Chapter 2 - The Detective Who Was Already Paid
The elevator doors opened.
Massimo’s hand moved beneath his jacket.
Marco reached for his weapon.
Neither man breathed.
Then Lucia’s private nurse stepped out.
“Mr. Moretti?”
Massimo lowered his hand.
Marco did not.
The nurse, Elena Ruiz, looked from one man to the other.
She was sixty, gray-haired, calm under pressure, and one of only six employees who knew the underground surveillance level existed.
But she was not supposed to know Massimo was there.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
Elena swallowed.
“Your mother told me.”
That answer bothered him more than it reassured him.
“My mother thinks I’m in London.”
“She knew you wouldn’t leave after what she asked you.”
Massimo stared at her.
Elena held out a folded piece of paper.
“She told me to give you this if Vivian became violent.”
Massimo took it.
The handwriting was Lucia’s.
Three words.
DON’T TRUST DAMIAN.
Massimo folded the note once.
“Did my mother explain?”
“No.”
“When did she write this?”
“Two nights ago.”
Marco glanced toward the surveillance monitor.
The east-gate camera showed the detective’s sedan rolling slowly toward the mansion.
Massimo turned to Elena.
“Go upstairs. Stay with my mother.”
“What about Vivian?”
“She cannot know I’m here.”
Elena nodded.
Massimo caught her arm gently before she could leave.
“If Lucia’s medication changes, if her food changes, if anyone asks you to administer something you didn’t personally prepare, call Marco.”
Elena’s face tightened.
“You think someone is trying to kill her?”
“I think somebody wants her signature.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Massimo released her.
“No.”
A pause.
“I think killing her might be the backup plan.”
Elena went pale.
The elevator closed behind her.
Marco enlarged the gate feed.
The detective had reached the front entrance.
“Detective Aaron Blake,” Marco said. “Westchester County. Fifteen years on the job.”
“Why is he here?”
“The gate log says reported theft.”
Massimo almost smiled.
Not because anything was funny.
Because Vivian was moving exactly as expected.
“She’s fast.”
“Want me to turn him away?”
“No.”
Massimo walked toward the control panel.
“Let him in.”
Marco frowned.
“If he’s involved—”
“Then I want him comfortable.”
Massimo switched camera feeds.
The foyer appeared.
Vivian came down the staircase wearing cream trousers and a silk blouse. She looked composed.
No trace remained of the woman who had assaulted Lucia.
That was the frightening thing about people like Vivian.
They did not lose control.
They changed costumes.
Detective Blake entered.
Vivian hurried toward him.
“Thank God.”
Blake removed his coat.
“What happened?”
“Something valuable was stolen.”
Massimo watched.
Vivian touched Blake’s arm.
Too familiar.
Only for half a second.
But half a second was enough.
“Run his phone,” Massimo said.
Marco turned toward another terminal.
“Legally?”
Massimo looked at him.
Marco sighed.
“I’ll call the district attorney.”
Upstairs, Blake followed Vivian into the drawing room.
Lucia was there.
So was Sophie.
Sophie had a bandage around her elbow.
Massimo noticed it immediately.
Vivian noticed Massimo’s grandmother’s brooch on the table.
The velvet box sat open beside it.
Blake looked at Sophie.
“Ms. Bennett?”
Sophie nodded.
“I’m Detective Blake.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Ms. Crawford told me the police were coming.”
Blake glanced at Vivian.
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
Interesting.
Vivian had prepared Sophie before the detective arrived.
Blake sat.
“I understand you handled this brooch yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Ms. Crawford asked me to polish it.”
Vivian laughed softly.
“That isn’t what happened.”
Sophie turned.
“You gave it to me.”
“I found you holding it.”
Sophie stared at her.
Lucia shifted in her wheelchair.
“That is a lie.”
Vivian’s smile disappeared.
“Lucia, please. You’re confused.”
“I am sick. I am not confused.”
Blake raised a hand.
“Mrs. Moretti, let me ask the questions.”
Massimo’s expression changed.
Marco saw it.
“That detective has no survival instinct.”
Massimo ignored him.
On-screen, Blake opened a notebook.
“Ms. Bennett, may I see your locker?”
Sophie looked toward Lucia.
Then Vivian.
“Of course.”
They moved downstairs.
Massimo changed cameras as they walked.
Housekeeping corridor.
Laundry room.
Staff lockers.
Sophie opened hers.
Blake reached inside.
His hand emerged holding the cream folder Damian had planted.
Vivian gasped.
It was a convincing performance.
“What is that?”
Sophie’s face drained of color.
“I’ve never seen it.”
Blake opened the folder.
Trust documents.
Photocopies of signatures.
Banking information.
A handwritten list of account numbers.
Vivian covered her mouth.
“My God.”
Sophie stepped backward.
“No.”
Blake’s voice became colder.
“Ms. Bennett—”
“Those aren’t mine.”
“They were in your locker.”
“Someone put them there.”
“Who?”
Sophie looked at Vivian.
Vivian’s eyes sharpened.
Sophie said nothing.
Massimo leaned closer.
Why didn’t she accuse her?
Then he understood.
Sophie had no proof.
As far as she knew.
And she was standing in a house controlled by people far more powerful than she was.
Blake removed a plastic evidence bag.
“You may need to come with me.”
Lucia’s voice came through the hallway.
“She goes nowhere.”
Everyone turned.
Lucia stood behind them with Elena supporting her.
Vivian stared.
“You should be resting.”
“And you should be packing.”
Silence.
Massimo almost smiled.
That sounded like his mother.
Blake cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Moretti, this is a police matter.”
“This is my house.”
“Actually,” Vivian said softly, “it’s Massimo’s.”
Lucia looked at her.
Vivian smiled.
“For now.”
Massimo’s eyes narrowed.
Blake pretended not to hear.
But his jaw tightened.
He had heard.
“Detective,” Sophie said, “can you check fingerprints?”
“We will.”
“Because I never touched those papers.”
Vivian folded her arms.
“You expect us to believe somebody planted them?”
“Yes.”
“Why would anyone frame a maid?”
The word hung there.
A maid.
Sophie looked down.
Lucia did not.
“Because she saw you hit me.”
Blake froze.
Vivian froze.
Marco whispered, “There it is.”
Massimo watched Blake.
A legitimate detective would ask questions.
When?
Where?
Were there witnesses?
Do you need medical assistance?
Blake asked none of them.
Instead he looked at Vivian.
Only for a second.
But he looked.
Massimo stood.
“He knows.”
Marco nodded.
Blake recovered quickly.
“Mrs. Moretti, are you alleging assault?”
“I’m not alleging anything. She struck me.”
Vivian laughed.
“Lucia fell yesterday.”
“No.”
“You were confused after missing your medication.”
Massimo’s hand tightened.
Vivian continued.
“You accused Elena last month of stealing your glasses.”
“I found them in my bedroom.”
“Exactly.”
Lucia stared at her.
Vivian had done her homework.
She was building a narrative.
Sick old woman.
Medication.
Confusion.
Unreliable memory.
Sophie suddenly stepped forward.
“I saw it.”
Blake looked at her.
“I saw Ms. Crawford hit Mrs. Moretti.”
Vivian’s expression became almost gentle.
“Sophie, you should be careful.”
“Why?”
“Because false accusations have consequences.”
“So does hitting an elderly woman.”
Massimo watched Sophie’s face.
She was scared.
Anyone could see it.
But she kept speaking.
Blake closed his notebook.
“Right now, I’m investigating theft.”
“Then investigate it,” Sophie said. “Check the cameras.”
Silence.
Vivian’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling.
There were no visible cameras in that hallway.
Sophie had guessed.
Or hoped.
Blake answered too quickly.
“There are no relevant recordings.”
Massimo looked at Marco.
Marco looked back.
Neither spoke.
That sentence was enough.
Blake knew about the cameras.
Or at least some of them.
And nobody had told him.
Massimo pulled out his phone.
“Call the DA now.”
Marco dialed.
Massimo switched to another monitor.
His technical team had finished the preliminary extraction of Blake’s communications.
A secure message log appeared.
Most entries were encrypted.
One wasn't.
A transfer confirmation.
$75,000.
Sender hidden behind a shell company.
Recipient linked to a mortgage account belonging to Aaron Blake.
The transfer had arrived forty-eight hours earlier.
Marco ended his call.
“The DA wants evidence before moving on a detective.”
“He'll have it.”
Massimo pointed at the transfer.
“Trace the sender.”
A technician began working remotely.
Upstairs, Blake placed the forged papers into an evidence bag.
Sophie looked at Lucia.
“I didn't do this.”
“I know.”
Vivian rolled her eyes.
Blake turned to Sophie.
“I need you to come to the station voluntarily.”
“No.”
Everyone looked at Lucia.
Lucia moved her wheelchair between Sophie and the detective.
“You will not take her anywhere until my attorney arrives.”
Blake's patience slipped.
“Mrs. Moretti—”
“My son has twenty-three attorneys.”
“Twenty-seven,” Elena corrected quietly.
Lucia nodded.
“Twenty-seven. One of them must be useful.”
Despite everything, Marco gave a short laugh.
Massimo didn't.
His attention had shifted.
Damian had appeared on another camera.
He was walking toward Vivian.
Blake left the room to take a phone call.
Damian waited until he was gone.
Then approached Vivian.
Their conversation was too quiet for the hallway microphone.
Massimo increased the gain.
Static.
Then words.
“...should have been arrested already.”
Vivian whispered something.
Damian shook his head.
“Blake wants more money.”
“How much?”
“Another fifty.”
Vivian cursed under her breath.
Massimo looked at Marco.
“Got it?”
“Recorded.”
Damian continued.
“And there's another problem.”
“What?”
“The London flight.”
Vivian stiffened.
Massimo stopped breathing.
Damian moved closer.
“Someone checked the passenger manifest.”
Vivian stared at him.
“And?”
“Massimo wasn't on it.”
Silence.
Vivian's face changed.
“That's impossible.”
“I checked twice.”
“Where is he?”
“I don't know.”
Vivian looked around the hallway.
For the first time since Massimo began watching, she looked afraid.
“Find him.”
Damian nodded.
Then Vivian grabbed his arm.
“If he's here, the cameras—”
“I disabled the main system yesterday.”
Not this system, Massimo thought.
His father had built two surveillance networks after a security breach twenty years earlier.
The visible network.
And the hidden one.
Damian knew about the first.
Not the second.
Vivian lowered her voice.
“What about Lucia?”
Damian glanced toward the drawing room.
“She still won't sign?”
“No.”
“Then we move to the other plan.”
Massimo leaned forward.
Vivian whispered, “Not yet.”
“We don't have time.”
“What if Massimo comes back?”
Damian's answer was barely audible.
“Then the certificate becomes useful.”
Massimo frowned.
“What certificate?”
Marco was already searching.
Nothing.
Massimo called his attorney.
“Anthony.”
“Massimo? I thought you were—”
“Find every document filed, drafted, requested, or notarized in my name during the last year.”
“That could take—”
“Start with death records.”
Silence.
“What?”
“Death certificates.”
Anthony stopped asking questions.
“I'll call you.”
The line went dead.
Massimo watched Vivian return to the drawing room.
She smiled at Lucia.
She smiled at Sophie.
Then she told Blake she wanted to make a formal theft complaint.
Massimo had seen enough.
But exposing them now would only catch Vivian, Damian, and perhaps Blake.
He wanted whoever had taught Vivian about the trust.
He wanted whoever had created the offshore accounts.
And he wanted to know what Damian meant by a certificate.
“Keep the wedding,” Massimo said.
Marco stared at him.
“What?”
“Every invitation. Every vendor. Every guest.”
“You still plan to marry her?”
“No.”
Massimo looked at Vivian on the screen.
“I plan to give her the audience she wanted.”
His phone rang.
Anthony.
Too fast.
Massimo answered.
“What did you find?”
His attorney's voice sounded different.
“There is a death certificate.”
Massimo said nothing.
“It hasn't been filed,” Anthony continued. “It's a draft.”
“For whom?”
A pause.
“You.”
Marco slowly turned.
Massimo's expression did not change.
“Cause of death?”
“Cardiac arrest.”
“I don't have a heart condition.”
“I know.”
“Date?”
Another pause.
“Saturday.”
Massimo looked at the calendar.
His wedding day.
Anthony continued.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“The certificate was prepared alongside a medical incapacity petition and an emergency trust transfer.”
“To Vivian?”
“No.”
That answer surprised him.
“Who?”
“The beneficiary name is encrypted in the digital copy. Give me an hour.”
Massimo ended the call.
Marco stared at the monitors.
“They planned to kill you at your own wedding.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“A forged death certificate doesn't prove murder.”
“It proves somebody expected you dead.”
Massimo nodded.
“And I want to know who expected to profit.”
For the next three hours, the investigation widened.
Bank accounts.
Phone records.
Property transfers.
Insurance policies.
Damian had debts Massimo never knew existed.
Gambling.
Failed investments.
Two secret apartments.
Vivian had received payments from three shell corporations.
Blake's mortgage had been quietly reduced by nearly one hundred thousand dollars.
Then Marco found something else.
Sophie's employment file.
“What am I looking at?”
“Her background check.”
Massimo read it.
Sophie Bennett.
Thirty years old.
No criminal record.
Previous employment at a private rehabilitation center.
Before that, nursing school.
Massimo frowned.
“She was a nursing student?”
“For two years.”
“Why did she leave?”
“No reason listed.”
That explained how she'd known exactly what to do when Lucia missed her medication.
But another detail caught his attention.
Sophie's emergency contact.
Margaret Bennett.
Mother.
Deceased.
The date was five years earlier.
Massimo opened the attached death record.
Heart failure.
Same hospital where Lucia had undergone surgery.
Coincidence.
Probably.
Then his phone buzzed.
The forensic team had traced Blake's payment.
The shell company belonged to another shell company.
That company had been established by a law office.
Massimo knew the law office.
It handled Moretti family matters.
His own family had paid the firm for nineteen years.
“Who authorized the shell company?”
Marco asked.
The technician sent the scanned document.
Massimo opened it.
There was a signature at the bottom.
Not Vivian's.
Not Damian's.
Massimo stared.
“That can't be right.”
Marco stepped closer.
“What?”
Massimo enlarged the signature.
It belonged to someone who had supposedly spent the last six years living quietly in Florida.
Someone Lucia still sent a Christmas card to every December.
Massimo's uncle.
Carlo Moretti.
Marco swore.
Massimo said nothing.
The conspiracy had just become family.
A knock sounded from the hidden surveillance-room door.
Three slow knocks.
Massimo and Marco looked at each other.
Nobody used that door.
Nobody was supposed to know it existed.
Marco drew his gun.
Massimo approached silently.
Another knock.
Then a woman's voice came through the steel door.
“Massimo?”
He stopped.
He knew that voice.
But the woman who owned it had been buried beside his father eight years ago.
May you like
The handle slowly began to turn.
And from the other side, his dead sister whispered his childhood name.
