Chapter 6 - The Man Who Fixed Problems
I drove out of the garage fast enough to make Vanessa grab the door handle.
The dark sedan followed.
“Left,” she said.
“I can see it.”
“Then lose him.”
“This isn’t a movie.”
“He’s not following us for fun.”
I took the next ramp toward Route 7 and merged into traffic. The sedan stayed three cars behind.
“Who is driving?” I asked.
Vanessa twisted around.
“I can’t see.”
“Is it Cross?”
“Maybe.”
“Helpful.”
“I said maybe.”
I changed lanes twice. The sedan changed lanes twice.
My phone rang again.
Dad.
I ignored it.
Then Mom.
Ignored.
Then an unknown number.
Vanessa stared at the screen.
“Don’t.”
I answered through the car speakers.
“Evelyn Whitmore?” a man asked.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Daniel Reese. I’m with First Commonwealth Bank’s internal investigations unit.”
My heart sank.
“What can I do for you?”
“I need to speak with you regarding accounts associated with ECW Consulting Group.”
Vanessa whispered a curse.
I muted the call.
“This is happening now?”
She nodded. “Dad said the structure was under pressure.”
I unmuted.
“Mr. Reese, I’m driving. Can you email me?”
“We have emailed you several times.”
“I haven’t received anything.”
“At [email protected].”
“That is not my email address.”
Silence.
“Ms. Whitmore, I think we need to speak in person.”
“I agree.”
“We have questions concerning several transfers originating from accounts held by the late Ruth Whitmore.”
“Do not discuss details with anyone claiming to represent me.”
“Understood.”
“Can you send a meeting request to my verified work address? I’ll provide it.”
I dictated my real address.
He repeated it back.
Then he said, “One more thing. We received a signed statement yesterday from your father’s counsel indicating you have had exclusive operational control of ECW Consulting Group since 2017.”
I nearly laughed.
“Yesterday?”
“Yes.”
Grandma had been dead four days.
Dad had moved immediately.
“Who sent it?”
“I can’t disclose that until we authenticate your identity.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
The call ended.
Vanessa looked sick.
“He’s activating the frame.”
“I know.”
The sedan moved closer.
“Take the next exit,” Vanessa said.
“Why?”
“There’s a police station two miles off.”
I looked at her.
“That’s actually a good idea.”
“Try not to sound shocked.”
We pulled into the station lot.
The sedan continued past.
Vanessa exhaled.
I parked.
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
Then I asked, “Where is your copy?”
“My condo.”
“Let’s go.”
“No.”
I turned to her.
“Again?”
“My condo is the first place Dad would search.”
“Then where?”
She bit her lip.
“Grandma moved it.”
“You said it was in your safe.”
“I said safe. Not my safe.”
I stared.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m terrified.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
She looked toward the station entrance.
“Grandma rented a safe-deposit box under a company name.”
“What company?”
“Blue Heron Antiques.”
I remembered the brass bird inlaid into the music box.
“Heron.”
“Yes.”
“What bank?”
“Not a bank. A private vault company in Georgetown.”
“Access?”
“She gave me a key and a password.”
“Do you have the key?”
Vanessa reached into her coat and pulled out a tiny silver key attached to a chain around her neck.
“Yes.”
We drove separately.
The vault company occupied the basement of a discreet brownstone near the waterfront. No sign advertised what it was. A brass plaque beside the door read HERITAGE STORAGE & CUSTODY.
Inside, a gray-haired woman sat behind bulletproof glass.
Vanessa gave her name.
The woman checked a ledger.
“Password?”
Vanessa swallowed.
“Ruth never forgot.”
The woman looked at me.
“And the second person?”
“What second person?”
“The access note requires two people after the account holder’s death. Vanessa Diane Whitmore and Evelyn Claire Whitmore.”
I stared at my sister.
She looked equally surprised.
The woman asked for my identification.
Ten minutes later, we were escorted into a private room.
The box was long, black, and heavier than expected.
Vanessa inserted her key.
The clerk used a second key.
Then left.
Inside was a thick envelope, a flash drive, three photographs, and an old cassette tape.
I opened the envelope first.
The “confession” was there.
Two pages.
My name.
My forged signature.
It stated I had created ECW Consulting to “restructure family assets outside conventional estate channels” and had directed transfers totaling $23.4 million.
It claimed Dad had confronted me.
It claimed he had tried to stop me.
It painted Richard Whitmore as the horrified father of a criminal daughter.
“Unbelievable.”
“Keep reading,” Vanessa said.
At the bottom was a witness signature.
Diane Whitmore.
Our mother.
I stared at it.
“She signed this?”
Vanessa nodded.
“She watched him frame me?”
“I don’t know what she thought she was signing.”
“Stop protecting her.”
“I’m not.”
“You always do.”
“No, Evelyn. You always assume Mom is weak. She’s not.”
The words landed strangely.
“What does that mean?”
Vanessa pointed to the flash drive.
“Grandma told me not to open that without you.”
I inserted it into the cheap laptop.
One folder.
MOTHER.
Inside were bank statements.
Not Dad’s.
Mom’s.
Transfers from accounts I didn’t recognize.
Payments to Charles Baines.
Payments to Julian Cross.
Payments to a corporation called Northstar Recovery Services.
My chest tightened.
“How much did Mom know?”
Vanessa whispered, “Maybe more than Dad.”
The cassette tape was labeled MARCH 12.
The vault company had an old tape player for clients.
We requested it.
When the tape began, static filled the room.
Then Grandma’s voice.
“I am recording this conversation with the consent of Melissa Grant.”
A second woman spoke.
“Do you want me to start from the beginning?”
“Yes.”
Melissa’s voice trembled.
“Diane was the one who showed Richard how to move the money.”
I stopped breathing.
“She created the first shell company. Richard wanted to borrow against the properties. Diane said borrowing left too much paperwork. She said if Ruth never saw the transfers, ownership could be moved quietly.”
Vanessa covered her mouth.
The tape continued.
Grandma asked, “And Evelyn?”
“She had nothing to do with it.”
“Why is her name on the documents?”
“Because Diane said Evelyn was perfect.”
My stomach turned.
Grandma’s voice sharpened.
“Perfect for what?”
Melissa answered.
“To blame.”
The tape clicked.
Then another voice entered in the background.
A man.
“Melissa?”
She gasped.
The recording jolted.
Grandma said, “Who is that?”
Melissa whispered, “He found me.”
There was a crash.
The tape ended.
Vanessa and I stared at each other.
Then someone knocked on the vault-room door.
Three slow knocks.
A man’s voice came through.
“Ms. Whitmore?”
I recognized it from nowhere.
Vanessa recognized it from somewhere.
May you like
Her face drained.
“That’s Julian Cross.”
