Chapter 3 - The Thursday Medication
Vincent drew his weapon before the door opened.
The man outside was one of Gabriel’s guards.
His face was pale.
“Sir. We found something.”
Ten minutes later we were in the garage.
Gabriel’s black SUV stood beneath fluorescent lights.
The guard pointed beneath it.
“The brake line.”
A clean cut.
Repaired months earlier.
Gabriel stared at it.
The sniper attack had happened six months ago.
But two weeks before the shooting, Gabriel’s SUV had crashed through a gate after its brakes failed.
He had walked away.
Everyone had called it mechanical failure.
Now nobody spoke.
Gabriel finally looked at Vincent.
“Find out who serviced it.”
The answer arrived before breakfast.
A Moretti-owned garage.
The work order had been approved by Carmine.
Coincidence was becoming expensive.
But Gabriel refused to accuse his uncle.
Not yet.
“Evidence,” he said. “Not suspicion.”
So I collected evidence.
The mysterious blue capsule went to a private laboratory through a physician Vincent trusted.
The coffee sample went with it.
The results came back two days later.
The capsule contained a sedative.
The coffee contained the same drug in liquid form.
Not enough to kill Gabriel.
Enough to make him confused.
Drowsy.
Compliant.
Enough to make signatures easier.
Gabriel read the report twice.
Then he wheeled himself into his study and locked the door.
I let him stay there for an hour.
Then I knocked.
“Go away.”
“No.”
“Hannah.”
“You hired badly.”
Silence.
I opened the door.
He was staring at a photograph of himself and Carmine taken years earlier.
Gabriel was standing in it.
That hurt him more than he wanted anyone to know.
“My father died when I was twenty-two,” he said. “Carmine taught me everything afterward.”
“Maybe that’s why you don’t want this to be him.”
He looked at me.
“Careful.”
“I’m not accusing him.”
“You are.”
“I’m telling you wanting someone innocent doesn’t make them innocent.”
He looked back at the photograph.
Then quietly said, “And wanting someone guilty?”
“Doesn’t make them guilty either.”
That answer earned me a glance.
“Evidence,” I said.
He nodded.
“Evidence.”
We decided to give Carmine an opportunity.
The next Thursday, Gabriel pretended to drink the coffee.
An hour later he pretended to be heavily sedated.
I left the study.
Vincent hid in the adjoining room.
Carmine entered.
He stood beside Gabriel for nearly a minute.
Then he removed papers from his briefcase.
“Gabriel?”
No response.
Carmine put a pen into Gabriel’s hand.
My stomach turned.
“Sign here.”
Gabriel allowed his hand to fall.
Carmine sighed.
“You always were difficult.”
Then he took Gabriel’s thumb.
Pressed it against an ink pad.
And placed the print on a document.
My phone recorded everything from behind a bookshelf.
Carmine gathered the papers.
Before leaving, he leaned close to Gabriel.
“You should have died in the car.”
Gabriel’s eyes opened.
Carmine froze.
For one terrifying second, neither moved.
Then Gabriel smiled.
“Wrong nephew.”
Carmine lunged for the papers.
Vincent came through the adjoining door.
But Carmine was faster than I expected.
He shoved the desk into Vincent, grabbed the document, and ran.
I chased him.
Yes.
That was stupid.
I was wearing socks.
I slid around the corner, crashed into a table, recovered, and saw Carmine disappear through the west corridor.
He opened a locked door.
I reached it seconds later.
Locked again.
Gabriel arrived behind me.
“What’s in there?”
Vincent looked uncomfortable.
“Old records.”
Gabriel held out his hand.
“Key.”
“I don’t have one.”
Gabriel stared at him.
“Then break it.”
The guards forced the lock.
Inside were shelves.
Boxes.
Financial records.
Medical files.
And on the floor lay the paper Carmine had dropped.
Gabriel picked it up.
It was not a medical authorization.
It was a transfer of controlling interest in Moretti Shipping.
Signed with Gabriel’s fingerprint.
Dated three months earlier.
And according to the document, Gabriel had already surrendered the company.
“To whom?” I asked.
Gabriel turned the final page.
The recipient’s name had been covered with black ink.
But beneath it was a second document.
A death certificate.
Gabriel picked it up.
I saw his face lose color.
The certificate carried a woman’s name.
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A woman Gabriel had personally buried eight years earlier.
And according to the new date stamped at the bottom, she had opened a bank account yesterday...
