Chapter 4 - The Enemy Inside Caruso Properties
Daniel Rusk survived.
By Tuesday morning, he was awake in a private hospital room with two detectives outside his door and no memory of the previous six hours.
Vincent stood beside the window.
Claire remained near the wall.
Daniel looked terrible.
“What happened?” Vincent asked.
“I came home around ten.”
“And?”
“Someone was already inside.”
“Who?”
“I didn’t see.”
Daniel touched the bandage above his eyebrow.
Claire watched him carefully.
“The photograph of my father,” she said. “Why would someone leave it?”
Daniel’s eyes shifted.
That was enough.
Vincent noticed.
“So you do know something.”
Daniel said nothing.
“Daniel.”
“My father told me about Bennett.”
Claire stepped closer.
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“What did he say?”
Daniel stared at the blanket.
“That Thomas Bennett found records he wasn’t supposed to find.”
“My father wasn’t stealing anything.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“Then what?”
Daniel took a breath.
“Our fathers were laundering political payments through property transactions.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Who else?”
“I don’t know everyone.”
“You know somebody.”
Daniel looked at him.
“Martin Vale.”
Vincent became still.
Martin Vale had been Caruso Properties’ chief financial officer for seventeen years.
He had served Vincent’s father.
He had taught Vincent how to read acquisition sheets.
He attended Christmas dinner.
Claire saw Vincent’s reaction.
“You trust him.”
Vincent corrected her.
“Trusted.”
Back at headquarters, Martin Vale was waiting.
Sixty-two.
Silver hair.
Perfect suit.
Calm smile.
“I heard about Daniel.”
Vincent watched him.
“News travels quickly.”
“Senior management.”
“Of course.”
Claire entered behind Vincent.
Martin’s smile disappeared for half a second.
“Ms. Bennett.”
“Mr. Vale.”
Vincent sat.
“North River is being restructured.”
Martin frowned.
“That would be financially reckless.”
“Maybe.”
“We have investors.”
“They’ll survive.”
“Vincent—”
“The residents stay.”
Martin looked toward Claire.
“This is her influence.”
Vincent’s voice cooled.
“This is my decision.”
Martin leaned forward.
“You built this company by understanding that sentiment cannot run a business.”
“My father built this company.”
“And you expanded it.”
“Maybe it’s time I decide what parts deserve expanding.”
Martin’s eyes narrowed.
There.
A flash.
Something Vincent had never noticed.
Fear.
Vincent continued.
“Claire will lead the restructuring.”
Martin stood.
“Absolutely not.”
Vincent slowly looked up.
Martin realized his mistake.
“This company is not yours,” Vincent said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Martin left without another word.
Claire waited until the door closed.
“He’s scared.”
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
Vincent looked at her.
“Of whatever your father left behind.”
They spent the afternoon building a trap.
Only four people were told that the original Bennett ledgers would be moved that night to an attorney’s vault.
The information was false.
Each person received a different destination.
Martin Vale was told LaSalle Street.
Daniel Rusk was told Wacker Drive.
General counsel was told Michigan Avenue.
Paul was told nothing.
At 9:17 p.m., a security team stationed near LaSalle reported a black SUV circling the building.
Vincent’s expression hardened.
Martin.
Police stopped the vehicle.
Inside were two private investigators.
No weapons.
No illegal materials.
But one carried instructions to photograph anyone entering the law office.
The instructions had been sent through an intermediary connected to Martin.
Not enough for an arrest.
Enough for Vincent.
The next morning, Martin entered Vincent’s office and found Claire sitting in Vincent’s chair.
Vincent stood beside the window.
Martin stopped.
“Sit,” Vincent said.
Martin remained standing.
“You fed me false information.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To see what you’d do with it.”
Martin looked toward Claire.
“This woman has manipulated you.”
Claire said nothing.
Vincent walked closer.
“My mother left records.”
Martin’s face changed.
That was all the confirmation Vincent needed.
“What records?”
“You tell me.”
Martin recovered quickly.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Vincent placed a photocopied ledger page on the desk.
Martin stared.
His own signature appeared beside three transfers.
“You were there,” Vincent said.
Martin looked older suddenly.
“Your father made decisions.”
“So did you.”
“You think your father gave people choices?”
Claire spoke quietly.
“My father said no.”
Martin looked at her.
“And look what happened.”
The room went silent.
Vincent’s voice dropped.
“What exactly happened?”
Martin realized too late what he had said.
Claire stood.
“What happened to my father?”
Martin stepped backward.
“I meant the building.”
“No.”
Claire moved around the desk.
“You said, ‘Look what happened.’”
Martin reached for the door.
Paul blocked it.
Vincent did not raise his voice.
“Answer her.”
Martin’s composure cracked.
“Thomas Bennett wouldn’t stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Asking questions.”
Claire’s hands trembled.
“Did you hurt him?”
“No.”
“Did my father’s heart attack have anything to do with you?”
“No!”
The answer came fast.
Possibly truthful.
Martin ran a hand over his face.
“Thomas lost the building. That was supposed to end it.”
“But it didn’t,” Vincent said.
“He had copies. Your mother helped him.”
Vincent stared.
Martin continued.
“After your father died, I thought everything was gone.”
“My father died in 2018.”
“Yes.”
“My mother died the following year.”
Martin said nothing.
Claire understood.
“You were looking for the records.”
Martin looked at her.
“You have no idea what’s in those books.”
“Then tell us.”
“It isn’t just old bribery.”
Vincent felt cold.
“What is it?”
Martin sank into the chair.
“North River.”
Claire frowned.
“The current project?”
Martin nodded.
“It was never about luxury apartments.”
Vincent stepped forward.
“Then what?”
“Your development partner has been buying surrounding properties through shell companies. Once Caruso Properties clears the occupied blocks, they intend to flip the entire district to an infrastructure consortium.”
“For what?”
Martin looked at him.
“A private transit terminal and casino complex.”
Vincent stared.
“That project was rejected by the city.”
“Publicly.”
Claire whispered, “The families were being removed before anyone could organize.”
“Yes.”
“And Caruso Properties takes the blame.”
Martin looked at Vincent.
“That was the plan.”
“Whose plan?”
Martin hesitated.
Then said a name Vincent did not expect.
“Paul Mercer.”
Claire turned.
Vincent did not move.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Vincent laughed once.
Coldly.
“No.”
Martin leaned forward.
“Ask yourself who had access to your mother’s records.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
“Paul protected them.”
“Did he?”
Martin pointed toward the ledger.
“Who told you container C-17 was destroyed?”
Vincent said nothing.
“Who kept the key for seven years?”
Silence.
“Who knew Claire was Thomas Bennett’s daughter before you did?”
Claire slowly looked toward the office door.
Paul was no longer standing there.
He had disappeared.
Vincent reached for his phone.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then Claire’s phone vibrated.
A text message.
Unknown number.
She opened it.
A photograph loaded.
It showed the old Caruso Building.
Beneath it was one sentence.
ASK VINCENT WHY HIS MOTHER REALLY DIED.
Claire lifted her eyes.
Vincent had gone pale.
“What does that mean?”
He did not answer.
“Vincent.”
His gaze remained on the photograph.
Finally he spoke.
“My mother’s death wasn’t sudden.”
Claire waited.
“She was sick for months.”
“What kind of sick?”
Vincent looked at her.
“The doctors never figured it out.”
The silence between them became heavy.
Then Vincent’s phone rang.
Paul.
He answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
Paul’s voice sounded strained.
“Don’t trust Martin.”
Vincent looked toward Vale.
“Where are you?”
“The old building.”
“Why?”
“Because someone got there before me.”
A crash sounded through the phone.
“Paul?”
Silence.
Then another voice came on the line.
A voice Vincent knew.
A voice that had attended his father’s funeral.
A voice belonging to a man who had been smiling beside him in family photographs for twenty years.
“Hello, Vincent.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
Claire whispered, “Who is it?”
Vincent stared at nothing.
Then he answered her.
May you like
“My uncle.”
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