Chapter 6 - THE FIFTY MINUTES NOBODY COULD EXPLAIN
"Your brother may not have died when the police said he did."
I regretted the words the moment Adele looked at me.
She stood beside the library desk, holding Rafael's old wristwatch.
I'd seen that watch before.
A stainless-steel military model with a cracked crystal and a brown leather strap.
Rafael Torres had worn it every day.
Now Adele held it like the last piece of her brother she could still protect.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
I pointed to the accident report she'd retrieved from our archives.
"The police placed the crash at 9:06 p.m. That's when Gordon reported it."
Adele nodded slowly.
"That's what they told us."
"But Tomas's photograph shows Beaumont's truck entering the garage at 6:18. We know the alternate SUV departed the property shortly afterward."
"That doesn't prove the crash happened earlier."
"No. But something else might."
I turned my attention to the watch.
Its hands had stopped at 8:17.
Adele had always assumed the impact broke it.
Yet the official report said the collision occurred almost fifty minutes later.
"Mechanical watches can stop for other reasons," she said.
"I know. We need more than that."
For once, I wasn't asking anyone to believe me because I was Daniel Harrison.
I wanted proof.
Something I could place before a judge without threatening anyone.
That change felt unfamiliar.
Adele noticed.
"I know a detective who might help."
"Who?"
"Sofia Grant. She worked your accident before the department closed the case."
"I remember her."
"She wasn't satisfied with the investigation. She asked to examine the vehicle again, but the request was denied."
"By whom?"
"Someone above her."
I looked at Gordon's payroll records.
A familiar pattern.
Everywhere we turned, someone had persuaded another person to stop asking questions.
By noon, Detective Grant was sitting across from me in my study.
She was in her late forties, with tired eyes and the steady expression of someone who'd spent too many years listening to powerful men lie.
"I'm not here to do you favors, Harrison," she said.
"Good."
She glanced at my wheelchair.
"Three years ago, you refused to answer half my questions."
"Three years ago, I thought my own mechanic tried to murder me."
"And now?"
"Now I think I helped destroy an innocent man's reputation."
That got her attention.
I showed her the photographs, the assembled vehicle authorization, and the funeral transport receipt.
Grant examined each item without speaking.
Then she looked at Maria.
"Mrs. Reyes, did you ever make a formal statement about your husband's disappearance?"
"I tried."
"What happened?"
"A man at the police station told me the case was closed. He said fighting it would only make things harder for my daughter."
Grant's jaw tightened.
"Do you remember his name?"
Maria nodded.
She wrote it down.
Grant studied the paper.
Then she said, "That officer was assigned to the supplemental accident investigation."
My stomach turned.
"Was he working for Gordon?"
"I don't know. And I'm not making that accusation without evidence."
I respected her for saying it.
She opened her laptop.
"There's something from the original file that always bothered me."
She displayed a dispatch summary.
A witness driving near Carrow Lake had reported seeing a damaged SUV on the lakeside road at 8:21 p.m.
The call had been classified as unrelated.
Four minutes later, the witness called again.
The second entry read:
Vehicle partially submerged. Possible occupants.
Adele made a small sound.
I looked at her.
Her face had gone white.
"Rafael could have been alive."
Nobody answered.
Grant continued quietly.
"Gordon Pryce's emergency call wasn't logged until 9:06."
"Forty-five minutes later," I whispered.
She nodded.
"That delay was never satisfactorily explained."
I could barely breathe.
For three years, I'd believed my bodyguards died instantly.
Their families had been told the same thing.
Now we had evidence someone might have left them trapped beside that lake.
Adele put the watch on my desk.
"I want to know who waited."
"So do I."
That afternoon, we searched the old vehicle-dispatch records.
Most had been erased during a supposed software upgrade after the crash.
But one printed maintenance log had survived in a separate equipment file.
It recorded an emergency roadside assistance request from a Beaumont Outreach Services vehicle near Carrow Lake.
Time: 8:24 p.m.
Caller identification: G. Pryce.
I stared at the page.
Gordon had been near the lake while my men were possibly dying.
And he'd waited more than forty minutes to report the crash.
Then Grant read the final line of the record.
Her expression changed.
"Daniel, there's something worse."
"What?"
She turned the document toward me.
The assistance request had been canceled seven minutes later.
Beside the cancellation was a handwritten instruction:
No rescue units. Private recovery authorized.
May you like
And beneath it, in Gordon's unmistakable handwriting, were three words.
Harrison still breathing.
