AN: Set between chapters 3-4 of The Ides of April. Crossposted to AO3

AN: Dedicated to Lunalit_river and scar8o. Thank you for always being so kind and supportive!


...

"Ryuzaki, here are the files you asked for."

"Thank you, Watari."

The lights are off at this time of night, save for the dim glow cast by the wide monitor resting on a table adjacent to the wall. A humming lingers. It's faint, incessant, — comfortable, L muses as he wolfs down the last third of a chocolate cake slice — much like static filling the air. Familiar. Drowned by the intermittent snores of the two detectives staying overnight, not quite a crescendo in the strictest sense; even as it grows in energy while the hours tick by. He's noticed the symphony — though the term cacophony might be more accurate — tends to devolve into a nasal staccato with every 3 or 4 longer exhales, sometimes echoing in obnoxious discordance that makes him more and more certain he's being pestered by the undiagnosed sequels of mild sleep apnea.

Chewing loudly, he glances at the digital clock on the bottom right corner of the screen; it's close to a quarter to 5 in the morning. So late it's almost early.

From the corner of his eye, he sees that Watari stayed behind to tidy up the room. Tilting his head to the left to get a better angle, he examines the slow, deliberate movements with scepticism; they're as fluid as they're contrived, as if practised to stall for as long as possible. He draws conclusions from the little things happening in the background; how the delicate china barely clinks against the small coffee spoons when stacked; sugary amanattõ wrappers gathered into a neat pile, set aside; the soft, careful sweeping near the walls so as to avoid rousing the two men from their sleep.

There's words to be had; his gut tells him there's a very much non-trivial chance that this will be a precursor to something.

A rustle of papers invites him to stare at Watari's blurred reflection on the polished surface of the back wall. The humming intensifies as he pauses to see, to listen. It's closer to 63%, now. Very well.

He skims through the first 10 pages for an overview, gaze tarrying for a few seconds too long on the picture of a young woman before he turns his attention to the screen. Behind him, the soft brushing of Watari's coordinated sweeps pauses for a moment and he knows, it's as evident as rain in April, he stands corrected that this is where the knots will begin to unravel.

L frowns, biting down on his thumb as he scans the opening lines of Near's email, "There are barely any records on the 'Anna Green' who enrolled this year at To-Ho university. For all intents and purposes, she might as well be a ghost."

Slurp.

He chugs half the tea sitting in his cup, focusing on the scalding hot sensation in the back of his throat as he reads on, picking out bits and pieces.

"...no record that Anna Green was ever present for the entrance exams, though, allegedly, she has scores for them. Below average at best, mediocre to the point that, under normal circumstances, no one with this poor of a performance would be considered for admission. What's even more intriguing are the reasons why To-Ho agreed to bend the rules for the one student, allowing this woman to bypass university policy and, not only sit for highly competitive and specific exams abroad, but also take up classes from different graduate schools…"

With a swift gesture, he picks up the file displaying an exhaustive list of all units and quickly browses through it. Indeed, he thinks mildly, it was as if someone with no understanding of academia picked whichever classes they thought most interesting, across several courses — and different schooling years. Like a patched blanket with no thought or structure, just a lot of questionable decisions along the way.

Frowning, he sees she chose a class in third year Law for Criminal Psychology (without any background or equivalent qualification to enroll), another in elementary Computer Science (was that the Python book she was carrying that day?), in addition to a few units in artistic studies and...agriculture? (1)

L taps his index finger on the mouse, nail lightly grazing over the ridges on the wheel. Definitely something to look further into. He looks up, deep in thought. All this does beg the question: who exactly allowed this situation to go overlooked? The university board? A rogue member of staff?

"...doesn't exist as a citizen of any country…no travel records in any airline or shipping company coming into or out of Japan…"

Unlawful entrance under a false identity, most definitely. Or as part of a smuggling network.

"...the only data available is on the university enrollment process…impossible to find anything on the father; the mother's records (kept maiden name, no mention of a husband or children) show a birthplace at a small town in Italy, 1955, right at the border with Switzerland, and nothing more of consequence...all records left blank from the age of 11 until her death in 1987…no significant medical records either, save for a short comment about the passing itself, as per the following transcription: 'incidente, avvenuto il 18 gennaio nel Leicestershire, nel Regno Unito', — filed by the grandfather, dead from prolonged illness by 1988 though 'grief' has been listed as a catalyst…"

A freak accident in Leicestershire, on January 18, 1987? What a coincidence that nothing more of substance could be retrieved from these records, save for vague and elusive information. He wonders if this secrecy is related to the father somehow, — he licks his lips to taste the faint remnants of black tea that linger on chapped skin and skims over the university records for the name, narrowed eyes resting again on the young woman's picture — this Atticus Cornelius Green. If that's even his real name.

He looks at the birthdates, realising that she would've been 6, going on 7, at the time of the supposed accident. Only one year younger than himself. It will be her 24th birthday soon, in little more than a month.

Scrolling down the email, he reads on.

"...tuition payments funnelled through Goodfellow's Bank, which appears to be a highly selective, privately owned financial institution based in Britain. Virtually unknown, with only 3 physical offices, total, in Europe and the United States, with no presence in Asia…registered under the apparently long-lived Gringotts Foundation, since the mid 1800's. On the surface there's nothing questionable about Goodfellow's, though further scrutiny reveals said Foundation is also a major (and the only) shareholder, led by a series of individuals throughout the decades who do not exist beyond the trust…"

Sucking on his spoon thoughtfully, L tastes the dried grains of caffeine that cling to the bowl, agglomerating towards the tip, "Abundans cautela non nocet", he mouths the bank motto without a sound, brows furrowing at the not-so-subtle message hidden in plain sight. It's a fair enough sentiment, without a doubt; indeed, abundant caution does no harm. But caution against what, exactly? Besides the obvious.

There's a small chance that this is witness protection at work, but if so then it's freakishly elaborate. Dead end after dead end and a myriad of red herrings meant to confuse anyone who investigates, while making it seem perfectly reasonable. Outstandingly legal. One would have to read between those creatively interwoven lines to get a full picture of what might be hiding behind the curtains.

But then there's the shadow bank. If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and acts like a duck, then it is a duck — or so the saying goes. Official police forces wouldn't be able to resort to these underhanded tactics without a tangible need; and there would be an inquiry or requisition beforehand. Someone would have to budge. Things like these always leave a trail. Though the British Secret Services could potentiate such a scenario and there would be nothing to pursue, if they so wished.

But to what end? For a trip abroad, away from the laws and assurances of the United Kingdom's sovereign territory? It didn't make sense. There's abuse of the law and then there's playing around it, dangling the threads like a puppet master.

"...there's no system to hack and therefore no personal data to retrieve. Any bank transfers seem to be made in person, at the London office. Though To-Ho lists two different addresses for foreign students; Anna Green's file shows one in the UK and the other in Japan. The former is registered as the sole property of one Awarnach Greengrass near Windsor, dating to the late 1600's, and has never been updated since. Otherwise, the several acres for this plot of land are not even accounted for in modern records — or pay taxes.

The latter address points to a building just a 5 minute walk outside of To-Ho. Records for the building show that it's registered as having only 7 floors. However, the primary plans kept at the Ministry of Land and Infrastructure display a total of 8 — approved and built. The addendum was placed without rebuttal this past month of March, 4 years after the structure had been built and all apartments sold without exception. The previous proprietor of the 8th floor died mid-February and left no family to inherit, though his name was stricken from the more recent record updates…"

This isn't like the hunt for Morello, with knotted threads and underworld connections; not when he discovered the swindles, the under the table deals with art galleries and high class politicians, in a spectacle of dazzling lights and charming conversations. Definitely nothing like Merri Kenwood's indiscretions as the thrill-seeking second daughter of a wealthy family.

No, whatever he's stumbled upon is much more insidious and has tendrils across the decades.

Narrowing his eyes, L quickly reads Near's conclusion: "...the majority of these records are fabricated with the intent to appear official, when in reality they're nothing but a smokescreen…"

He wonders if it's a coincidence that he's tripped over the proverbial basket of kittens, only to find a nest of snakes. And with the murders still ongoing, does this invalidate the theory that Misa Amane might be the Second Kira? No, they've gathered more than enough evidence pointing towards Amane in the past few weeks, though whether this is another loose thread…

"Watari?"

He feels rather than sees Watari approach.

"Any DNA match with the bloodied gauze?" he murmurs, confident on what the answer will be.

"None at all."

As expected. "I see. Thank you."

There's only a very slim chance that this is related to Kira, but the coincidences are too many to believe that it would entirely unrelated. Or if it is, then there's something else happening here. Both myself and Watari have met Anna Green at least twice, and I'm sure she doesn't fit the profile for the First Kira — as for being the Second Kira, for now there's nothing connecting her to Light Yagami or Misa Amane…am I overthinking this?

Wiggling his toes, L starts to draw his hand towards the box of chocolates on the table. He hears a light shuffle. "There's also the matter of M," Watari all but whispers, voice urgent and grim.

Ah, there is it.

He speaks with his mouth half-full before swallowing a bonbon. "What about him?"

Hesitant, Watari glances over his shoulder towards the detectives sprawled on the sofas. Once he's adequately sure that they're still fast asleep, he continues, "It seems that our mutual acquaintance hacked into N's server and somehow managed to decrypt your correspondence, along with all available data on the case…"

His lips twitch ever so slightly. Behind him, Watari can't see his amusement.

A scattered trail of crumbs — quite possibly with Near's veiled consent. Sounds like a move to gleefully fuel Mello's one-sided competition — or perhaps…

An allowance?

"Predictable, if unwise," he licks the corner of his mouth, lapping at the bits of chocolate left behind. Hazelnut — and caramel. Slightly salty, but still quite sweet.

"— travelled to London on his own to investigate the premises of this Goodfellow's Bank, but only found a closed office with no visible schedule on display. Nearby residents confirmed they had never seen it open."

"That would be the main office in Charing cross Road (2), yes?"

"Indeed."

"Then it's a red herring, as expected."

"Unfortunately that's not all," if possible, Watari lowers his voice even further, making L cock his head to the side as he strains to listen to this newest secret. "Days later, M stole a car and drove by himself to Windsor through the highway, where he then proceeded to prowl the farmlands until almost running out of gas. According to his report, he seems to have stumbled upon the property registered under the Green family — although his findings point to a derelict mansion in the middle of the forest, not a livable estate."

Watari sifts through the stack of papers, picking the last set in the pile with the upper left corner folded into a neat triangle. N emailed, while M chose to fax, he whispers. L pinches the top of the file, his eyes moving quickly from left to right, up and down, until he's made a mental map of the contents.

"'...ruins surrounded by crumbling gates and overgrown English ivy that claimed the entire structure a long time ago…' — I see, so it couldn't be it at all. Yet another bluff," he drawls, looking up at the ceiling. Shadows dance, long-limbed and distant, illusive. "Though this does give more credence to the witness protection theory, I'm still not sure…"

Is this indeed a case of false identity under government protection? What's going on?

He reads the last page and frowns. "Didn't our...mutual acquaintance examine the property?"

A rhetorical question, to which Watari merely shakes his head. '...wouldn't find anything in the middle of soot and pebbles that might help this useless cat and mouse chase, anyway. Couldn't even if I wanted to; didn't bring a flashlight and it was getting too dark to see (3).' L puts down the file, placing it on top of the stack, thinking it's a strange conclusion for Mello to reach, especially when he's so desperate to prove himself above Near. It pays for the overconfident to be thorough. And he knows that well enough, despite his impetuousness.

Lodging a fingernail between his two front teeth, L ponders over Mello's words once more. The attitude itself is out of character.

Watari busies himself cleaning the crumbs under his armchair, in silence. Then, he tidies the stack, now out of order. Waiting for a follow up, no doubt; but these things can't be rushed. L pours through photos of the landscape, scrutinising every inch of the images; any resulting from this adventure are blurry and pigmented, as if altered post-processing. An unfortunate accident, explained when the camera malfunctions shortly after Mello is — as he states in brash words, the offence visible even through writing — suddenly picked up by a police car on the highway. The agents sputtered, perplexed that a 14 year old boy drove a stolen car. Roger had to pay a hefty fine to keep Mello out of juvenile prison. He also got out of a damning record for underage driving, thanks to the many contacts at Wammy's.

Lame-ass, he calls it.

As expected, Mello seems unhappy with this particular turnout. With his intelligence combined in a hotpot of bubbling insecurities and a natural inclination towards the extreme, Mello has the makings of a fairly competent criminal.

L narrows his eyes, "Say, do we have the results on the 'coin collection'?"

A rustle of fabric. Watari promptly pours him more tea, the robust aroma wafting upwards, "The bu is an authentic coin from the Edo Period, nowadays often on display at museums or secured by ancient history collectors. One single piece would be up for sale starting at 1.5 thousand, subject to the seller's reputation."

"There were at least 12 on the floor that night, some perhaps more obscure than currency from Edo if my eyes didn't deceive me," he taps his lips with one pale finger, looking thoughtful. "What about the other one?"

"The second coin is made of solid gold, though the minting — remarkable as it is — doesn't match any known branch. The coinage alone is entirely unknown even if it bears Gringotts Foundation inscriptions, as they're not officially in circulation."

Could they really be collectibles, after all?

He nods. "Thank you for your diligence, Watari. As always," he adds after a heartbeat, quietly slurping the remnants of his black tea, "Please file these away as soon as you're able."

L eyes the now neatly arranged stack. For the last time, he allows himself to stare at the picture on the first page before turning his attention back to the screen.

"Of course."

Silent as a shadow, Watari leaves.

I have a lot of thinking to do. But she doesn't fit the profile…and I'm certain Amane is the Second Kira. No, this may be something else entirely after all.

Rolling over on the sofa, Matsuda lets out a loud snore. L grunts, irritated. Alone again save for the sleeping detectives, he finds that his fingers clench over his knees of their own accord, muscles taunt and knuckles blanching bone white as he looks out the window at the waking sun.

Another day, another mystery.

...

TBC


Thank you for reading, I appreciate it!

I'd like to make an honorable mention to Reasonable-Lime-615 at Reddit for their amazing suggestion of naming the 'red herring' wizarding bank run by goblins as Goodfellow's Bank. In their words:

"A common name for the Fae, Puck (who is sometimes called a Goblin or Hobgoblin), is Robin Goodfellow. Goodfellow's Bank is, in my opinion, kind of funny in how normal it sounds, and you could even work that in to say it works regularly with non-magical banks."What an industrious way to tie in real world mythos with HP lore. I loved this so much I just had to include it. Thank you once again for your contribution!

...

Notes:
(1) - There's a Graduate School of Agricultural and Life Sciences at the University of Tokyo, yes.
(2) - Charing cross Road, where the Muggle entrance to the Leaky Cauldron is located.
(3) - Those Muggle Repellent Charms seem to be working quite nicely.