4338.212.2 | Karl Jenkins | The Break
As the disappearance of Adrian Pafistis echoes the case of Jenny Triffett, Detective Karl Jenkins finds himself entangled in a web of connections that all lead back to the enigmatic Luke Smith.
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The tension in the car was palpable as Sarah and I drove to our next case, another disappearance that demanded our attention. The silence between us was a heavy blanket, laden with the unspoken words and unresolved issues from last night. Sarah's deliberate avoidance of conversation since my impulsive decision to leave her behind weighed on me. Coupled with the night terror that had jolted me awake in the early hours, my state of mind was far from conducive to any form of conversation, be it casual or profound. I feared any attempt at dialogue might spiral into another heated argument.
As we arrived at our destination, my thoughts momentarily shifted from our strained relationship to the impressive structure before us. The house was adorned with four columns supporting a large balcony, their renaissance-inspired design lending an air of elegance and grandeur to the entrance. "This way please, Detectives," Mrs. Pafistis beckoned, her voice breaking the silence as she welcomed us into her home.
We followed her across the expansive, square marble tiles that led us past a luxurious kitchen. The kitchen boasted stone bench tops and stainless steel appliances, a testament to the affluence that surrounded us. We continued into the main living area, an equally impressive space.
Sarah, perhaps caught off guard by the opulence, couldn't help but express her admiration. "Your house is exquisite," she commented as we entered the room.
"Thank you," Mrs. Pafistis replied with a gracious smile. "Much of this is my husband's handiwork."
"Impressive," Sarah said, and I found myself nodding in agreement. The house was indeed a marvel of design and architecture. Standing there, in the midst of such luxury, my own modest living arrangements seemed even more humble by comparison. It made my small, two-bedroom house feel almost insignificant, a stark contrast to the grandeur before us.
Seated on the Italian leather sofa, the luxurious feel of the material was lost on me as I focused on the task at hand. Mrs. Pafistis sat across from us, her composure calm, belying the gravity of her situation.
Leaning forward, I was eager to commence the interview. "Your full name for the record, please," I requested, notebook and pen ready.
"Sharon Pafistis," she responded, her voice steady.
As I jotted down her name, my handwriting was precise, deliberate. I added the date in the top right corner, ensuring clarity for the records. Looking back up, I took a moment to study Sharon Pafistis. She was thin, with an air of refinement about her. Her features were striking – a pointed, well-shaped nose, large green eyes, and full lips enhanced by perfectly applied nude lipstick. There was an elegance to her appearance that was hard to overlook.
"And you say your husband has gone missing?" I inquired, maintaining a professional demeanour.
"Yes," Sharon nodded, her voice carrying a hint of concern. "Adrian."
"When was the last time you had any contact with him?" I continued, my tone even.
"I last saw him yesterday morning. He said he was going out to meet with a client about a new potential job," she explained, her gaze steady.
A sense of déjà vu crept over me as she spoke. The familiarity of her story struck a chord, echoing the beginnings of Jenny Triffett's case. The similarities were uncanny, almost unsettling. The jitters that I had been struggling with began to resurface, a mix of anxiety and intrigue. It felt as though we were treading familiar ground, yet the circumstances suggested there was more to this than mere coincidence.
"What time was that?" I continued, trying to piece together the timeline.
"I'm not entirely sure. It would have been before nine," Sharon replied, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.
"Have you heard from him since? Any phone calls or text messages?" Sarah chimed in, her movements around the room deliberate and observant.
I glanced over at Sarah, hoping to catch her eye and subtly signal for her to sit back down, but she either missed my cue or chose to ignore it. Her pacing added a layer of intensity to the questioning.
"No, nothing at all," Sharon's response came with a slight falter in her previously composed demeanour, a sign that the gravity of the situation was starting to take its toll.
"Did you know the person he was going to meet with?" I pressed further, my fingers unconsciously crossing for a positive response.
"No, I've never met them before," she admitted, dashing my hopes for an easy lead.
My optimism dwindled, but I persisted. "But you've heard of them?" I asked, looking up from my notebook mid-note, clinging to any thread of connection.
"Yes. I think Adrian had done a few renovation quotes for him before," Sharon offered.
"Is this your husband?" Sarah asked, picking up a small photo frame. It was a candid shot of a couple, smiling blissfully on a sun-kissed beach. My irritation spiked as Sharon turned her attention to Sarah. Despite my repeated cautions against touching personal items during interviews, Sarah seemed to disregard protocol, especially when it came to photographs. I felt a twinge of frustration, worried that Sharon was on the cusp of revealing a crucial detail.
"Yes, that was taken last year. We were on holiday in Bali. We managed to escape for a week without the kids," Sharon reminisced, a wistful tone in her voice.
"You both look very happy," Sarah observed, throwing a quick glance in my direction.
"Yes, we were," Sharon responded, then quickly corrected herself, "I mean, we are. We've always had a happy marriage."
Sarah, undeterred by my silent pleas for restraint, continued her line of questioning. "You have children then?" she inquired.
"We have two daughters, Sarah and Brooke," Sharon answered, her voice warming with maternal pride.
"Are they home?" Sarah followed up.
"No, they're at my sister's. I didn't want them to be here while I spoke with you," Sharon explained, her gaze shifting slightly.
"We may need to speak with them too," Sarah noted, her tone carrying a hint of caution. Her phone vibrated, breaking the flow of the conversation. "Excuse me a moment," she said, stepping into the adjoining room.
With Sarah momentarily out of the room, I quickly redirected the conversation back to the crucial detail I had been pursuing. "Do you know the name of this client?" I asked Sharon, a sense of urgency underlying my question. I held my breath, waiting for her response, knowing that this could be a pivotal moment in our investigation.
"I think he might have said the client's name was Luke Smith?" Sharon answered, her voice laced with uncertainty.
The mention of Luke Smith sent a jolt through me, tying my stomach in knots. The loud churn of my gut was almost audible, resonating with the implications of her words. The possibility that these disappearances were interconnected suddenly seemed more real, more tangible. A web of connections was forming in my mind, with Luke Smith at its centre.
Suddenly, a loud exclamation from the other room broke the tense atmosphere. "Shit!" Sarah's voice carried clearly, her tone sharp and surprised.
I glanced apologetically at Sharon. "Sorry," I said quickly. We tried to maintain a level of professionalism and refrain from swearing in front of the people we interviewed, but sometimes the circumstances got the better of us.
Sarah walked into the room. "Karl," she said, a look of concern on her face. "You need to come and have a look at this," she said, holding up her phone.
I looked at Sharon again. "Excuse me a moment," I said politely. I got up and made my way over to Sarah then we both stepped back into the adjoining room.
"I've just received the transcripts from Nial Triffett's phone calls," she informed me quickly, her voice laced with a sense of urgency.
"And?" I prompted, eager to understand the connection.
"Ignoring all the missed calls from his wife, check out the last ones," she instructed, handing her smartphone over to me.
I squinted at the tiny font on her screen, reading out the last few names listed, "Steve Lang, Jane, Brian." Then, a name stopped me in my tracks. “This call was from Luke Smith." The significance of the name in this context sent a chill down my spine.
"I know," Sarah confirmed, her expression mirroring the gravity of the situation.
"Fuck, this is bad," I muttered, realising the implications.
"Yeah," Sarah agreed, but she was quick to add more to the unfolding puzzle. "But that–"
Before she could finish, I interjected, connecting the dots aloud. "Sharon was just telling me that she is pretty sure the client who her husband went to see yesterday morning was Luke Smith." The coincidence was too striking to ignore.
Sarah glared at me again. "But that's not all," she said, shoving another image under my nose.
"What's this?" I asked, unsure of what I was looking at.
"It's an image from the security footage of Jamie's bank account withdrawals," she answered.
Studying the image closely, I realised something was off. "Are you sure?" I questioned, bringing the image closer to my face. "But that doesn't look like Jamie."
"It's not," Sarah confirmed, her voice steady. "It's Luke Smith.
"The revelation hit me like a ton of bricks. Luke Smith, a name that had been circling around our investigation, now appeared in the centre of a complex web of connections. His presence in Jamie's bank withdrawal footage added a new, sinister dimension to the case. It was becoming clear that Luke Smith was more than just a peripheral figure; he was intricately involved in a way we had yet to fully understand.
As I processed this new information, the puzzle pieces began to align in a disturbing picture. Luke Smith's involvement in both the Triffett and Pafistis cases, his presence in the bank footage, the phone calls – everything pointed towards a much larger, more complex scheme than we had initially anticipated. The case was unraveling into something far bigger and more intricate than I had imagined, and I couldn’t help but feel that we were just scratching the surface.
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