Chapter 5 - A Dead Woman WalksMargaret Vale had been buried on a Saturday.
There had been an obituary.
Flowers.
A private service.
Richard stood beside the coffin.
Local newspapers ran photographs of him accepting condolences.
Yet there she was.
Walking through airport parking at two in the morning.
Alive.
“Could the footage be old?” I asked.
Ortiz shook her head.
“Timestamp matches multiple systems.”
“Then whose funeral did Richard hold?”
“That’s one of several questions.”
The answer came quicker than expected.
There had been no public viewing.
The family claimed Margaret’s religious wishes required immediate cremation.
The cremation certificate had been signed by a physician connected to a clinic financed by Vale Development.
Richard hadn’t buried his wife.
He’d buried a story.
Why?
By afternoon, the investigation expanded.
State police.
Financial crimes.
Federal agents.
Suddenly the small detective office was full of suits and laptops.
For the first time, I believed Richard might actually be afraid.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
Breathing.
My chest tightened.
“Rebecca?”
A whisper.
“Mark.”
I stood so abruptly everyone looked at me.
“Rebecca?”
“Don’t say my name.”
“Where are you?”
“Are the kids okay?”
Her voice broke.
“Yes. Ava’s in the hospital but she’s going to be okay.”
Silence.
Then a muffled sob.
“Oh God.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Rebecca, listen to me. Police are here.”
“No!”
The terror in her voice stunned me.
“No police.”
“They’re helping.”
“You don’t know who Richard paid.”
I looked at Ortiz.
She gestured for me to keep talking.
“Tell me where you are.”
“I can’t.”
“You left Noah and Ava alone for three days.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
Anger pushed through the fear.
“What does that mean?”
“I thought I’d be gone thirty minutes. Travis said Richard wanted the documents. He promised if I returned them, it was over.”
“You trusted Travis?”
“I loved him.”
The words shouldn’t have hurt.
We were divorced.
Yet they did.
“But when I got in the SUV, Margaret was there.”
“Margaret’s alive.”
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“Then listen carefully. She’s not Richard’s victim.”
My eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“She’s his partner.”
Everything shifted.
“Julia found out Margaret handled the offshore accounts. Richard controlled the contracts, but Margaret moved the money. When Julia threatened to expose them, they panicked.”
“What happened to Julia?”
“I don’t know. But I think they killed her.”
A door slammed somewhere on Rebecca’s end.
She lowered her voice.
“They took me to an old motel. They wanted the ledger.”
“Do you have it?”
“No.”
“Who does?”
“You.”
I stared at the wall.
“What?”
“You have it, Mark.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You just don’t know it.”
“Rebecca—”
“Remember my birthday two years ago?”
I did.
We had still been married.
Rebecca gave me an old leather-bound book about restoring classic trucks.
I barely read it.
Our marriage was falling apart by then.
The book sat in a cabinet in my garage.
“You put something inside the book.”
“No. Julia did. She was scared. She asked me for a place nobody connected to Vale. I told her your garage.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was trying to keep you out of it.”
“You hid evidence in my house.”
“I know.”
There were so many things I wanted to say.
Then she whispered:
“Mark, I have to go.”
“No. Stay with me.”
“I escaped this morning. They’re looking for me.”
“Tell me where you are.”
“I can’t trust anyone.”
“You can trust me.”
A long pause.
Then:
“I always could.”
The line disconnected.
We drove to my house with three unmarked police cars.
My garage had been broken into.
Cabinets ripped apart.
Boxes thrown across the floor.
But the book was still there.
I grabbed it.
Nothing inside.
I shook it.
Empty.
My frustration exploded.
“She said it was here!”
Ortiz examined the cover.
Then she ran her fingers along the spine.
“Maybe it is.”
She cut the lining carefully.
A microSD card dropped onto the workbench.
On it was a spreadsheet.
Hundreds of transactions.
Names.
Dates.
Amounts.
City inspectors.
County officials.
A state senator’s aide.
Two police officers.
A prosecutor.
And Richard Vale.
Margaret Vale.
Travis Lane.
The evidence was devastating.
But one line caught my attention.
A recurring payment.
$7,500 every month.
Recipient:
D. TURNER CONSULTING
Turner.
My last name.
My father’s initial was D.
David Turner.
He had died five years earlier.
Or so I thought.
Ortiz noticed my expression.
“Who’s David?”
“My father.”
“What did he do?”
“He was a building inspector.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“For the county?”
“Yes.”
“How did he die?”
“Heart attack.”
“Are you sure?”
I stared at her.
I had buried my father.
Just like Richard had supposedly buried Margaret.
Before either of us could speak, my phone buzzed.
A photograph appeared from an unknown number.
Rebecca.
Alive.
Bound to a chair.
A handwritten sign rested against her chest.
BRING THE LEDGER OR YOUR CHILDREN LOSE THEIR MOTHER.
Then another message came.
COME ALONE, MARK.
May you like
And beneath it was an address.
The abandoned Vale textile mill outside town.
