Chapter 9 - The Detective Who Buried the Truth
Frank Delaney answered his door at 8:42 the following morning.
He was seventy-one years old, according to the records Detective Hall had shown us.
Retired.
Living in a quiet Florida neighborhood.
Married.
Two grandchildren.
His lawn was neatly trimmed.
His front porch held a wooden sign that read Bless This Home.
At least, that was what we saw in the video.
Detective Hall had contacted law enforcement in Florida and arranged for investigators to interview him about my father's case.
Alexander wasn't allowed anywhere near the interview.
Neither was I.
We watched only a short, authorized update Hall later shared with us.
Delaney had denied wrongdoing.
He claimed not to remember Miguel's blue notebook.
He denied knowing Leonard Price.
And he insisted that the subway attack had been an ordinary street crime.
But when the investigators asked about the white envelope from the safe, Delaney stopped talking.
He requested an attorney.
That was the first encouraging thing I'd heard in days.
Not because he was guilty.
I knew enough now not to confuse fear with proof.
But because my father's case was finally being treated as something worth investigating.
That afternoon, Hall asked me to come to the precinct.
Alone.
I found her in an interview room with a stack of old photographs.
"These are from the original investigation," she said.
I sat down.
The first image showed the sidewalk outside the Astoria station.
A dark stain marked the pavement.
My stomach turned.
Hall moved it aside.
"You don't have to look at these."
"I want to."
She nodded.
The next photographs showed grocery bags.
Oranges.
A broken bottle.
A dark jacket.
Then something small near the curb.
A silver pen.
I leaned closer.
"My father had one like that."
Hall studied me.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Mom gave it to him for his fiftieth birthday."
"Did it have anything distinctive?"
"The cap was dented."
"Where?"
"On the left side. Mateo dropped it on the kitchen tiles."
Hall examined the photograph.
There was a small dent.
She looked at me.
"The pen wasn't listed among your father's personal effects."
"Then where is it?"
"That's what we're trying to determine."
She opened another folder.
"The evidence log says the pen was collected by Detective Delaney. Three days later, it was marked as returned."
"To whom?"
"Leonard Price."
I stared.
"Why?"
"According to the paperwork, Price claimed it belonged to his client."
"Alexander?"
"No."
Hall turned the page.
"Victor Lane."
I felt the room narrow.
My father's birthday present.
Collected at the scene of his death.
Then handed to the man whose companies had benefited from the stolen trust.
"Why would Dad have Victor Lane's pen?"
"Maybe he didn't."
I looked up.
Hall continued.
"Maybe someone lied about who owned it."
I thought about the three lines on the basement door.
The old key.
The notebook.
Dad had been leaving evidence in places only certain people would recognize.
"What if the pen was another message?"
Hall nodded.
"That's possible."
"Could he have hidden something inside it?"
"We'll investigate."
She closed the folder.
"There's another reason I asked you here."
I waited.
"Colin Voss has agreed to speak with us."
"The man who broke into our apartment?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
Hall looked at me carefully.
"He claims he was hired to retrieve something from your mother's home."
"What?"
"An old notebook."
My pulse jumped.
"Who hired him?"
"He says he never met the person. He received money and instructions through intermediaries."
"Do you believe him?"
"Parts of his statement are consistent with what we found. Other parts still need verification."
I leaned forward.
"Did he know Mateo was home?"
"He claims he was told the apartment would be empty."
I pictured my brother fighting for breath beside the ambulance.
"That doesn't make it better."
"No," Hall said quietly. "It doesn't."
She continued.
"He also says he received a second instruction after entering the building."
"What instruction?"
"Take any photographs showing Miguel Reyes with the Ashford family."
I sat back.
Someone wanted the notebook.
Someone wanted the photographs.
Someone wanted every remaining connection between my father and Alexander erased.
"Did he give you a name?"
Hall hesitated.
"He mentioned a woman."
My chest tightened.
"Victoria?"
"He described a woman who visited the people arranging the job. We haven't confirmed who she was."
I stared at the table.
"Was she blonde?"
"He didn't get a clear look."
I almost laughed.
Another secret.
Another partial answer.
Hall reached across the table.
"Sophia, I need you to understand something."
I looked up.
"Someone is trying to make you believe every suspicious thing leads directly to Victoria Lane."
"Maybe it does."
"Maybe. But that would also make her a convenient person to blame."
I frowned.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying the woman who attacked you publicly may not be the person controlling the larger operation."
My mind returned to the gala.
Victoria's insults.
Her calculated kick.
Alexander's horrified expression.
The threat taped beneath the elevator.
"Then who is?"
"That's what we're trying to establish."
She stood.
"I want you and your family to remain somewhere secure. Please don't investigate on your own."
I nodded.
But as I left the precinct, my phone vibrated.
An unfamiliar number.
One message.
Your father was not the only person murdered to protect the trust.
Below it was a photograph.
A handsome middle-aged man stood beside Arthur Ashford at a ribbon-cutting ceremony.
I recognized the second man from newspaper archives.
Thomas Lane.
Victor Lane's older brother.
The official story said Thomas had died in a boating accident fourteen years earlier.
A second message appeared.
Ask Victoria why she visits her uncle's grave every Thursday.
I stopped walking.
Today was Thursday.
May you like
Then a third message arrived.
And ask Alexander why there is no body in that grave.
