Chapter 8 - THE GHOST IN THE ARCHIVE
The revelation hit Larkin like an ice pick to the chest. He stepped back, staring at the paper in Penelope’s hand.
Marcus Steves. His father. The man who had handed Larkin the empire on his deathbed with a lecture on honor and family loyalty.
"My father died two years ago," Larkin said, his voice flat, trying to anchor himself against the sudden vertigo. "He was in hospice for six months before that."
"The authentication code was used eighteen months ago," Penelope said gently, watching the pain fracture his composed face. "Six months after his funeral."
Larkin snatched the paper. The strings of hexadecimal code were clear. The terminal ID was 001-ALPHA—the master computer inside his father’s private study at the family estate in Westchester, a room Larkin had kept locked and untouched since the burial.
"Someone has been using his terminal," Larkin whispered.
"Not just using it," Penelope said, stepping toward him, her hand touching his arm in quiet support. "Thomas didn't have the technical skill to route an encrypted signal through Westchester. Thomas was a blunt instrument. He thought he was playing chess, but someone else was moving the pieces."
Larkin closed his eyes, his mind racing through the members of his inner circle. If Thomas wasn't the mastermind, then Thomas was just the scapegoat. The real threat was still inside the family, waiting for the smoke to clear.
"We go to Westchester," Larkin said, his eyes snapping open with lethal clarity. "Tonight."
"Larkin, you haven't slept," Penelope protested softly.
"I won't sleep with a traitor sleeping in my father's house," he replied. He looked down at her bare feet and the torn hem of her four-thousand-dollar silk gown. "You don't have to come. You've done enough. You gave me the truth."
Penelope gave him a sharp, incredulous look. She bent down, picked up her steel-tipped heels, and slung them over her shoulder like a pair of boxing gloves.
"Mr. Steves," she said, her voice laced with dry irony, "you wouldn't know an encrypted boot sector if it bit you in the ankle. You need an accountant. Let me borrow a pair of your sweatpants."
An hour later, stripped of their gala armor, they sped north on the empty highway in Larkin's dark SUV. Penelope wore a pair of Larkin's rolled-up gray cotton pants and an oversized black cashmere sweater that swallowed her hands. Her dark bob was tousled, her makeup wiped clean, revealing the pale, sharp beauty underneath.
The Steves family estate was a sprawling Tudor mansion surrounded by fifty acres of dense, black woods. The gates were locked, but Larkin’s transponder opened them silently. The gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled up to the dark, imposing manor.
The house was cold, smelling of old leather, lemon wax, and dust. Larkin carried a heavy tactical flashlight in his left hand, his right hand resting inside his coat on the grip of his pistol. Penelope walked close beside him, her sneakers silent on the hardwood.
They climbed the grand staircase to the east wing, stopping before the heavy oak door of Marcus Steves's private study. The brass padlock Larkin had installed two years ago was still in place.
"It hasn't been broken," Larkin muttered, frowning.
"Check the floor," Penelope whispered, pointing her phone's flashlight at the base of the door.
In the fine layer of dust on the dark parquet, two distinct, fresh scuff marks showed where the door had been pushed open recently. Someone had a key to the padlock.
Larkin pulled his key from his ring, clicked open the padlock, and kicked the door inward, drawing his weapon in one fluid motion.
The beam of his flashlight swept the room.
The heavy mahogany desk sat in the center. The green banker's lamp was dark. The oil portrait of Marcus Steves stared down from the chimney breast with cold, painted eyes.
Nothing moved.
"The terminal," Penelope whispered, hurrying past him toward the computer hidden inside the vintage credenza.
She pressed the power switch. The dual monitors flared to life with a quiet hum, casting a cool blue glow across her face.
Penelope’s fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing the secondary login protocols with practiced ease. Larkin watched in amazement as lines of data cascaded down the screen.
"Here," she said after two minutes, her breath catching. "The connection log. The user logged in at 6:45 PM tonight. Just before the gala."
"What were they looking for?" Larkin demanded, leaning over her shoulder.
"They weren't looking," Penelope said, her eyes widening in horror as she read the transfer logs. "They were executing a total liquidation. Larkin... the Steves Syndicate operating accounts. The shipping contracts. The offshore reserves. All sixty million dollars."
"Where did it go?"
"To an account registered under a private trust in Zurich," Penelope whispered, pointing at the beneficiary name. "Look at the signatory."
Larkin leaned in. The name on the Zurich trust was not Marcus Steves. It was not Thomas Dixon.
The name was Elena Vance.
Larkin froze. He looked down at Penelope. "Elena Vance? Your mother?"
Penelope’s face turned paper-white. "My mother died of cancer seven years ago. I buried her in Queens."
Before Larkin could process the contradiction, a floorboard creaked in the dark hallway outside the study.
May you like
A quiet, dry voice spoke from the shadows of the doorway.
"You buried an empty casket, Penelope. Your mother was always far too clever to die of something as common as illness."
