Chapter 3 - THE CALL WARRICK NEVER TOLD HIM ABOUT
The floorboards came up at seven twenty-three.
Nathan remembered the time because Detective Whitaker Doyle arrived seven minutes later and immediately told everyone not to touch anything.
Nathan ignored him.
Beneath the boards was a cavity.
Inside lay a canvas satchel wrapped in plastic.
No bones.
No body.
Nathan had not realized he was expecting one until relief loosened something inside his chest.
Doyle put on gloves.
“You really know how to preserve a crime scene.”
“It’s my house.”
“It’s potentially my homicide scene.”
“Six years late.”
Doyle’s mouth tightened.
“Which is why I’d prefer not to make it seven.”
The satchel contained photographs.
Invoices.
A flash drive.
And an old spiral notebook filled with Lydia’s handwriting.
Nathan stood behind Doyle while he turned the pages.
Dates.
Container numbers.
Names.
Bank transfers.
Every entry appeared connected to the waterfront.
Doyle stopped at one line.
VANCE HARBOR—CONTAINER 1187—INSPECTION WAIVED.
Nathan saw it too.
Warrick cursed under his breath.
Doyle looked at Nathan.
“You want to explain?”
“My company processes thousands of containers.”
“With inspection waived?”
“Sometimes.”
“By whose authority?”
“Port authority, customs, federal exemptions.”
Doyle tapped Lydia’s note.
“This one was approved by Newport Deputy Chief Ronald Mercer.”
Nathan looked up.
Mercer was Doyle’s superior.
Doyle continued reading.
The next line was worse.
P. LYLE AUTHORIZATION.
Then:
M. VOSS—FINAL APPROVAL.
Doyle closed the notebook.
“We’re leaving.”
Nathan frowned.
“No.”
“This house isn’t secure.”
“My men are outside.”
“Your men are part of the problem.”
Nathan stepped toward him.
Doyle did not move.
“You think I’m involved?”
“I think your sister did.”
That landed harder.
Doyle pointed toward the recorder.
“She said people inside your organization couldn’t be trusted.”
Warrick spoke.
“She was right.”
Nathan turned.
Warrick sat near the fireplace.
Bloodless.
Exhausted.
Twenty years older than he had looked that morning.
“Explain.”
“In 2019, one of our security supervisors was selling access schedules.”
“Who?”
“Martin Keene.”
Nathan knew the name.
Keene had disappeared in 2020 after stealing from a sports-book operation in Providence.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I fired him.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I believed the leak ended with him.”
Nathan stared at Warrick.
“How many decisions have you made for me without telling me?”
Warrick stood.
“Enough to keep you alive.”
“And Lydia?”
That stopped him.
Nathan took a step closer.
“Did those decisions keep her alive?”
Warrick’s face hardened with pain.
“No.”
Doyle opened the notebook again.
“There’s an address.”
Nathan looked down.
A handwritten line appeared beneath the final entry.
ST. BRIGID—LOW TIDE—BELL.
No street.
No city.
Warrick knew immediately.
“The chapel.”
Nathan looked toward the windows.
The private stone chapel stood near the western edge of the estate overlooking the ocean.
Its small bell tower was visible above the trees.
Doyle shook his head.
“We wait until daylight.”
Nathan began walking.
“Nathan.”
He kept going.
Doyle caught his arm.
Nathan looked down at the detective’s hand.
Doyle released him.
“I’m trying to keep you from destroying evidence.”
“My sister left that message.”
“And whoever killed people here might still be watching.”
Nathan opened the front door.
“Then they can watch us find what they missed.”
The chapel smelled of wet stone and old wax.
Moonlight entered through cracked stained glass.
Rook came first.
The mastiff moved more slowly now.
Not afraid.
Remembering.
Nathan felt it.
The bell rope hung near the rear wall.
LOW TIDE—BELL.
Doyle examined the floor.
Warrick inspected the altar.
Nathan pulled the rope once.
The bell rang.
Rook’s head snapped toward the altar.
The sound rolled out over the cliffs.
Once.
Twice.
Then Nathan heard something beneath it.
A metallic vibration under the floor.
Doyle heard it too.
They moved the altar rug.
An iron ring was embedded in the stone.
Warrick lifted it.
A narrow stairwell descended into darkness.
Doyle stared at Nathan.
“You bought yourself a cheerful little vacation house.”
Nathan turned on his flashlight.
“Stay here if you’re afraid of ghosts.”
They descended.
The passage had been carved directly into the rock beneath the chapel.
Saltwater seeped through cracks.
The air smelled cold and mineral.
At the bottom stood an iron door.
Unlocked.
Behind it was a room no larger than a pantry.
Metal shelves lined the walls.
Most were empty.
Someone had searched the place.
Violently.
Boxes torn open.
Paper shredded.
A filing cabinet overturned.
But Rook moved toward a rusted pipe protruding from the wall.
He sniffed.
Then sat.
Nathan examined it.
The pipe was hollow.
Inside was a rolled plastic sleeve.
He removed it.
Doyle whispered something obscene.
It was a ledger.
Not Lydia’s notebook.
Older.
Professional.
Bound in black leather.
The first entry dated back to 1998.
Nathan opened it.
His father had been dead three years by then.
Yet the first familiar name belonged to someone Nathan knew from childhood.
Prescott Lyle’s father.
The second belonged to Malcolm Voss.
The third belonged to Ronald Mercer.
Page after page documented payments.
Politicians.
Judges.
Police officials.
Union representatives.
Developers.
Cargo inspectors.
Nathan understood immediately.
This was not merely bribery.
It was an insurance policy.
Whoever owned the ledger owned twenty-eight years of secrets.
Doyle read beside him.
“My father’s name is here.”
Nathan looked at him.
Doyle’s face had gone white.
“Where?”
Doyle pointed.
THOMAS DOYLE—$40,000.
Warrick moved closer.
Doyle turned the page.
Another entry.
THOMAS DOYLE—RETURNED FUNDS.
Another.
THOMAS DOYLE—THREATENING DISCLOSURE.
Then a final notation.
SEPTEMBER 12, 2019.
DOYLE HAS COPY.
Doyle backed away.
“My father died two months later.”
Nathan knew the story.
Detective Thomas Doyle had been found inside his car with enough fentanyl in his system to kill three men.
Ruled accidental overdose.
Whitaker Doyle’s voice became hollow.
“He didn’t use drugs.”
Nathan closed the ledger.
Now the mystery had another corpse.
A sound came from upstairs.
Soft.
A footstep.
Warrick looked toward the ceiling.
Nathan raised one finger.
Silence.
Then glass shattered above them.
Doyle reached for his weapon.
A gunshot ripped through the chapel.
Stone exploded beside Nathan’s head.
“Down!”
They dropped.
Another shot.
Then another.
Nathan pushed the ledger beneath his coat.
Warrick drew a pistol from behind his back.
Doyle stared at him.
“You brought a gun?”
Warrick gave him an almost offended look.
“I’m sixty-one, not stupid.”
They moved toward the stairs.
Rook suddenly lunged ahead.
“Rook!”
Nathan grabbed his collar.
The dog strained upward.
Another shot cracked.
Warrick jerked.
His shoulder slammed against the wall.
Nathan saw blood.
“Warrick.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shot.”
“I’ve been married. This is less painful.”
Even Doyle almost laughed.
Then Rook tore free.
He charged up the stairs.
Nathan followed.
By the time Nathan entered the chapel, the shooter was gone.
The side door stood open.
Rain swept across the stone floor.
Rook stood outside.
Not chasing.
Looking toward the trees.
Nathan ran to him.
Nothing moved.
Then his phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph had arrived.
Nathan opened it.
His blood turned cold.
The image showed him entering the chapel less than twenty minutes earlier.
Someone had been standing close enough to photograph his face.
Beneath the picture was a message.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT YOUR SISTER BURIED.
Nathan stared at the screen.
Another message appeared.
SHE SURVIVED ONCE.
A third followed.
SHE WON’T SURVIVE YOU LOOKING FOR HER AGAIN.
Nathan stopped breathing.
Warrick emerged behind him, one hand pressed against his bleeding shoulder.
“What is it?”
Nathan turned the phone around.
May you like
For the first time in six years, he had proof Lydia had survived the Ostrander fire.
And whoever had sent the message was speaking about her in the present tense.
