Chapter 8 - TWELVE HOURS
Graham hung up before we could trace the call.
The prepaid phone died immediately.
Not lost signal.
Died.
Its battery overheated and the device shut down.
Someone had designed it to erase itself.
Edmund placed it inside a signal bag.
Sylvester called a full security sweep.
Every guest room.
Every hallway.
Every employee.
Every vehicle.
Nothing.
Nobody could explain how the phone appeared beneath Lucas’s pillow.
Which meant one of two things.
Either Graham had someone already inside the estate.
Or someone trusted enough to enter Lucas’s room was working for him.
Neither possibility allowed me to sleep.
By 3:00 AM, Sylvester had moved us into an underground security suite.
It had no windows.
One door.
Independent ventilation.
Lucas slept on a couch beside me.
I sat at a conference table watching Nathaniel’s video for the fourth time.
Sylvester entered carrying coffee.
I took it.
Didn't thank him.
He sat opposite me.
“You need rest.”
“So does the person hiding phones under my son's pillow.”
“We're checking everyone.”
“Your people are checking your people.”
“Yes.”
“See the problem?”
“Yes.”
That answer disarmed me slightly.
He rubbed his face.
He looked exhausted now.
Less like the man every server and guard obeyed.
More like Michael.
Nathaniel’s old college roommate.
“What happens in twelve hours?” I asked.
“I don't know.”
“What does Graham want?”
“The card.”
“Why?”
“Because Nathaniel’s video confirms the trust contained audit rights.”
“Can Graham destroy the trust?”
“Not easily.”
“Could he destroy evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Then why not simply kill me?”
Sylvester looked at me sharply.
“I'm serious.”
“I know.”
“If he has enough reach to enter this house, why play games?”
Sylvester leaned back.
“Because murder creates investigations.”
“Nathaniel’s didn't.”
His jaw tightened.
“Maybe it did.”
“Not enough.”
“No.”
I looked at Lucas.
“He wants something legal.”
“Yes.”
“A signature.”
“Probably.”
“Custody?”
“Possible.”
“Paternity?”
“Already established.”
“Can it be challenged?”
“With fraud allegations.”
“Meaning?”
“If Graham claims the DNA testing was manipulated.”
I laughed.
“He'll lose.”
“Eventually.”
That word bothered me.
“What happens before eventually?”
“Court orders.”
“Emergency motions.”
“Asset freezes.”
“Custody investigations.”
My stomach turned.
“He doesn't need to win.”
“No.”
“He needs delay.”
“And access.”
“To what?”
“The trust.”
I understood.
“If Lucas becomes legally disputed, trustee authority freezes.”
“Likely.”
“Then nobody audits Cross Continental.”
“Yes.”
I stared at the coffee.
It wasn't about taking Lucas’s money.
It was about using him as a legal switch.
Turn him off.
Audit disappears.
Turn him on.
Empire exposed.
“Then we prove everything before Graham can file.”
Sylvester studied me.
“That will be difficult.”
“Good.”
He almost smiled.
“That wasn't encouragement.”
“I know.”
I stood.
“Where is Lucas’s birth certificate?”
“At your home?”
“No.”
“Bank deposit box?”
I shook my head.
“Nathaniel kept the original.”
Sylvester rose.
“Where?”
“I thought it was lost.”
His expression sharpened.
“What did you use for school registration?”
“Certified copy.”
“Passport?”
“Copy.”
“What happened to Nathaniel’s personal documents after his death?”
“His mother’s attorneys collected most of them.”
“That means Eleanor may have the original.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
The key Nathaniel hid in a birth certificate.
And Eleanor may have had it for three years.
“Would she know what the number means?”
“Probably not.”
“Graham?”
“Maybe.”
“Then why hasn't he used it?”
“Because maybe he doesn't have the certificate.”
I opened my eyes.
“Where else?”
Sylvester thought.
“Hospital records.”
“County registrar.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Nathaniel said birth record.”
“Could mean registry number.”
“Yes.”
“Can we access it?”
“Legally.”
“How long?”
“Hours.”
“Do it.”
He pulled out his phone.
Then I remembered something.
“Wait.”
He stopped.
“Lucas’s baby book.”
“What?”
“The book.”
I paced.
“Nathaniel wrote everything down.”
“Weight.”
“Time.”
“Hospital room.”
“Names of nurses.”
“He took a photo of the birth certificate.”
Sylvester stared.
“Where is the book?”
“At my house.”
The house currently sealed as a crime scene.
He called Ramos.
She answered on the third ring.
“No.”
Sylvester hadn't even asked.
He looked annoyed.
“Detective.”
“You're calling about entering the Bennett residence.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“There's potentially critical evidence.”
“Then tell me what.”
I took the phone.
“Lucas’s baby book.”
Ramos paused.
“What about it?”
“There may be a photograph of his original birth certificate.”
Another pause.
“Stay where you are.”
“I am.”
“I'll get it.”
Forty minutes later, Ramos video-called us.
She held the book wearing gloves.
Blue cover.
Silver moon.
My throat tightened.
I had not opened it in years.
“Page?” she asked.
“Near the back.”
She flipped carefully.
Hospital bracelet.
Footprint.
Photos.
Then stopped.
“There.”
A photograph.
Nathaniel grinning beside newborn Lucas.
In his hand.
Birth certificate.
Ramos zoomed.
Too blurry.
“Can forensic imaging enhance?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Working.”
We waited.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Twenty.
Then Ramos called again.
“We have the number.”
Sylvester wrote it down.
Twelve digits.
County code.
Then six digits.
418729.
He entered them into a secure database.
Nothing.
“Not a conventional account.”
I stared.
“Nathaniel said vault.”
Edmund entered.
“What about physical vault numbers?”
Sylvester looked at him.
“Banks?”
“Private storage.”
“Geneva?”
“No.”
Edmund’s eyes sharpened.
“Baltimore.”
I remembered the strange phone call.
Thomas Keene had asked Edmund whether Vale security had surveillance of a Cross warehouse in Baltimore.
“Warehouse.”
Edmund nodded.
“Cross Continental owns a customs storage facility there.”
Sylvester typed.
Facility 418.
Unit 729.
Nothing.
Then he reversed it.
Warehouse 729.
Locker 418.
A property record appeared.
Cross Continental Maritime Archive.
Baltimore.
Private bonded storage.
I stared.
“Nathaniel hid it inside his own company.”
Sylvester almost smiled.
“Best place to hide something from someone who thinks they own everything.”
Ramos’s voice came through speakerphone.
“Do not go there.”
We all looked at the phone.
She continued.
“I know that silence.”
Sylvester said, “Detective—”
“No.”
“This may contain evidence in an active homicide.”
“Exactly.”
“I can send local officers.”
“If Graham has influence?”
“That is not your call.”
“No.”
“It is mine.”
I interrupted.
“If we wait, Graham gets there first.”
Ramos sighed.
“Mrs. Bennett.”
“Claire.”
“Claire.”
Her voice softened.
“You have a child.”
“I know.”
“Then stop behaving like the woman in a thriller who walks into the dark basement.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
“I don't want to walk into the dark basement.”
“Good.”
“I want you to send federal agents.”
Silence.
Sylvester looked at me.
Ramos said, “Why federal?”
“Cross Continental controls ports.”
“Yes.”
“International transfers.”
“Yes.”
“Nathaniel referenced shell companies and political donations.”
Ramos was quiet.
“This may involve interstate financial crimes.”
“Maybe.”
“And if Nathaniel’s death is connected—”
“I understand.”
“Then local police aren't enough.”
Long pause.
Finally.
“I know someone.”
“Who?”
“FBI financial crimes.”
Sylvester started to speak.
Ramos cut him off.
“And before you ask, Vale, no.”
“No what?”
“You are not coming.”
He looked offended.
I smiled for the first time all night.
Then the secure room phone rang.
Nobody had that number.
Sylvester answered.
“Vale.”
A distorted voice spoke.
“Check your east gate.”
The line died.
Security cameras switched.
At the gate sat a black SUV.
Engine running.
Headlights on.
No driver visible.
Edmund sent a tactical team.
They approached.
Opened the rear door.
Then stopped.
One guard spoke through radio.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“You need to see this.”
Camera zoomed.
Inside the SUV was Victoria.
Hands bound.
Mouth taped.
Alive.
Terrified.
A sign hung around her neck.
SHE TALKED.
May you like
Beneath it, another line.
ELEVEN HOURS.
