Chapter 3 - THE DEAD HAND
The snow began to fall at 4:00 AM, heavy and wet, blanketing the long asphalt driveway of the estate in a shroud of white.
I sat in my father’s old study on the ground floor. The room hadn't been changed since the day he died three years ago. The walls were lined with leather-bound books that no one read, dark oak paneling, and oil paintings of ships cutting through dark gray Atlantic waves. Behind the large mahogany desk sat a heavy iron safe built into the brick foundation of the chimney.
Evelyn walked in carrying a tray with a fresh pot of black coffee and a small slice of toast. She set it down on the edge of the desk without saying a word.
"You're still awake," I said, watching her pour a cup.
"I haven't slept through a night in this house since 1984, Damian," she said softly. "Sleep is for people who don't know what lies under the floorboards."
I took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter, strong enough to wake the dead.
"Evelyn," I said, looking at her weathered face. "Who had access to the servant cottage the day Sofia died? Besides Vivienne."
Evelyn paused, the silver coffee pot hovering an inch above the saucer. Her pale blue eyes drifted toward the dark window.
"The cottage locks are digital," she said. "Only three people have the master codes. You, me, and Marco."
"And my father," I added.
"Your father has been under six feet of dirt in St. Raymond’s Cemetery for thirty-six months, Damian."
"His master code was never deleted from the estate server," I countered. "I checked the access logs twenty minutes ago. On the night of November 19th, at 8:45 PM—half an hour before Vivienne showed up—the back door of Sofia’s cottage was unlocked using Master Code 01. My father’s personal code."
Evelyn went very still. Her hands dropped to her sides.
"That's impossible," she whispered. "I have the only physical card mapped to that code. It’s locked in the master key box in my office."
"Then someone took it," I said. "Or someone built a duplicate six years ago when Frank Carter died."
I stood up and walked over to the built-in iron safe. I punched in the six-digit combination my father had drilled into my head when I turned twenty-one. The heavy iron door clicked open with a dull, metallic thud.
Inside were stacks of bearer bonds, three unregistered Sig Sauer pistols, a box of old land deeds from Brooklyn, and a small black leather notebook bound with a thick rubber band.
I took the notebook out and laid it flat on the desk.
"This was my father’s personal ledger," I said, snapping the rubber band. "He told me before he died that if anything ever happened to the Vance family’s peace with the council, I should read page forty-two. I never opened it. I thought he was being an old man paranoid about his legacy."
I flipped through the crisp, yellowing pages until I reached page forty-two.
Written in my father’s tight, slanted handwriting were three names and a list of dates:
Frank Carter — Brooklyn Docks (Secured) Arthur Sterling — Staten Island (Paid) Dominic Vance — Long Island (Terminated)
My heart gave a sharp, violent thud against my ribs.
Dominic Vance.
My uncle. The man who had been sitting at the center of my dining table four hours ago, telling a boring story about his golf game while his three-year-old grand-niece stood in the doorway in pink pajamas.
"Dominic," I muttered under my breath.
"Damian..." Evelyn breathed, her hand flying to her throat. "Your uncle was at the house that afternoon. He came by at 4:00 PM on the 19th. He said he wanted to drop off a box of cigars for your engagement dinner."
"He didn't come to drop off cigars," I said, the pieces of the nightmare falling into place with horror-film clarity. "Dominic knew Frank Carter had kept a set of duplicate shipping books. He knew Frank gave those books to his wife, Sofia, before he died. Dominic knew if those books ever surfaced, they wouldn't just implicate Arthur Sterling—they would prove Dominic had been working with Sterling to siphon thirty percent of my family’s port revenue into off-shore accounts in Grand Cayman."
"So he poisoned her," Evelyn whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "He walked down to that cottage, gave her the paralytic, and walked out."
"He thought she would die quietly," I said. "He thought the county coroner—who Dominic pays ten thousand dollars a month to sign off on dock accidents—would declare it a natural stroke. And he was right. It was declared a stroke."
"Until Vivienne walked in thirty minutes later to search the room and stole the ring," Evelyn said.
"And until a three-year-old girl walked into my dining room and spoke seven words," I finished.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Marco’s direct line.
"Marco," I said the moment he picked up. "Where is my uncle Dominic?"
"He left the estate right after the drawing room cleared, boss," Marco replied over the static of the line. "He said he was feeling ill and went home to his penthouse in Manhattan."
"Is he at the penthouse?"
"I have two guys watching the building," Marco said. "His car pulled into the underground garage twenty minutes ago. He hasn't come out."
"Gather four men," I commanded. "Get the heavy SUVs. We're going to Manhattan."
"What about Vivienne?" Marco asked.
"Leave her in the room," I said. "She’s not going anywhere. If her father calls, tell him his daughter is selecting linens for the wedding. Keep him on the hook until I deal with my family."
I hung up the phone, stepped around the desk, and opened the bottom drawer. I pulled out a black leather shoulder holster, slipped my arms through the straps, and checked the magazine of my dark-gray Glock 19. The metallic clack of the slide going home echoed through the quiet study.
Evelyn watched me with a hollow, terrified look in her eyes.
"Damian," she said, her voice shaking. "He’s your father’s brother. Your own blood."
I looked down at the small platinum ring resting on the corner of the mahogany desk—the ring with the crude little star carved into its inner curve by a working man who just wanted his wife to have something real.
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"My blood," I said, "died nineteen days ago in a small cottage while a little girl hid under a bed."
I picked up the ring, put it back into my pocket, and walked out into the icy rain.
