Chapter 4 - The Watch That Was Never Really Missing
Thomas Vale lived forty-two floors above Manhattan.
That was the first thing Clara learned about him.
The second was that he owned three construction companies, two consulting firms, a house in Connecticut, and enough political connections to make ordinary people wait months for permits he could apparently receive with one phone call.
The third was that Thomas Vale had disappeared.
By two in the morning, his apartment was empty.
His phone had been turned off.
His driver had not heard from him.
His wife claimed he was attending a conference in Boston, except the hotel had no reservation under his name.
Moretti stood near the windows of Alessandro's Park Avenue apartment, talking quietly into his phone.
Clara sat at the dining table with an ice pack against her cheek.
Her father placed tea beside her.
“I didn't ask for tea.”
“You never do.”
She glanced at him.
“Still chamomile?”
“You haven't changed that much.”
“Apparently everything else is being monitored closely enough.”
Alessandro sat across from her.
He looked tired.
Not physically.
Older in a way she had not noticed when he first arrived.
“I'm sorry.”
Clara blinked.
The words were rare enough from her father that they deserved attention.
“For what?”
“For watching from a distance after you asked me not to.”
“You said you weren't watching me.”
“I said we were watching Cross.”
“Who was watching me.”
“Yes.”
“That's the same thing when you're the person being watched.”
“I know.”
She lowered the ice pack.
“Do you?”
Alessandro nodded.
“I didn't when you were eighteen.”
That surprised her.
When Clara had left home, she and her father had screamed at each other in his library.
She had called him controlling.
He had called her naive.
She had accused him of using love as an excuse to decide everything.
He had told her the world did not care whether she wanted danger to exist.
The next morning she left.
They had barely spoken for eight months.
Eventually birthdays became phone calls.
Holidays became short dinners.
Love remained.
Trust did not.
“Why did Cross ask about me?” she asked.
“I don't know.”
“You have guesses.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
Alessandro looked toward Moretti.
“He may believe you know something.”
“I was a child when any of this happened.”
“Not about the warehouse.”
“Then what?”
Alessandro hesitated.
“Your mother.”
Clara's expression changed.
Her mother, Isabella, had died when Clara was fourteen.
Cancer.
Eight months from diagnosis to funeral.
She had been the only person capable of telling Alessandro Viti to leave a room and expecting him to obey.
“What did Mom have to do with Carlo Moretti?”
“She knew him.”
Clara stared.
“How?”
“Before she married me, Isabella worked as a junior accountant for Moretti Shipping.”
Clara lowered the ice pack completely.
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.”
She laughed.
“That's your defense?”
“No.”
“Did Mom know Julian Cross?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“She worked beneath him.”
The room seemed smaller.
“Was she involved in the missing records?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
Alessandro's eyes met hers.
“I don't know everything.”
“But you know something.”
He opened his mouth.
Moretti ended his call.
“Vale's SUV was found.”
Clara looked at him.
“Where?”
“Battery Park.”
“Vale?”
“Not inside.”
Alessandro stood.
“Any signs of violence?”
“No.”
“Then assume he left voluntarily.”
Moretti nodded.
Clara looked between them.
“You two are disturbingly good at this.”
Neither answered.
Moretti pulled out a chair.
“Tell me exactly what you saw.”
Clara described table four.
The ledger.
The glasses.
Marco sitting near the aisle.
Thomas Vale across from Moretti.
Another man named Owen Kessler.
A woman from a real-estate investment firm.
“When your sleeve touched the ledger,” Moretti said, “where was the watch?”
“Near your right hand.”
“After I stopped you?”
Clara closed her eyes.
Reconstructed the scene.
She had poured.
Moved the glass.
Her sleeve touched leather.
Moretti grabbed her.
She looked at him.
Behind his shoulder—
Thomas Vale had leaned forward.
“For the ledger,” Clara said.
“What?”
“He reached across.”
“Could he have taken the watch?”
“Maybe.”
Moretti shook his head.
“I would have noticed.”
“You were looking at me.”
The words hung between them.
Moretti looked away first.
“Yes.”
Clara noticed the discomfort.
Good.
She wanted him to remember.
“What happened after I left?” she asked.
“Kessler took a call. Valerie Chen went to the restroom. Vale stayed. Marco stayed.”
“And you?”
“I stepped away for three minutes.”
“With the watch still there?”
“Yes.”
“When you came back?”
“I didn't notice until later.”
Clara leaned back.
“So four people had access.”
“Five including you.”
Her eyes sharpened.
Moretti corrected himself.
“Four people besides you.”
Better.
Samuel entered carrying a laptop.
“We pulled external traffic cameras near the club.”
“Marco?” Alessandro asked.
“Not yet.”
He placed the computer down.
“One interesting thing.”
Video showed Thomas Vale exiting the Sapphire Lounge at 10:48 p.m.
Seven minutes before Moretti publicly accused Clara.
Vale walked toward the curb.
Paused.
Then dropped something into a newspaper box.
A man in a delivery jacket approached thirty seconds later.
Removed the object.
Walked away.
Moretti leaned closer.
“Can you identify him?”
“Not yet.”
Clara pointed.
“Back up.”
Samuel rewound.
“Again.”
The video played.
Vale approached the box.
His coat shifted.
Something metallic flashed in his hand.
The watch.
Moretti whispered something under his breath.
“Thomas took it.”
“Looks that way,” Clara said.
Samuel zoomed.
Vale placed the object inside.
Then another camera angle showed the delivery man turning.
For one frame, his face was visible.
Alessandro leaned forward.
“That's not a courier.”
Moretti stared.
“You know him?”
“His name is Ethan Cross.”
“Julian's son?”
“Yes.”
Clara felt the entire puzzle change shape.
The theft hadn't been spontaneous.
Thomas Vale passed the watch to Julian Cross's son before anyone accused Clara.
Which meant someone had already known what would happen next.
“What time did Marco leave?” she asked.
Samuel checked.
“Eleven fourteen.”
“And the accusation?”
“Eleven oh-two.”
Clara stood.
“So Vale steals the watch before I'm accused. Marco waits until my father is called. Then Marco leaves and meets Julian wearing a copy.”
Moretti nodded.
“Two watches.”
“One real. One fake.”
Alessandro looked grim.
“A message.”
“What message?” Clara asked.
Moretti answered.
“That somebody can move pieces around us without being seen.”
Clara walked toward the window.
Below them, Manhattan continued as if nothing had changed.
Taxis.
Rain.
Traffic lights.
People heading home.
“I hate this.”
Her father stood beside her.
“I know.”
“I left because I didn't want every room to have hidden motives.”
“I know.”
“Yet here I am.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“I'm not going back.”
“To Westchester?”
“To your rules.”
Alessandro nodded.
“Then don't.”
Clara studied his face, uncertain whether she trusted the answer.
Moretti's phone rang again.
Unknown number.
Nobody spoke as he answered.
This time there was no recording.
A man spoke live.
“Vincenzo.”
Moretti's jaw tightened.
“Julian.”
Alessandro immediately reached for the speaker button.
Moretti activated it.
Julian Cross laughed softly.
“Alessandro. Still listening where you're not invited.”
“What do you want?” Alessandro asked.
“What I wanted twenty-three years ago.”
“The records are gone.”
“Records are never gone. They become leverage.”
Moretti stepped closer.
“You have my father's watch.”
“Yes.”
“What proof is inside?”
Julian paused.
Then laughed.
“You really don't know.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
Clara spoke.
“What do you want with me?”
Silence.
Julian hadn't expected her voice.
“Isabella's daughter.”
“Answer me.”
“You sound like your mother.”
Her skin prickled.
“You knew her.”
“I knew what she did.”
Alessandro's face changed.
“Julian.”
“Did you never tell her, Alessandro?”
“Don't.”
Clara stepped forward.
“Tell me what?”
Julian answered.
“Your mother is the reason the original evidence survived.”
Clara stared at her father.
He looked stricken.
Julian continued.
“And she left the key with you.”
The line went dead.
Clara stood motionless.
Then she turned toward Alessandro.
“What key?”
Her father did not answer.
“Dad.”
Nothing.
Clara's voice sharpened.
“What did Mom leave me?”
Alessandro finally looked at her.
“A music box.”
Clara froze.
She knew exactly which one.
Small.
Walnut wood.
Silver ballerina.
Her mother's favorite possession.
Clara had packed it when she left Westchester.
For four years it had sat on a shelf in her tiny Queens apartment.
The same apartment someone had been watching.
Clara grabbed her coat.
Alessandro stood.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“If the key Julian wants is inside that music box, then someone else may already be looking for it.”
Samuel reached for his phone.
“I'll send a team.”
Clara was already moving toward the door.
“No.”
Moretti followed.
“Clara.”
She turned.
For the first time since the Sapphire Lounge, his voice held no command.
Only urgency.
“If they know about the box, your apartment may not be empty.”
Clara looked at him.
Then at her father.
Two men who had spent their lives believing they protected people by controlling every risk.
“Fine,” she said.
“You come.”
Alessandro nodded.
Clara pointed at Moretti.
“You don't.”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“Because somebody wanted you and my father in the same room.”
She opened the door.
“And until we know why, I don't intend to give them exactly what they want.”
But when Clara reached Queens twenty-five minutes later, she discovered they were already too late.
Her apartment door was open.
Nothing had been stolen.
Nothing except the walnut music box.
May you like
And on her kitchen table sat Vincenzo Moretti's missing platinum watch.
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