Chapter 8 - The Man Who Was Never on Camera
The deeper we went, the less death seemed permanent in the Romano family.
Marcus Dane had supposedly died fourteen years earlier in a boating accident.
His body had been identified by Samuel Rook.
The funeral had been closed-casket.
Eleanor had attended.
No one else in the room had actually seen the body.
“We verify the death certificate,” Vincent said.
Alexander looked toward him.
“Quietly.”
“You still think he could be alive?”
“I think a dead man’s name ordered the medicine that nearly killed me.”
That was difficult to argue with.
Sebastian paced the room.
“Why would Marcus help Julian?”
Alexander looked at Lorenzo’s photograph.
“He wouldn’t.”
“Then?”
“Maybe Julian is using Marcus because nobody can question a dead man.”
Vincent began calling contacts.
I helped Alexander back to bed.
He resisted exactly as much as expected.
“You’re shaking,” I said.
“I’m cold.”
“You have a fever.”
“I noticed.”
“You nearly collapsed.”
“I noticed that too.”
I pulled the blanket over him.
His gaze stayed on me.
“What?”
“You’ve become very bossy.”
“You almost died.”
“That appears to have changed the employment hierarchy.”
“It has.”
“Interesting.”
His hand caught mine.
“Clara.”
I looked away.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say anything about last night.”
“Why?”
“Because you were unconscious.”
“Apparently not enough.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m moving to another country.”
“Which one?”
“One without Romanos.”
“That significantly reduces your options.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
For several seconds the room became almost normal.
Then Vincent returned.
“Marcus Dane is dead.”
“You verified it?”
“DNA.”
“How?”
“Coast Guard recovered remains three weeks after the boat explosion. Identification was confirmed again during an insurance dispute.”
“So Julian used his identity.”
“Yes.”
“Why Marcus?”
Vincent placed a document on the table.
“Because Dane founded the estate security network.”
Alexander stared.
“Meaning?”
“He created the master access architecture.”
Every electronic lock.
Every camera.
Every hidden maintenance route.
Marcus’s credentials, if preserved somewhere, could bypass them.
“Julian found them,” Alexander said.
“Probably through his father’s files.”
Vincent nodded.
“That explains the cameras.”
“And the communication shutdown.”
“Yes.”
“What doesn’t it explain?”
“The helicopter.”
They located the pilot ninety minutes later.
Alive.
Bound inside an abandoned boathouse three miles from the estate.
Julian had forced him to fly toward Manhattan, then return remotely using an autopilot route.
A second boat had been waiting offshore.
By the time police reached the location, it was gone.
Julian Rook had escaped Long Island.
But he had not taken the most important thing with him.
Alexander was alive.
The emergency transfer had failed.
At four that afternoon the Romano board assembled by encrypted video.
Alexander appeared for less than three minutes.
Pale.
Weak.
Furious.
“I remain chairman,” he said.
Sebastian sat beside him.
“And any document bearing my signature or company seal from the past twenty-four hours is invalid pending investigation.”
The directors agreed unanimously.
Julian’s access was terminated.
Accounts frozen.
Authorities notified.
For the first time since discovering the pills, I believed we had won.
Then Alexander’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His face changed.
“Put it on speaker.”
A distorted voice filled the room.
“Alexander.”
Nobody moved.
Alexander recognized it.
I saw that immediately.
“Julian.”
“You look healthier than expected.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Surprised.”
“You drugged me.”
“You have no proof.”
“Then why call?”
A pause.
“To remind you that your father made the same mistake you’re making now.”
“And what mistake is that?”
“Believing the danger was inside his house.”
Alexander’s expression tightened.
Julian continued.
“It wasn’t.”
The call ended.
Vincent immediately tried tracing it.
Impossible.
Sebastian frowned.
“What did he mean?”
Alexander looked at the documents from Lorenzo’s safe.
Then at Keller.
Then at me.
“He means the Romano estate was never the target.”
“What was?”
“My father’s company.”
Vincent suddenly understood.
“Accounts.”
Alexander nodded.
“While we’ve been searching bedrooms and security cameras, Julian has been moving money.”
They checked.
At first, everything appeared normal.
Then an analyst found twelve dormant subsidiaries activated at midnight.
Transfers scheduled.
Not millions.
Hundreds of millions.
At six that evening, funds would move automatically through foreign accounts.
Once dispersed, recovering them would be nearly impossible.
The drugging.
The board meeting.
The fake medicine.
The fire.
They were never separate crimes.
They were all part of one machine.
Alexander had been weakened so Julian could seize legal authority long enough to approve transactions.
When that failed, the automated transfers continued anyway.
“How long?” Sebastian asked.
Vincent looked at his watch.
“Forty-three minutes.”
Alexander tried standing.
I blocked him.
“Where are you going?”
“To the operations room.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“You’re barely conscious.”
“My company is being robbed.”
“And it will still be robbed if you collapse halfway down the stairs.”
Sebastian stared at us.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
Alexander glared.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I finally found someone you can’t intimidate.”
I looked at Sebastian.
“Please don’t encourage him.”
For the first time, the two Romano men smiled at the same time.
It lasted only a second.
Because Vincent’s phone buzzed.
He read the message.
His face hardened.
“What now?” Alexander asked.
Vincent turned the screen.
A photograph had been sent from Julian’s number.
It showed a woman tied to a chair.
Behind her was a clock.
The woman was Dr. Keller’s daughter.
And beneath the photograph were six words:
May you like
STOP THE TRANSFER, AND SHE DIES.
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