, if they were leaving so quickly. He would also need to let Dunfield know that he would be out of town for a couple days. Dunfield wouldn't mind, not so long as he was keeping an eye on Claire, and continuing to research the case.
Claire had left him breakfast, and a wad of notes to 'take himself shopping with', on the bench.
Grabbing the plate of pancakes, which were being kept warm under a heat lamp, he sat down and ate them as quickly as he could.
"You gonna take the money? Trust me, if Claire is giving it to you, she wants you to have it. That girl hoards money like there's no tomorrow."
"I would feel dirty taking it," Corey admitted with a shrug, eyeing the money on the counter. It would be helpful... He didn't have any clothes worthy of Redwood or a high-end funeral, and his payday wasn't until next week.
"Take it," Helix insisted as Corey rose and washed his plate in the sink, "Or else she'll just shove it into your wallet when you aren't looking." He must have had a firsthand experience, to know such a thing.
It would help pay for the taxi he would need to get back into the centre of town today, while he visited the girl and then took himself to the local shopping centre for a suitcase and new clothes.
Plucking up the notes, he counted them, paling as he stammered, "This is one-thousand!"
"Bloody pocket change, for that one," Helix muttered, reaching over the kitchen counter and waving his hand over one of the bottom counters, deep enough to keep large crockery in.
When it slid open, however, row after row of banknotes, rubber-banded and labelled as one-thousand for each bundle, revealed themselves, rather than the crockery Strickland expected. Corey choked on his surprise.
Miles had to be in some shady shit to have that much money.
He didn't want to know, he decided. He wanted no knowledge of what she was doing to have so much on her. Helix revealed it anyway, grinning from ear-to-ear, "Street-racing." He'd figured as much. Thank the Gods she wasn't selling drugs, like she'd joked about.
Grabbing the wad of money Claire had left for him, he swore. He didn't have a wallet anymore. It had been in his car.
"Looking for this? Claire said she found it outside the apartment."
Helix held up his trusty brown leather wallet, the edges frayed and worn-down from years of use, and Corey sighed in relief, flicking it open and counting the cards within. Everything was there- his driver's license, his debit and credit card, his stamp for Grandmama Josephine's café- everything. It must have fallen from his pocket after he got out of his car the other day. What luck!
Placing the money safely inside, he shoved the wallet deep into the pocket of his police uniform pants, Helix waving goodbye. Snatching up the spare set of keys, he put them beside the wallet, heading out the door and down the three flights of stairs to call himself a taxi.