Chapter 4 - THE FIFTEEN MINUTES THAT DISAPPEARED
“The records say Isabella was already dead.”
Vincent stood beside his office window, gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles whitened.
Daniel repeated the information.
“The police collision report lists 8:31 p.m. The parking garage records show Mrs. Moretti's license plate entering at 8:46.”
“Could the timestamp be wrong?”
“Possibly. We're verifying it against an independent payment processor and a nearby traffic camera archive.”
Vincent looked at Isabella's photograph on his desk.
For three years, he had visited her grave every Sunday.
He had spoken to the marble headstone because he believed there were no more questions to ask.
Now every answer created another.
“What about the crash reconstruction?” Vincent demanded.
“The original investigator retired eighteen months ago. His name is Detective Paul Mercer.”
“Find him.”
“We have an address.”
“Then we'll speak to him.”
Daniel hesitated.
“Before that, you need to see something Adrian left behind.”
Twenty minutes later, Daniel placed a faded brown envelope on Vincent's desk.
It contained three photographs.
The first showed Isabella's black Mercedes parked inside a concrete garage.
The second showed a man standing near its driver-side door.
The third showed the same man getting into a dark sedan.
Vincent recognized him immediately.
Adrian.
His own cousin.
On the back of the photographs, someone had written:
YOU WERE WARNED. RETURN WHAT YOU TOOK.
Vincent looked up.
“Where did you find these?”
“In Adrian's desk drawer, beneath a false bottom in his stationery tray.”
“Who wrote the warning?”
“We don't know.”
Vincent examined the third photograph.
Adrian was wearing a charcoal coat.
The same coat Lily had described.
But something else caught his attention.
A silver wristwatch.
Adrian had inherited it from his father.
Vincent remembered the watch because Adrian had worn it to Isabella's funeral.
He had never taken it off.
Until six months earlier.
Vincent called Emma at the hospital.
“How's Lily?”
“She ate breakfast. She's coloring.”
“Good. Emma, I need to ask about your aunt.”
“Margaret?”
“Yes. Is she still in Chicago?”
“She's living in Evanston with her sister.”
“Will she speak with me?”
Emma was quiet.
Then she said, “She might. But you need to understand something.”
“What?”
“She was terrified after Mrs. Moretti died.”
Vincent looked at the photographs.
“Of Adrian?”
“Not just Adrian.”
That afternoon, Vincent went to Margaret Bennett's modest brick house.
He brought Emma, after Lily's doctors confirmed the child was stable and Emma's neighbor agreed to continue caring for Noah.
Margaret opened the door wearing a lavender cardigan.
Her face changed when she saw Vincent.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Margaret.”
She looked past him toward Emma.
“You shouldn't have brought him.”
“Aunt Maggie, he needs to know.”
Margaret hesitated before stepping aside.
The living room smelled faintly of coffee and furniture polish.
Photographs of grandchildren lined the mantel.
Vincent noticed a framed picture of Margaret with Isabella in the estate garden.
“You kept her photograph,” he said quietly.
Margaret looked at it.
“She was kind to me.”
Vincent sat across from her.
“I failed her, didn't I?”
Margaret's expression softened.
“You were grieving.”
“Before she died, I was distracted. Angry. I didn't listen.”
Margaret folded her hands.
“Mrs. Moretti came into the kitchen four days before the crash. She was carrying that brown leather folder.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“She told me she'd discovered money moving through the company's accounts. Millions of dollars. She believed Adrian was hiding losses.”
“Did she tell you who else was involved?”
Margaret nodded.
“Charles Whitmore.”
Vincent felt a cold familiarity settle over him.
“And his daughter?”
“I didn't hear her name. But Mrs. Moretti showed me a photograph of Adrian meeting two people at a restaurant. Mr. Whitmore was one of them.”
“What did Isabella want you to do?”
“She asked me to keep an envelope safe. She said if anything happened to her, I should give it directly to you.”
Vincent's voice grew rough.
“Where is it?”
Margaret's eyes filled.
“I tried.”
She rose and opened a small drawer beneath the mantel.
Inside lay a cream envelope bearing Vincent's name in Isabella's handwriting.
“I gave this to Adrian after the funeral,” Margaret said. “He returned it two days later, unopened. Told me it was too painful for you.”
Vincent stared.
“Why didn't you come to me yourself?”
“Because Adrian told me I'd lose my pension. Then a man followed me home.”
Emma reached for her aunt's hand.
Margaret continued.
“He knew where my grandchildren went to school. He told me to stop asking questions.”
Vincent lowered his head.
His cousin had used his family’s power to frighten a woman who had served them faithfully for eleven years.
“I am sorry,” Vincent said.
Margaret nodded once.
“Being sorry is a beginning, Mr. Moretti. It isn't the end.”
He accepted the envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
Vincent,
If you're reading this, I wasn't able to explain everything myself.
Adrian has been moving money without your permission. Charles Whitmore is involved. I found evidence that the Northbridge acquisition is designed to leave our family responsible for debts that don't belong to us.
Please don't confront anyone until you've checked the accounts independently.
And please, whatever happens, protect Lily from the people who claim they're protecting our family.
Vincent paused.
The final paragraph was written more heavily, as though Isabella had pressed her pen against the paper.
There is one thing I haven't told you because I don't know how to explain it without hurting you. The night I discovered the missing money, I learned someone in our family had been lying to us for years.
Ask Adrian about the gray coat. He'll know what I mean.
Vincent slowly lowered the letter.
Margaret was watching him.
“She knew something about Adrian's coat?”
Margaret nodded.
“She said he wore it the night he threatened her.”
Vincent looked at the photographs again.
The coat appeared in all three.
“Did Isabella tell you what the threat was?”
Margaret hesitated.
“She said Adrian warned that if she exposed the financial records, she'd destroy more than the company.”
“What did he mean?”
Margaret's eyes filled.
“He said Vincent Moretti would lose his daughter.”
Vincent stood abruptly.
Emma reached toward him.
“Mr. Moretti—”
He turned away, fighting to control his anger.
Someone had threatened Isabella with Lily.
His little girl had been five years old.
Had Isabella spent her final days wondering whether anyone could protect her child?
He looked back at Margaret.
“One more question. Did Isabella ever mention Detective Mercer?”
Margaret stared.
“How do you know that name?”
“He investigated her accident.”
Margaret slowly sat down.
“Then you need to know why she was going to meet him.”
Vincent froze.
“Meet him?”
Margaret nodded.
“Detective Mercer wasn't assigned to her case by chance.”
She opened the drawer again and removed a small blue appointment card.
The card bore the logo of a private consulting office.
At the bottom were the words:
PAUL MERCER — FRIDAY, 8:45 P.M. — LEVEL THREE PARKING.
Vincent stared at the appointment.
Friday.
The night Isabella died.
May you like
Margaret whispered:
“Your wife wasn't driving home when she crashed, Mr. Moretti. She was going to meet the detective who later declared her death an accident.”
