Chapter 4 - THE MAN MY FATHER TRUSTEDBy sunrise, the two fake investigators were in federal custody.
Neither would talk.
One carried a burner phone.
The other had photographs of me, Emma, my mother, and three members of the Bennett trust's advisory board.
There were also photographs of Dante.
Lots of them.
At restaurants.
Entering his office.
Meeting attorneys.
Leaving a federal building.
Whoever had built the fraud operation hadn't been improvising.
They had been watching us for months.
Possibly years.
At 8:15 a.m., Special Agent Rebecca Sloan arrived.
She was forty-something, composed, with the kind of expression that suggested she'd learned long ago not to waste emotion before coffee.
She placed her badge on the table.
"I'm with the FBI's financial crimes division."
I gave Dante a look.
"Apparently everyone except me has known the FBI is involved."
Sloan glanced at him.
"Mr. Moretti was specifically instructed to minimize disclosures."
Dante almost looked relieved.
I turned to her.
"Did you specifically instruct him to serve his seven-month-pregnant wife divorce papers at her baby shower?"
Sloan paused.
"No."
Dante's relief vanished.
Emma coughed to hide a laugh.
Good.
At least the federal government and I agreed on something.
Sloan spread several documents across the table.
"We believe the fraud reaches back at least seven years."
"Seven?"
"Possibly longer."
She showed me a chart.
At the center was Samuel Price.
Around him were companies.
Law firms.
Title agencies.
Private lenders.
Notaries.
Accountants.
The lines formed a web.
"Samuel has been using dormant or lightly monitored family trusts to create fraudulent collateral."
"How many families?"
"We've identified eleven."
My anger turned cold.
"He stole from eleven families?"
"Potentially more."
"But why Bellavista?"
Sloan looked at me.
"Because your grandmother's trust owns unusually valuable property with very little debt."
Clean assets.
Perfect collateral.
"And the blue ledger?"
Her expression sharpened.
"Tell me about it."
I explained my mother's comment.
Sloan wrote something.
"Did your grandmother maintain private records?"
"Meticulously."
"Then that ledger may contain original transaction information that predates digitization."
Dante leaned against the wall.
"Enough to expose falsified chains of title."
Sloan nodded.
"Maybe."
"Then Samuel is looking for it too."
"Almost certainly."
My mind went back to the key outside the service gate.
Someone had entered Bellavista.
Maybe searched my room.
But why my room?
Then I remembered something.
My grandmother had died in my bedroom.
Not literally.
She had passed in hospice.
But before hospice, when she became ill, she moved into what later became my suite.
For almost three months.
"Her desk."
I stood so quickly Emma caught my arm.
"What?"
"Grandmother's writing desk. It was in my bedroom when she was sick."
Dante straightened.
"Is it still there?"
"No. Mother moved it into storage after the renovation."
"Where?"
I looked at Emma.
"The carriage house."
At Bellavista.
The property we had fled.
Sloan immediately shook her head.
"Nobody is going back there without a controlled search."
"I know where the desk is."
"We'll retrieve it."
"I should come."
"No."
"Agent Sloan—"
"Mrs. Moretti, two men tried to reach you less than twelve hours ago while carrying a photograph of your unborn child labeled leverage."
That ended the argument.
Mostly.
The FBI searched the carriage house.
Three hours later, Sloan called.
They found the desk.
No ledger.
But behind one drawer was a handwritten note.
Three words.
WHERE MUSIC SLEEPS.
Emma and I immediately looked at each other.
"The conservatory," we said together.
Bellavista had an old music conservatory on the west side.
My grandfather played piano there every night.
After he died, my grandmother had the grand piano covered and rarely entered again.
I remembered spending rainy afternoons beneath that piano as a child, reading mystery novels while adults thought I was napping.
An hour later, agents searched the conservatory.
They found nothing.
Then Emma asked, "What about inside the piano?"
Another twenty minutes.
Sloan called again.
"We found a compartment."
My pulse accelerated.
"And?"
"A ledger."
Blue leather.
My knees weakened.
Dante caught the back of my chair.
I didn't thank him.
But I didn't pull away either.
The ledger arrived that evening inside an evidence bag.
I couldn't touch it.
Sloan turned pages while photographing each one.
My grandmother had recorded every property transaction involving the Bennett trust.
Dates.
Purchase prices.
Signatures.
Witnesses.
Original deed references.
She had also written notes about Samuel Price's father, Harold.
I leaned closer.
March 4, 1989. Harold requested duplicate originals. Refused.
June 12, 1991. Discrepancy discovered in warehouse deed. Corrected before filing.
September 8, 1994. Harold attempted amendment without board authorization.
I stared at Dante.
"This started with Samuel's father."
Sloan nodded.
"Looks that way."
Then she reached the final pages.
A sealed envelope was taped inside.
My name was written on it.
Elena.
Sloan carefully opened it.
Inside was a letter dated six months before my grandmother died.
My dear girl,
If Harold's son ever comes for Bellavista, understand this: he will not come because he wants the house. He will come because Bellavista proves what his family did.
I stopped breathing.
Sloan continued reading aloud.
In 1994, I discovered that Harold Price had forged trust documents to obtain loans against properties belonging to several clients. Your father helped me gather evidence. Before we could bring everything forward, Harold died. Samuel promised to correct his father's actions.
I wanted to believe him.
I should not have.
Your father did not die believing the matter was resolved.
I stared at the page.
My father had died in a car accident when I was twelve.
"What does that mean?"
Nobody answered.
The next line did.
Three days before your father's death, he told me Samuel was threatening him.
My hands went numb.
Emma whispered, "No."
Sloan stopped reading.
Dante's eyes were on me.
I shook my head.
"Keep going."
Sloan reluctantly continued.
Your father's crash was ruled accidental. I had no evidence otherwise. Only questions.
If those questions ever become necessary again, speak to Thomas Vale.
He knows what happened the night your father died.
The room became perfectly silent.
Thomas Vale.
I knew that name.
Everyone in my family did.
May you like
He had been my father's closest friend.
And he had disappeared from our lives the week after my father's funeral.
Related Stories
