Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO GUARDED THE GATE
Owen denied being near the restaurant.
Immediately.
That was his first mistake.
I had not shown him the photograph.
I only asked:
“Where were you that night?”
He answered:
“At the estate.”
Too fast.
“Entire evening?”
“Yes.”
I slid the photograph across my desk.
His face changed.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
“That isn’t me.”
Dominic laughed once.
“Same scar.”
Owen had a pale scar along his left jaw from a dock fight twenty years earlier.
Visible even in the blurred image.
Owen stared.
Then exhaled.
“Fine.”
My hands tightened.
“You were there.”
“Yes.”
“Why lie?”
“Because Elena asked me to.”
Again.
My dead wife had apparently been running her own investigation.
“What did she want?”
“To know whether Dominic was loyal.”
Dominic swore.
Owen ignored him.
“Elena suspected someone was leaking routes.”
“Dominic told me.”
Owen’s eyes changed.
“He did?”
Interesting.
They had both been speaking to her separately.
Neither knew about the other.
“She asked me to follow Dominic that night,” Owen said.
“Why?”
“Because he had been meeting with the Bellini family.”
Dominic stood.
“That was negotiation.”
“I didn’t know that.”
I looked at him.
“What negotiation?”
“Port boundaries.”
“Without telling me?”
“You would’ve refused.”
He was right.
I hated that.
Owen continued.
“I followed him. Saw him approach Elena.”
“Did you see the bomb?”
“No.”
“Did you look under the car?”
“No.”
“Matteo says another man did.”
Owen’s face tightened.
“I saw someone near the SUV.”
Everything stopped.
“Who?”
“I couldn’t identify him.”
“Description.”
“Gray maintenance jacket. Baseball cap. Carrying something.”
“Silver bag?”
“No.”
So now we had a third man.
Dominic.
Owen.
Unknown maintenance worker.
And possibly the witness’s silver-bag figure.
The scene had been crowded with secrets.
Then Clara asked from behind me:
“What happened to the restaurant valet staff?”
Everyone turned.
Owen frowned.
“Why?”
“Because maintenance jacket could belong to parking staff.”
No.
The restaurant valet uniforms were burgundy.
But the underground garage maintenance contractor used gray.
Dominic remembered.
“Portwell Services.”
Owen’s face changed.
“What?”
He had hired Portwell for estate maintenance too.
For years.
I went cold.
“Who owned it?”
Owen answered slowly.
“James Larkin.”
Name familiar.
Then I remembered.
James Larkin had been killed nine months after the bombing in an apparent robbery.
Convenient.
Clara took the report.
“What exactly caused the explosion?”
“Remote detonation,” Owen said.
“Device location?”
“Under rear passenger floor.”
“Who had access to the SUV before dinner?”
Silence.
That was the question.
My estate motor pool.
Security.
Service contractors.
Drivers.
Dozens of people potentially.
Then Owen said:
“There’s something else.”
I looked at him.
“After the bombing, one garage camera at the estate was wiped.”
I stood.
“You told me the blast investigation found nothing.”
“That camera failed the day before.”
“Failed?”
“Someone replaced the drive.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
His expression darkened.
“I thought it made me look responsible.”
There it was.
Not treason.
Cowardice.
Maybe.
Then Clara asked:
“Who replaced it?”
Owen looked at her.
“A technician.”
“Name?”
He went still.
“Daniel Hayes.”
Clara’s face emptied.
For the first time since entering my house, she looked afraid.
I noticed.
“Who is Daniel Hayes?”
May you like
She swallowed.
“My brother.”
