Chapter 17 - Ten Years From Now
The family office smelled like smoke before we reached the lobby.
Sprinklers had activated on the second floor. Employees had been evacuated. Police surrounded the building.
Caleb was inside.
So was ten years of planned fraud.
Torres stopped me at the entrance.
“You are not going in.”
“He has records involving my son.”
“And he has a gun.”
I knew she was right.
I hated her for being right.
A tactical team entered through the loading dock.
Five minutes later, the basement cameras came back online.
Lena found the feed on her laptop.
Caleb stood beside the industrial shredder and incinerator, feeding files into a metal bin.
“He’s destroying it,” I said.
“Not all of it,” Lena replied.
She pointed.
On the floor beside Caleb were three hard drives and a red binder.
The red binder had HENRY COLE printed on the spine.
I felt sick.
A loudspeaker echoed through the building.
“Caleb Ross, this is police. Put down the weapon and step away from the machinery.”
Caleb looked directly at the basement camera.
Then he raised the red binder.
“You watching, Ethan?” he said.
The microphone carried his voice clearly.
He opened the binder and held up a page.
Even through the grainy feed, I could see Henry’s childish handwriting copied at the bottom.
“This is what planning looks like,” Caleb said. “You built companies quarter by quarter. I built an exit decade by decade.”
Torres muttered, “Keep talking.”
Caleb smiled at the camera.
“Your father underpaid me for twelve years. Your wife treated me like a thief. Your brother tried to throw me out. And you never noticed any of it because you never noticed people unless they were on your calendar.”
The words were meant to cut.
Some of them did.
That did not make his crimes my fault.
A tactical officer whispered over the radio that they were in position.
Caleb suddenly poured liquid over the binder.
Gasoline.
“No,” I said.
He flicked a lighter.
Then the basement lights died.
The camera went black.
Seconds later, an explosion rattled the windows.
Smoke rolled through the stairwell.
The tactical team shouted over the radio.
“Suspect moving! East corridor!”
Another voice yelled, “He’s heading for the garage!”
Torres ran.
I followed until she turned and shoved me back.
Then Lena grabbed my arm.
“Ethan.”
“What?”
She held up her laptop.
“The red binder wasn’t the only thing on that camera.”
She froze one frame from before the lights went out.
Behind Caleb, reflected in a steel cabinet, was another person.
A man in a suit.
May you like
Martin Vale.
My attorney.
