Chapter 18 - THIS TIME I CALLED THE POLICE FIRST
Two years earlier, panic would have controlled me.
That night, it did not get the privilege.
I called Detective Morales before answering the message.
Then Martin.
Then Naomi.
Then Derek’s brokerage.
Then security.
I did not negotiate.
I did not threaten.
I did not drive toward a warehouse alone because movies had convinced me that courage meant behaving stupidly.
Police traced Derek’s phone.
Bridgeport.
Near Harbor Point.
Of course.
The second message arrived.
MIDNIGHT. APPROVE THE DEAL TOMORROW.
Detective Morales read it.
“Don’t respond.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
At 10:42 p.m., police found Derek.
Not in the warehouse shown in the picture.
Two blocks away.
He had escaped through a loading door after one of the men guarding him stepped outside to take a call.
The injuries looked worse than they were.
Cut eyebrow.
Bruised ribs.
Split lip.
No broken bones.
When I reached the emergency room, he was furious.
“At you?” I asked.
“At myself.”
“That’s healthier than usual.”
He laughed and immediately regretted it.
“Don’t make me laugh.”
I stood beside the bed.
“What happened?”
“I went to meet a client.”
“Alone.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m an idiot.”
“Excellent. Continue.”
“The client claimed he represented a buyer interested in the old parcel I sold.”
“You owned land beside my project.”
His expression shifted.
“I bought it years ago.”
“When?”
“Before the divorce.”
“Why didn’t I know?”
“I bought it through a small partnership.”
“Corporate money?”
“No.”
“Dirty money?”
“No.”
“Sabrina money?”
He almost smiled.
“No.”
“Then why hide it?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
That surprised me.
“Of owning land?”
“Of why I bought it.”
He looked down.
“When your father’s investments kept outperforming mine, I wanted one thing that was mine. Something Samuel hadn’t financed.”
Of course.
Pride again.
“I sold it after the divorce.”
“To Meridian.”
“I didn’t know. The buyer was an LLC.”
“For how much?”
“Six hundred thousand.”
Claire had estimated current strategic value above four million.
“They played you.”
“Yes.”
Derek looked at me.
“And I think that’s why they grabbed me tonight. They wanted you to believe I was involved.”
“What did they ask?”
“Whether Samuel left any Harbor Point records.”
My skin tightened.
“What did you say?”
“That I didn’t know.”
“Did they believe you?”
“No.”
He reached for the water.
His hand trembled.
“Then one of them said something.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘The old woman should have burned the boxes when we told her.’”
Evelyn.
I called her.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
Derek tried.
Nothing.
Police went to her townhouse.
Empty.
No signs of forced entry.
Her purse remained on the kitchen counter.
Her medication on the bathroom sink.
Her car in the garage.
On the dining table was one photograph.
Samuel Vance.
Charles Whitmore.
Veronica Hale.
Richard Lang.
And Evelyn.
She had been cropped out of the copy we found in Unit 117.
May you like
Written across her face in red ink:
SHE REMEMBERED TOO MUCH.
