Chapter 6 - The Dead Man’s Signature
My father had been buried for twelve years.
I had watched them close the coffin.
I had thrown dirt onto it myself.
So when Evelyn said she believed the man behind Account Seventeen was someone I thought was dead, Thomas Blackwell became the obvious possibility.
Marcus rejected it first.
“Your father is dead.”
“I know.”
“You saw the body.”
“Yes.”
“Then Evelyn meant someone else.”
“Probably.”
June stood at the edge of the library.
“Who else did you think was dead?”
Too many names existed in an organization as old as mine.
Men died.
Disappeared.
Changed identities.
Some were mourned honestly.
Some conveniently.
I opened the transaction folder.
One authorization code appeared repeatedly.
TB-04.
Thomas Blackwell.
My father’s initials.
“That code was retired after his death,” I said.
Marcus leaned closer.
“When were these transactions?”
“Current.”
Six months ago.
Nine months ago.
Three weeks ago.
My dead father’s authorization was still moving money.
June whispered, “Could someone just be using his code?”
“Yes.”
That was the rational explanation.
But I had learned to distrust explanations that arrived too easily.
We reviewed Evelyn’s files until morning.
She had built a map.
Blackwell Domestic Services.
Northstar Compensation.
Construction vendors.
Logistics subcontractors.
Security consultancies.
All fed percentages into a network of trusts.
Evelyn House Foundation sat in the middle.
The charity named after my wife was being used as a washing machine for stolen wages and hidden transfers.
I wanted to burn every account connected to it.
Marcus stopped me.
“If we freeze anything now, they know we found the evidence.”
“They already know.”
“They know about June.”
“Which means they suspect we’re looking.”
“Suspect is different from know.”
He was right.
I hated it.
At seven fifteen, my phone rang.
Victor Hale.
I stared at the screen.
June saw the name.
“Are you going to answer?”
“Yes.”
I put the call on speaker.
“Victor.”
“Morning.”
His voice was relaxed.
Too relaxed.
“You sound terrible.”
“I didn’t sleep.”
“That makes two of us.”
I looked at Marcus.
“New York treating you badly?”
“Always.”
Victor laughed.
“I’m flying back this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“Board issue.”
“What issue?”
“Nothing serious.”
Of course.
“Good.”
He paused.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Longer.
“Adrian?”
“What?”
“I heard there was activity at the house last night.”
Marcus’s eyes sharpened.
“What activity?”
“Security call.”
A lie.
Marcus had isolated the logs.
No alert left the property.
“What kind?”
“Perimeter issue.”
“Nothing important.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Victor waited.
Then changed subjects.
“Dinner tonight?”
“Can’t.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
“All right.”
He sounded exactly like the man I had trusted for fourteen years.
That was the worst part.
Betrayal did not always sound sinister.
Sometimes it sounded like someone remembering your birthday.
We ended the call.
Marcus immediately traced Victor’s device.
“He’s not in New York.”
“Where?”
“Chicago.”
I smiled without humor.
Victor had lied about his location.
The investigation had officially changed.
“Where in Chicago?”
Marcus zoomed.
“Near Lake Meridian Private Bank.”
June looked at me.
“The bank with Northstar’s account.”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“Follow him.”
Marcus shook his head.
“Not personally.”
“I didn’t say personally.”
He contacted two outside surveillance teams who had never worked for Blackwell.
I wanted eyes Victor wouldn’t recognize.
An hour later, our banker sent additional records.
Evelyn House Foundation had purchased three properties.
One in Wisconsin.
One in Indiana.
One outside Rockford.
The Rockford property caught my attention.
An abandoned rehabilitation hospital.
Purchased eighteen months ago.
No public operations.
No staff filings.
No insurance activity matching occupancy.
But electricity usage was enormous.
“What needs that much electricity?” June asked.
“Servers.”
Marcus nodded.
“Or industrial equipment.”
“Or both.”
Then another email appeared.
From an unknown sender.
One attachment.
A payroll spreadsheet.
Subject line:
ASK ELAINE WHO DIED IN ROOM 17.
June stared.
“Elaine.”
I checked the sender’s metadata.
Routed through multiple relays.
No easy trace.
Marcus looked at me.
“Could be bait.”
“Probably.”
June stood.
“I’m calling her.”
“No.”
Her head snapped toward me.
“She knows about my father.”
“And Evelyn warned me not to approach her openly.”
“She’s my godmother.”
“And someone may be watching her.”
“You don’t get to decide I can’t speak to my family.”
She was right again.
I hated how often that happened.
“Call from my secure line.”
June dialed.
Elaine answered on the first ring.
“Hello?”
June froze.
The older woman’s voice broke instantly.
“June?”
June looked at me.
“You knew it was me.”
Elaine inhaled.
“Where are you?”
“With Mr. Blackwell.”
Silence.
Then Elaine said one word.
“Run.”
June’s face changed.
“What?”
“Get out of that house.”
I felt every eye turn toward me.
“Why?”
Elaine’s breathing became rapid.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can’t.”
“My mother’s house was attacked.”
Elaine made a strangled sound.
“What?”
“Two men broke in.”
“Oh God.”
“One was arrested.”
“June, listen to me.”
“No.”
Her voice hardened.
“You listen.”
I saw the woman from the pantry disappearing.
In her place stood a daughter who had just learned her father’s death might have been connected to the same company now stealing from her.
“My salary was fake.”
Elaine said nothing.
“The contract was forged.”
Silence.
“Your account uploaded it.”
Still nothing.
“Why?”
When Elaine finally spoke, she was crying.
“To keep you alive.”
June stared at the phone.
“What does that mean?”
“I tried to keep you out.”
“Out of what?”
“Your father’s mess.”
“My father was murdered?”
“I don’t know.”
“You told Mom it was his heart.”
“I was scared.”
“Of Victor?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Of Martin?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
I stepped closer.
June looked at me and continued.
“Who died in Room Seventeen?”
Elaine stopped breathing.
The line went silent.
Then a whisper.
“Who told you that?”
“Answer me.”
“June.”
“Who?”
Elaine’s voice changed.
“Your father didn’t die at home.”
June turned white.
“What?”
The room became silent.
“You said—”
“I lied.”
June’s free hand gripped the desk.
“What are you talking about?”
“Samuel collapsed at work.”
“Where?”
Elaine began sobbing.
“At a private medical facility outside Rockford.”
My eyes met Marcus’s.
The abandoned rehabilitation hospital.
“What facility?”
Elaine answered.
“Blackwell Recovery Center.”
I had never heard of it.
June whispered, “Why was Dad there?”
“He was being questioned.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were there.”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
June looked like she had been struck.
“You watched him die?”
“No.”
Elaine’s voice broke.
“I ran.”
“Why?”
“Because Victor told me I would be next.”
Marcus motioned for silence.
Something moved in the audio.
A door.
Elaine heard it too.
Her breathing stopped.
“Elaine?”
No answer.
“Elaine.”
A male voice sounded faintly in the background.
“Give me the phone.”
June whispered, “Who is that?”
Elaine said something we couldn’t hear.
Then the line disconnected.
Marcus immediately began tracing.
I called back.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Marcus looked up.
“Phone just went offline.”
“Location?”
He gave me an address.
Blackwell Domestic Services headquarters.
Elaine had been at work.
I was already moving.
June followed.
“No.”
She ignored me.
“June.”
“She’s my family.”
“So are your children.”
That stopped her.
I hated using them.
But this time it mattered.
“Stay with them.”
Her eyes burned.
“You bring her back.”
I didn’t promise.
Promises were for things a man controlled.
Instead I said, “I’m going to try.”
Marcus and I reached the office twenty-three minutes later.
The front desk was empty.
Elaine’s assistant was crying.
“She left with Mr. Voss.”
Martin.
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Willingly?”
“I don’t know.”
“Which vehicle?”
“His.”
Security footage showed Elaine walking beside Martin toward the garage.
No struggle.
But Martin’s hand remained firmly on her elbow.
As they reached the car, Elaine looked directly toward the security camera.
Then she raised her left hand.
Three fingers.
Closed fist.
One finger.
Three-one.
Or thirty-one.
Or room seventeen reversed.
Then Martin placed her inside.
Marcus zoomed the image.
“What is she doing?”
I studied Elaine’s wrist.
She wore a bracelet.
A hospital identification band.
Printed on it were numbers.
0317.
March seventeenth.
I suddenly remembered the date.
March 17 had been the day Samuel Carter supposedly died.
Elaine wasn’t giving us a destination.
She was giving us a date.
I searched Evelyn’s files for 03/17.
One result appeared.
An audio file.
I opened it.
Static.
Then a man’s voice.
My father.
Thomas Blackwell.
Recorded twenty-three years earlier.
“Samuel, you should’ve kept your mouth shut.”
June’s father answered.
“I saw what you’re moving.”
“You saw nothing.”
“I saw people.”
My skin went cold.
“What people?”
“You know damn well.”
My father laughed.
“You think anyone will believe a truck driver?”
Samuel’s voice came closer to the recorder.
“They’ll believe the photographs.”
Silence.
Then my father spoke again.
“You don’t have photographs.”
Samuel answered.
“Elaine does.”
The recording ended.
Marcus whispered, “Jesus.”
A notification appeared.
Surveillance had found Victor.
He had left Lake Meridian Bank.
He was driving north.
May you like
Toward Rockford.
And Martin Voss’s vehicle was less than five miles ahead of him.
