Chapter 7 - The Investigation Nobody Was Supposed to Find
Alexander stared at the phone.
"My father hired Miguel?"
Detective Hall's voice came through the speaker.
"That's what the records indicate."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Then perhaps you'd like to explain why your father's signature appears on the authorization."
Alexander looked at Arturo.
The old man seemed equally confused.
"Arthur Ashford never mentioned this," Arturo said.
I turned toward him.
"Did you know Alexander's father?"
"Unfortunately."
There was something in his tone I hadn't heard before.
Bitterness.
Alexander picked up the phone.
"Detective, what was Miguel investigating?"
"We haven't finished examining the documents."
"Can you tell us anything?"
A pause.
"His assignment was opened eight months before the subway attack."
My skin prickled.
Eight months.
My father had been working two jobs during that period.
At least, that was what he'd told us.
He repaired appliances in the mornings and cleaned office buildings at night.
He came home exhausted.
Sometimes he sat at the kitchen table until dawn, writing in a small blue notebook.
I'd always assumed he was keeping track of repair jobs.
Now I wondered what he had really been writing.
Hall continued.
"The original documents are incomplete. Someone appears to have removed several sections."
"Who accessed the room?" Alexander asked.
"We're examining the access logs. We'll update you when we have verified information."
The call ended.
I looked at Alexander.
"Your father was paying my father to investigate your family's businesses."
"Apparently."
"And you knew nothing about it."
"No."
"How can I believe that?"
He held my gaze.
"You shouldn't accept it just because I said it."
That answer was beginning to frustrate me almost as much as his secrets.
"Then give me something I can verify."
Alexander sat down.
"My father died eleven years ago."
I knew that.
Arthur Ashford's funeral had been covered by every newspaper in New York.
A powerful businessman.
A philanthropist.
A man described as a builder of hotels and opportunities.
The articles hadn't mentioned the people his organization frightened.
"He had a heart attack," Alexander continued. "He was sixty-three. I took control of the company afterward."
"Did you ever look through his private records?"
"Some of them. Others were handled by his attorney."
"Who was the attorney?"
"Leonard Price."
Arturo's cane struck the floor.
I looked at him.
"What's wrong?"
He didn't answer.
Alexander turned.
"Arturo?"
The old man lowered himself into a chair.
"Leonard Price visited Miguel three days before the attack."
My stomach dropped.
"How do you know?"
"Because Miguel called me afterward."
"What did he say?"
Arturo rubbed his forehead.
"He said Price was frightened. He'd discovered something in Arthur's old files."
Alexander frowned.
"Arthur was already dead."
"Yes."
"Then what was Price afraid of?"
"I don't know."
I stared at Arturo.
"You've known this for six years?"
He looked ashamed.
"I knew Price had met Miguel. I didn't know about the investigation."
"Did you tell the police?"
"I told the original detective."
"What detective?"
"Frank Delaney."
Alexander leaned back slowly.
"Delaney retired four years ago."
Arturo nodded.
"And moved to Florida."
Something about the timing bothered me.
A hidden investigation.
A lawyer who had visited my father.
A detective who had accepted the official robbery explanation.
And people who had spent six years making sure my family knew nothing.
I took out the photograph of the basement door.
"These three lines," I said. "Dad used them as markers."
Arturo nodded.
"What did they mean?"
"Usually that he had checked a place and found it safe."
"Usually?"
"Occasionally, he used them to tell another student to look closer."
"How could someone tell the difference?"
Arturo took the photograph.
"By the direction of the final line."
He pointed.
"See this?"
The last scratch slanted upward.
"That meant something was hidden."
Alexander stood.
"We need to tell Hall."
He called immediately.
She listened, asked several questions, then requested Arturo's statement.
Afterward, I returned to my mother's room.
She was helping Mateo eat soup.
He looked much better.
Color had returned to his face, and he was arguing that he could survive on pizza and orange juice if she would stop worrying about vegetables.
The sight almost made me cry.
"Hey, Soph," he said. "You look awful."
"Love you too."
Mom set the soup aside.
"What happened?"
I sat at the foot of the bed.
"Did Dad ever work for Arthur Ashford?"
My mother's spoon stopped moving.
Mateo looked between us.
"Who's Arthur?"
"Alexander's father," I said.
Mom put the spoon down carefully.
"Why are you asking?"
"The police found records."
She closed her eyes.
I felt another wave of exhaustion.
"Mom."
She looked at me.
"Please don't tell me this is another thing you kept from us."
Her lips trembled.
"Your father told me he was doing work for a private client."
"What kind?"
"He said he was checking whether employees were being cheated."
I stared at her.
"Cheated how?"
"Unpaid wages. False deductions. Retirement accounts disappearing."
That sounded exactly like the kind of thing Dad would investigate.
He hated watching people with money take advantage of those without it.
"Did he tell you the company?"
"No."
"Did you ever ask?"
"Of course I asked."
She gave me a tired look.
"He said the people involved had lawyers and money, and he wanted to finish checking the records before making accusations."
"Did he bring documents home?"
"Sometimes."
"Where did he keep them?"
"In his blue notebook."
My heart jumped.
"Where is it?"
She looked surprised.
"I thought you had it."
"No."
"I gave you his things after the funeral. His watch, his work gloves, his photographs."
I remembered that box.
It had remained beneath my bed for years.
I'd opened it on birthdays and anniversaries, usually when everyone else was asleep.
But I didn't remember a blue notebook.
"Was it definitely in the box?"
Mom frowned.
"I thought so."
Mateo cleared his throat.
"Actually..."
We turned.
He looked uncomfortable.
"I have something."
"What?" I asked.
He reached beneath the bed and pulled out his backpack.
From the smallest pocket, he removed a worn blue notebook.
The cover had faded.
The corners were bent.
My father's handwriting appeared on the first page.
I couldn't speak.
"Where did you get that?" Mom whispered.
Mateo looked ashamed.
"I found it in the closet a few years ago. I kept it because it smelled like Dad's workshop."
He held it toward me.
"I didn't know it was important."
I took it with shaking hands.
Inside were lists of names.
Dates.
Dollar amounts.
Descriptions of employee complaints.
The writing became hurried toward the middle.
Some pages were filled with numbers arranged in columns.
Others contained brief notes.
Price says transfers were authorized.
Check original beneficiary records.
Arthur's signature appears after medical admission.
I looked up.
"What does that mean?"
Mom shook her head.
I turned another page.
Near the back, Dad had written a single sentence.
The theft is only the beginning. They changed who owns the hotels.
Below it was a name.
Elena Reyes.
My mother's face went white.
"What?" she whispered.
I held up the page.
"Why is your name here?"
She reached for the notebook.
Then stopped.
"Oh, Miguel."
"Mom?"
Her eyes filled.
"He told me he was trying to get something back."
"What?"
She shook her head.
"He wouldn't say. He said it would make our lives easier when he finished."
Mateo leaned forward.
"Are you saying Dad owned something?"
"I don't know," Mom whispered.
I turned to the final page.
A small envelope had been taped inside the back cover.
It was addressed in my father's handwriting.
For Sophia, when she knows who Alexander really is.
My fingers went numb.
I carefully opened it.
Inside was a brass key.
And a note.
The second student will know the first lesson.
I looked at the key.
Then at my father's handwriting.
For the first time, I began to understand why someone had spent six years keeping me away from Alexander Ashford.
May you like
My father hadn't simply died saving the man.
He had left something behind that only the two of us could find.
