Chapter 3 - The Doctor's Ledger
The back exit of the Vale mansion opened into the dense woodland bordering the golf club. Naomi ran through the wet brambles, cold rain soaking through her cardigan, until she reached the service lane where Frank sat idling in his beat-up 2012 Ford F-150.
Frank had driven the Vale family for twenty-four years before Celeste convinced Adrian that an older driver was a "liability." Frank had been demoted to grounds maintenance, but his loyalty belonged entirely to Evelyn.
Frank shoved the passenger door open. "Get in! Move!"
Naomi leaped into the cab, slamming the door. Frank dropped the truck into gear, tires churning over wet gravel before catching asphalt on the back road.
"Did they see you?" Frank barked, glancing in the rearview mirror.
"Marcus saw me. He’ll tell Adrian I assaulted him," Naomi panted, pulling the porcelain teacup from her pocket and wrapping it carefully in a rag. "We don't have much time, Frank. If Celeste controls the hospital, Evelyn won't survive the night."
"Where are we going?"
"Dr. Malcolm Voss’s private clinic on Old Track Road."
Frank scowled, his weathered face hardening. "Voss? The guy’s a society quack. Charges five grand an hour to give rich housewives vitamin injections."
"He’s not just a quack. He visited Evelyn twice last week when she wasn't sick. Both times, he left through the side door without signing the estate visitor log. Evelyn told me she felt dizzy every time he adjusted her blood pressure medication. I need to see what he’s been prescribing her."
Twenty minutes later, Frank pulled the truck into the alley behind Voss’s clinic—a discreet, red-brick medical building surrounded by manicured boxwoods.
Naomi left the pillow hidden under the truck's rear bench. "Keep the engine running. If I'm not out in ten minutes, take that pillow straight to the Connecticut State Police. Do not go to the Greenwich precinct. Adrian’s family donates millions there."
"Naomi," Frank said, catching her sleeve with a calloused hand. "Be careful. These people don't play by the rules. When Adrian’s father died, there were whispers. Evelyn never believed it was an accident."
Naomi felt a chill crawl up her spine. "What whispers?"
"Julian Vance was there the night old Thomas Vale died," Frank whispered. "And Celeste Arden used to work for Vance’s venture firm three years ago."
The puzzle pieces clicked together with terrifying clarity. Julian Vance was Adrian’s fiercest competitor—a ruthless titan who had lost a bidding war for Vale Meridian’s defense software patents last spring.
Naomi nodded grimly. "Keep the engine hot."
She walked into the clinic through the back staff entrance, using a master keycard she had acquired two years ago when the Vale staff coordinated an on-site executive health screening. The hallway smelled of eucalyptus and expensive leather.
The clinic was eerily quiet; the front receptionist was away on lunch. Naomi slipped toward Dr. Voss’s private office at the end of the corridor.
The door was locked, but Naomi took a heavy silver hairpin from her hair, bent the tip, and worked the tumbler. It was a trick her father, an auto mechanic, had taught her when she was twelve. With a sharp *click*, the brass lock gave way.
She slipped inside and closed the door behind her.
The office was lavish: dark mahogany paneling, framed degrees from Yale and Johns Hopkins, and a massive antique credenza. On the desk sat an open leather-bound appointment book and a laptop plugged into a docking station.
Naomi pulled out a USB drive from her pocket. She tapped the laptop's trackpad. The screen woke up, prompting for a password.
She looked around the room. On the credenza sat a silver-framed photograph of a racing yacht. The name stenciled across the hull was *The Caduceus VII*.
Naomi typed: *Caduceus07!*
*Access Denied.*
She tried: *Caduceus1998* (the year on his diploma).
*Access Denied.*
Her heart hammered against her ribs. One more failed attempt would lock the machine.
She looked at the prescription pad beside the keyboard. Voss’s DEA registration number was printed at the top: *BV7829104*. She looked at the desk calendar. Circled in red for today’s date was a single word: *CLOSING*.
She entered: *Closing2024!*
The screen unlocked.
"Bingo," Naomi whispered.
She navigated straight to Evelyn Vale’s patient portal. Her breath caught in her throat.
Evelyn hadn't been treated for hypertension. For six weeks, Voss had been administering weekly subcutaneous injections of a compound labeled *Compound 48-B*—an experimental scopolamine derivative designed to induce anterograde amnesia, disorientation, and progressive cardiac arrhythmia.
Attached to the medical file was a scanned PDF.
It was a certificate of mental incompetence, declaring Evelyn Vale incapable of managing her financial trusts due to rapid-onset vascular dementia.
It was dated *yesterday*.
And at the bottom was a second document: a full transfer of proxy voting rights for the Vale Meridian board of directors, assigning Evelyn’s thirty-five percent voting bloc to an offshore entity named *Aegis Holdings Ltd.*
Naomi dragged the files onto her USB drive.
Suddenly, the door swung open.
Dr. Malcolm Voss stood in the threshold, an umbrella in one hand and a takeaway coffee in the other. He stopped dead, his blue eyes widening behind designer wire-rim glasses.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded. Then his gaze dropped to the laptop screen and the glowing blue light of the USB drive. "You're Evelyn’s housekeeper."
Naomi didn't waste breath arguing. She ripped the USB drive from the port and bolted toward him.
Voss threw his hot coffee straight at her face. Naomi ducked, the scalding liquid splashing across her shoulder, and drove her shoulder into his ribs. Voss grunted, falling against the doorframe, but his fingers tangled in the strap of her bag.
"Security!" Voss screamed into the empty corridor. "Call the police!"
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Naomi brought her heel down onto his polished Italian leather loafers. Voss howled, releasing his grip, and Naomi burst past him into the hallway, sprinting toward the rear exit as the clinic's alarm system began to wail.
***
