Chapter 8 - The Letter Walter Couldn’t BurnThe bank’s surveillance footage showed Walter entering at 9:13 a.m.
He carried nothing.
He left twenty-two minutes later with a leather portfolio.
When deputies searched his house that afternoon, the portfolio was gone.
So were the documents.
Walter sat in his attorney’s office and denied everything.
“I accessed a box legally registered to my wife and me.”
Detective Ortiz placed a still photograph on the table.
“Registered to Diane Lane.”
“My wife.”
“Not to you.”
“I had a key.”
“That doesn’t establish authorization.”
Walter smiled.
“Then charge me with opening a box.”
Ortiz slid another photograph toward him.
Elliot’s torn parachute rig.
Walter did not look at it.
“Your grandson says you pushed him.”
“My grandson was terrified and disoriented.”
“Owen Pike says someone deliberately tampered with this system.”
“Owen Pike has disliked me for years.”
“Your wife checked it out using your son’s credentials after you instructed her to.”
“My wife is under enormous emotional strain.”
Ortiz leaned forward.
“Everybody around you seems confused, frightened, dishonest, or unstable.”
Walter finally looked at her.
“Perhaps you should examine the common denominator.”
“I am.”
His smile disappeared.
Meanwhile, Caleb went to the Mercer Ridge corporate offices.
Walter had already suspended his access.
His badge failed.
His password was disabled.
His name had been removed from the executive directory.
Walter had anticipated him.
Caleb stood in the lobby staring at the red access light.
A woman behind him said, “You’re wasting time.”
He turned.
Nora Vance, Mercer Ridge Holdings’ controller, stood with a leather bag over one shoulder.
She had worked for the family company for fourteen years.
“Nora.”
“Not here.”
She walked toward the parking garage.
Caleb followed.
“What’s going on?”
“Walter called an emergency board meeting.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“For what?”
“To remove you as president of operations.”
“On what grounds?”
“Financial misconduct.”
Caleb laughed in disbelief.
“He fabricated that.”
“I know.”
He stopped.
Nora kept walking.
“You know?”
She turned.
Fear showed beneath her professional calm.
“I processed some of the transfers.”
“What transfers?”
“The ones Walter is going to blame on you.”
Caleb stared.
“How much?”
“Five point eight million.”
Exactly what Walter had told Diane.
“Where did the money go?”
“Four shell companies.”
“Owned by?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.”
“Nora, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because Walter owns my mortgage, my job, and enough secrets about people in this town to make everyone afraid.”
She opened her car.
“But after what happened to Elliot…”
Her voice broke.
“I can’t pretend this is accounting anymore.”
She handed Caleb a flash drive.
“What is this?”
“Copies.”
“Of what?”
“The payments. Halcyon correspondence. Board minutes that don’t match the official versions.”
Caleb stared at it.
“Why give this to me now?”
“Because Walter asked me yesterday whether company liability insurance covers fatalities involving minors on private land.”
Caleb’s stomach turned.
“Nora.”
She looked toward the garage entrance.
“I’m leaving town tonight.”
“You should go to the police.”
“I will.”
“Then come with me now.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Walter doesn’t know I copied the files.”
A car engine started somewhere nearby.
Nora flinched.
“Go.”
Caleb hesitated.
“Go!”
He left through the stairwell.
Two levels below, his phone rang.
Tessa.
“Caleb, we found something.”
“What?”
“Your grandfather’s letter.”
He stopped.
“I thought Walter took it.”
“He took the original.”
“How do you have it?”
“Diane photographed every page last month.”
Caleb closed his eyes.
“What does it say?”
Tessa’s voice became quieter.
“It says Walter forged Edwin Lane’s signature on the first Blackstone development agreement twenty-seven years ago.”
Caleb gripped the railing.
“And there’s more.”
“What?”
“Edwin knew.”
“How?”
“He discovered it before he died.”
“Then why didn’t he expose Walter?”
“He was collecting proof.”
A pause.
“Caleb, your grandfather believed someone inside the family was helping Walter.”
Caleb thought of Diane.
Then himself.
“Who?”
“That’s the problem.”
May you like
Tessa inhaled.
“He never wrote the name.”
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