Chapter 10 - The Retaliation
By midnight, Detective Vasquez’s safehouse—a non-descript brick ranch-style home in Chesterfield County—had turned into a war room.
Vasquez, a burly, graying detective with tired eyes and a perpetual five o'clock shadow, stood over a kitchen table covered in case files, aerial photographs of the River Road estate, and printouts of financial transactions.
“She’s right,” Vasquez said, setting down a lukewarm mug of black coffee. He pointed a thick finger at a copy of the emergency probate motion. “Judge Halliday is presiding over the probate docket tomorrow. He plays golf with your father every Sunday at the Commonwealth Club. If Bennett walks into that courtroom with Daniel Vance by his side, claiming Claire is wandering around suicidal after a hit-and-run, Halliday will sign the temporary conservatorship order without blinking.”
“And then?” Evelyn asked.
“And then Daniel has legal custody. He can instruct the sheriff’s department to detain Claire and deliver her directly to a private psychiatric facility of his choosing. My hands would be tied. A criminal indictment against Vanessa won't stop a civil guardianship order from taking effect.”
I sat at the table, wrapped in a borrowed woolen sweater. The pain in my face had settled into a dull, thrumming beat. My phone sat in the middle of the table, silent.
“Vanessa needs to confess on tape,” I said. “Not to a bicycle accident. To Julian. To Saturday. And to Daniel’s involvement.”
Vasquez rubbed his jaw, his stubble rasping beneath his fingers. “Vanessa is a narcissist, Claire. But she isn't an idiot. She’s currently holed up in her penthouse in Shockoe Bottom, surrounded by two private security guards Richard hired this afternoon. She isn't taking visitors.”
“She’ll take a call from Daniel,” I said.
Vasquez looked up, his eyes narrowing. “Daniel is on their side. Why would he help us?”
“He won't,” I said, leaning forward. “Daniel thinks he’s playing everyone. He thinks he’s using Vanessa to get the fifty million, and Vanessa thinks she’s using Daniel to stay out of prison. But narcissists don't share power. And they certainly don't share fifty million dollars.”
I picked up my phone and unlocked it.
I scrolled to Daniel’s contact.
“Evelyn,” I said, “did you say Daniel had DNA evidence proving he’s Arthur’s son?”
“Yes,” Evelyn said. “He had a certified laboratory analysis done through a private genetics firm in Maryland two years ago. That’s what he used to blackmail Richard.”
“And where would a man like Daniel keep something that valuable?”
Vasquez smiled thinly, a spark of predatory understanding lighting up his tired eyes. “In his safety deposit box. Or on an encrypted cloud server.”
“Neither,” I said. “Daniel doesn't trust banks, and he doesn't trust computers. He keeps physical originals of all his leverage in the locked leather attaché case he keeps inside his home office closet.”
Vasquez checked his tactical watch. “The townhome in the Fan District? It’s currently empty. Patrol units cleared it two hours ago looking for you.”
“Daniel is at my parents’ house right now,” I said, my voice hardening. “Helping Richard prep for the hearing tomorrow. The townhome is dark.”
Vasquez stood up, reaching for his sidearm on the counter. “Breaking into your own home isn't a crime, Mrs. Vance. Let’s go get that attaché.”
Forty minutes later, the unmarked police sedan pulled into the alleyway behind our townhouse. The night was bitterly cold, the wind howling down the narrow brick corridors of the Fan.
I led Vasquez up the back fire escape, using my key to unlock the kitchen door.
The apartment was pitch black, smelling of stale coffee and the floral perfume of the wedding bouquets still sitting on the dining table, their white roses now brown, wilting, and dead.
I moved silently down the hall toward the master bedroom. Vasquez kept his flashlight pointed low, illuminating the hardwood floor.
I opened the closet door. Pushing aside my winter coats, I reached into the recessed back corner.
The heavy, brown leather attaché case was there.
It was secured with a three-digit combination lock.
I stared at the brass tumblers. What would Daniel use?
His birthday? My birthday?
No. Daniel only cared about one thing: the date his entire life changed.
I dialed the date of Arthur Montgomery’s death, the date the trust was created: *1-1-0-4*.
*Click.*
The latches popped open with a sharp snap.
Vasquez knelt beside me, sweeping his flashlight across the contents.
Inside were three thick folders.
The first contained the genetic analysis confirming Daniel Vance was the biological child of Arthur Montgomery.
The second contained an audio recorder and five cassette tapes—surreptitious recordings Daniel had made of his private meetings with my sister over the past twelve months.
Vasquez picked up the recorder, rewound the tape inside, and hit *play*.
Vanessa’s voice filled the dark closet, sharp, crystal-clear, and venomous:
*“...I don't care about the wedding photos, Daniel. Just make sure the ceremony is legal. The second the paperwork is filed with the county clerk, Claire is disposable. If she has an 'accident' during the honeymoon, nobody will question it. You’ll be the grieving widower, and I’ll be the supportive sister. And Richard won't dare say a word, because if he does, I’ll tell the Richmond Times-Dispatch what really happened in the bathtub in 1998.”*
Daniel’s voice answered on the tape, smooth, chilling, and devoid of warmth:
*“Agreed. Fifty percent to your offshore account in the Caymans the day probate clears. But you keep your temper in check on Saturday, Vanessa. If you touch her before the marriage certificate is stamped, I’ll bury you myself.”*
Vasquez clicked the recorder off.
He looked at me in the dim light of the closet, his face pale with fury.
“That’s it,” Vasquez whispered. “That’s premeditated conspiracy to commit murder.”
Suddenly, the floorboards in the living room creaked.
A light flicked on in the hallway.
“You really should have listened to me, Claire,” a voice said from the bedroom doorway.
Daniel was standing there, his coat unbuttoned, his right hand resting calmly inside his pocket.
May you like
And standing behind him, blocking the hallway with a suppressed Glock held low at his side, was Thomas Bennett.
***
