Chapter 8 - ROBERT HAD BEEN AT THE CRASH SITE
Robert asked for a lawyer.
Then another.
Then stopped talking entirely.
He had spent years intimidating exhausted travelers and underpaid employees.
Handcuffs had made him suddenly respectful of process.
I almost appreciated the irony.
Police recovered his old phone backups.
One message from the night Daniel died:
DANIEL KNOWS.
Sent to Victor.
Victor replied:
DO NOT TOUCH HIM.
My chest tightened.
Then Robert:
TOO LATE.
Victor:
WHAT DID YOU DO?
Not the messages of co-conspirators.
The messages of a man losing control of something he helped create.
Rachel read beside me.
“Victor knew about the theft.”
“Yes.”
“But maybe not the murder.”
“Still guilty.”
“Absolutely.”
Just differently.
Then police traced Victor.
He had not gone to Indianapolis voluntarily.
Airport footage showed him walking beside Margaret Ellison.
Robert’s wife.
Then entering a vehicle.
Margaret was driving.
No struggle.
But Victor looked frightened.
Why would Robert’s wife help Victor escape after Robert’s arrest?
Unless she was not helping him.
Rachel pulled financial records.
Margaret Ellison owned forty-nine percent of Lakeshore Guest Recovery Services.
Victor’s wife owned fifty-one.
Two wives.
Two husbands.
One theft operation.
Except Victor’s wife, Jennifer, had died two years earlier.
Her ownership transferred automatically.
To Victor.
That made him legally responsible for money he might not control.
Blackmail.
Daniel’s email made more sense.
Victor knows I’m looking. I don’t know whether he is involved or covering for someone.
Then my phone rang.
Victor.
Unknown number.
“Clara.”
I nearly shouted.
Instead:
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Try.”
“Robert has people.”
“Robert is in custody.”
“Robert is not the top.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who is?”
Silence.
“Victor.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Who?”
“Daniel found out three days before he died.”
I waited.
Then Victor whispered:
“Someone on your board.”
My blood ran cold.
Vance Hospitality had nine directors.
Two independent investors.
Me.
Victor.
Rachel as nonvoting counsel.
And four longtime partners.
“Name.”
“I need protection.”
“You’ll get legal protection if you cooperate.”
“No. I mean Lily.”
Everything inside me froze.
“What about my daughter?”
“They’ve been watching her.”
My vision narrowed.
“Who?”
“Clara, Daniel didn’t discover eight million dollars.”
“What?”
“He discovered eighty-six million.”
I stopped breathing.
The guest scam was tiny.
A distraction.
Beneath it sat something enormous.
Victor continued:
“The hotels were being used to move money through renovation contracts, fake vendors, conference deposits, and foreign bookings.”
“By who?”
“One of Daniel’s original investors.”
“Name.”
Before he answered, I heard a crash.
Victor shouted.
The call died.
Police traced the signal.
An abandoned farmhouse outside Indianapolis.
When they arrived, Margaret Ellison was gone.
Victor remained.
Alive.
Beaten.
Beside him was a photograph of Lily leaving school six months earlier.
On the back:
CLARA STOPS DIGGING OR THE GIRL PAYS.
And beneath it was a signature I recognized from hundreds of board documents.
May you like
Thomas Calder.
The chairman Daniel had personally chosen before he died.
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