Chapter 6 - THE SECRET BEHIND VICTOR DELUCA
I spent the next hour answering questions I couldn’t answer.
Had I worked for DeLuca Holdings?
No.
Had any family member?
I didn’t think so.
Did I know Thomas Vale?
No.
Had I ever visited Caldwell Global headquarters?
No.
Had I worked anywhere connected to the East River property?
No.
Detective Alvarez kept returning to one question.
“Your father.”
I stiffened.
“What about him?”
“Name?”
“Gabriel Martinez.”
“Occupation?”
“Construction electrician.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere. Union jobs mostly.”
“When did he die?”
“Seven years ago.”
“How?”
The question still hurt.
Even after seven years.
“Work accident.”
Victor, sitting across the room, became very still.
Alvarez noticed.
“Where?”
I tried remembering the official name.
“Some redevelopment project near the East River.”
Victor looked at me.
“What year?”
“2019.”
“What month?”
“October.”
His expression changed.
Rachel saw it too.
“Victor?”
He stood.
“Gabriel Martinez.”
He repeated my father’s name as if searching his memory.
Then he walked toward the window.
“What?”
I asked.
Victor turned.
“The East River site.”
My throat tightened.
“What about it?”
“Your father worked there.”
“You knew him?”
“No.”
“But?”
Victor looked toward Alvarez.
“I need access to my legal archive.”
Alvarez frowned.
“For what?”
“Worker incidents connected to DeLuca Infrastructure.”
Twenty minutes later, Victor’s legal department sent a file.
Gabriel Martinez.
Electrician.
Subcontractor.
Incident date: October 18, 2019.
I couldn’t breathe.
I knew the report existed.
I had never seen it.
My mother had handled everything.
Lawyers.
Insurance.
Funeral.
I had been nineteen and angry at the entire world.
Victor read silently.
His jaw tightened.
“What?”
I demanded.
“Tell me.”
He handed the document to Rachel.
She scanned it.
Then looked at me carefully.
“The official report says your father fell from a temporary electrical platform after a safety barrier failed.”
“I know.”
“His employer was North Harbor Electrical.”
“Yes.”
Rachel pointed lower.
“North Harbor was subcontracted by Vale Construction Management.”
Thomas Vale.
The room tilted.
“No.”
Victor’s face was grim.
“At the time, Thomas Vale ran construction operations for my company.”
My chest tightened.
“You said he was your CFO.”
“Later.”
“So my father worked under him?”
“Indirectly.”
I stood.
“Did you know about the accident?”
Victor didn’t answer quickly enough.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
The word struck me harder than expected.
“You knew my father died?”
“I knew a subcontractor employee died.”
“That employee had a name.”
“I know that now.”
Anger rose hot and immediate.
“You owned the company.”
“Yes.”
“You signed the checks.”
“Yes.”
“My father died on your project.”
“Yes.”
I hated how calmly he admitted it.
“Why didn’t I know this?”
“Because your father wasn’t directly employed by us.”
“That’s convenient.”
“Anna—”
“No.”
I stepped backward.
“You stood up in that restaurant like some hero.”
“I never said I was.”
“You paid my hospital bill.”
“Because I wanted to help.”
“Maybe because you felt guilty.”
“I didn’t know who your father was.”
“How am I supposed to believe you?”
The room went quiet.
Victor didn’t defend himself.
That somehow made me angrier.
Alvarez finally spoke.
“We need to understand why Gabriel Martinez connects to DM-17.”
Victor looked at him.
“Pull the internal investigation.”
“You have it?”
“Archived.”
Victor called his office.
Documents arrived forty minutes later.
DM-17 began eighteen months ago after an auditor discovered thirty-two million dollars transferred through three construction subsidiaries.
One was Vale Construction Management.
Another had operated the East River project where my father died.
Rachel read rapidly.
“The money moved between 2018 and 2020.”
Victor nodded.
“Thomas explained them as supplier advances.”
“But they weren’t?”
“We couldn’t prove what they were.”
“Then the money returned.”
“Yes.”
Alvarez asked, “Why fire Vale if the money returned?”
“Because someone who moves thirty-two million dollars without authorization doesn’t get to keep working for me.”
Reasonable.
But something bothered me.
“What does my dad have to do with it?”
Nobody knew.
Until Rachel reached an appendix.
She stopped.
“Anna.”
“What?”
“Your father filed a safety complaint.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Three weeks before his death.”
I grabbed the paper.
Gabriel Martinez had reported irregular electrical work inside a secured basement section of the East River property.
Unauthorized nighttime crews.
Unregistered equipment.
Alterations to utility conduits.
My father believed workers were bypassing safety protocols.
He had emailed a supervisor.
Thomas Vale.
The complaint was marked resolved.
No action required.
Three weeks later my father died.
My hands started shaking.
“Why did nobody tell us?”
Victor looked furious.
“I never saw this.”
“Convenient again.”
“No.”
For the first time, his voice rose.
“Not convenient.”
He controlled himself immediately.
“If this reached me seven years ago, Thomas Vale would have been gone seven years ago.”
“How do I know that?”
“You don’t.”
That answer stopped me.
He continued.
“You shouldn’t trust me because I stood up in a restaurant. You shouldn’t trust me because I paid a hospital bill. You should verify everything.”
He pushed the investigation file toward me.
“So verify it.”
Rachel watched him carefully.
Alvarez turned another page.
“What was in the basement?”
Victor shook his head.
“The development was partially demolished after financing collapsed.”
“Who purchased the adjacent property?”
An officer searched.
His eyebrows rose.
“Caldwell Urban Partners.”
Everybody looked at each other.
Richard Caldwell.
The connection was getting tighter.
My father reports unauthorized activity.
He dies.
Thomas Vale later moves millions through related subsidiaries.
Vale gets fired.
Vale meets Richard Caldwell.
Victor’s signature appears on a document transferring the East River property to Caldwell interests.
And somehow my name appears in a file marked possible witness.
“But I don’t know anything,” I said.
Rachel looked thoughtful.
“Maybe they think you have something.”
“I don’t.”
“What happened to your father’s belongings?”
“At home.”
“After he died?”
“My mom kept most of them.”
“Tools? Papers? Computer?”
I stopped.
Laptop.
A battered gray laptop my father used constantly.
“My mother has his computer.”
Alvarez sat forward.
“Where?”
“Her house in New Jersey.”
Victor immediately reached for his phone.
I pointed at him.
“No.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“No private army.”
“I was going to arrange security.”
“We call the police.”
Victor lowered the phone.
“Fine.”
Alvarez arranged for local officers to meet us.
I called my mother.
“Mom.”
“Anna! Are you okay? I saw the fire—”
“I’m okay.”
I tried sounding calm.
“Do you still have Dad’s old laptop?”
Silence.
“Why?”
“Just tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the closet.”
“Don’t touch it.”
“Anna, what is happening?”
“I’ll explain when I get there.”
Two hours later, Rachel and I arrived at my mother’s small house in Fort Lee accompanied by Detective Alvarez.
Victor remained in Manhattan.
I had asked him to.
My mother, Elena, opened the door and immediately hugged me.
Then she saw the detective.
“What happened?”
We explained enough.
Not everything.
When I mentioned my father’s safety complaint, her face changed.
“You knew?”
I asked.
She sat slowly.
“Your father was scared.”
I felt cold.
“Of what?”
“He said people were using the construction site at night.”
“What people?”
“He didn’t know.”
“Why didn’t you tell investigators?”
“I did.”
Alvarez leaned forward.
“You told who?”
“Company lawyers.”
Victor’s company.
“What did they say?”
“That Gabriel had been confused about normal subcontractor operations.”
My anger returned.
“Do you remember the lawyer?”
“No.”
She looked down.
“But there was another man.”
“What man?”
“He came after the funeral.”
“Who?”
“He said he worked with your father.”
“Name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Mom, think.”
She closed her eyes.
“Thomas.”
My heartbeat stopped.
“Thomas Vale?”
Her eyes opened.
“Yes.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked whether Gabriel brought anything home from the site.”
Alvarez and I exchanged a look.
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because your father told me not to trust anyone from that company.”
A painful silence followed.
Then Mom stood.
“There’s something I never told you.”
She walked to the bedroom.
Returned carrying an old metal toolbox.
My father’s.
She opened it.
Screwdrivers.
Wire cutters.
Electrical meters.
And beneath the removable tray—
An envelope.
My name was written on it.
ANNA.
My hands trembled.
“When did he write this?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never opened it?”
“He told me if anything happened to him, it belonged to you.”
I stared at her.
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“You were nineteen.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“You were falling apart. I thought it was about work. I wanted you to move on.”
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a small brass key.
And a handwritten note.
Anna,
If anyone ever asks about East River, do not trust the company story.
Locker 314.
Penn Station.
I stared at the message.
Seven years.
For seven years, the answer had been sitting beneath my father’s tools.
Alvarez read the note.
“Penn Station doesn’t have public lockers anymore.”
“They did seven years ago,” Mom said.
Rachel called immediately.
Historical storage records.
Lost property transfers.
Renovation inventory.
It took six hours.
At 9:40 that night, Alvarez got an answer.
When Penn Station removed its old lockers, unclaimed secure items had been transferred to a private storage contractor in Queens.
Locker 314 had not been empty.
Its contents remained archived under the rental name.
Gabriel Martinez.
The storage company opened the sealed container under police supervision the next morning.
Inside were three things.
A notebook.
A portable hard drive.
And photographs.
Dozens of photographs.
Construction workers entering an underground utility tunnel.
Crates being moved after midnight.
Electrical systems my father had marked with red circles.
And one photograph that made Victor DeLuca sit down when he saw it.
Thomas Vale stood beside Richard Caldwell.
The picture had been taken seven years ago.
Not eighteen months.
Not Friday night.
Seven years earlier.
Richard and Thomas had known each other long before Victor fired him.
My father had discovered that connection.
And three weeks later, he was dead.
For the first time, Detective Alvarez used a word nobody had been willing to say before.
“Homicide.”
My mother began crying.
I couldn’t.
Not yet.
Because the portable drive contained hundreds of files.
And buried among them was an audio recording.
My father’s voice.
The last file was created the night before he died.
Its title contained only three words:
IF I AM RIGHT.
Alvarez pressed play.
May you like
My father began speaking.
And seven years after we buried him, Gabriel Martinez finally told us what he had discovered beneath the East River.
