Chapter 6 - All of Manhattan continued without needing to know that four adults in a Brooklyn kitchen were untangling promises made before some of us were born.
“Why would Patrick want me dead over fifty million?” I asked.
Richard shook his head.
“I’m not convinced he does.”
I turned.
“The gala suggests otherwise.”
“Someone aimed a laser at you. We still don’t know who or why.”
That sounded like Clara.
Facts first.
Conclusions later.
Clara opened her laptop.
“The security credentials point to someone attempting to make it look as though Mason and I arranged access.”
Richard’s gaze moved to her.
“Your credentials?”
“Yes.”
He absorbed that.
Then something changed in his expression.
A thought.
“What?” Clara asked.
Richard looked at Mason.
“When did Rebecca enter Vale Tower?”
“Two days ago.”
“What time?”
“Three fourteen.”
Richard stood.
“Was she supposed to meet me?”
Clara checked.
“No. The false calendar entry was with Adrian.”
Richard shook his head.
“That wasn’t meant for Adrian.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Rebecca asked to see me.”
The room went quiet.
“She called three days ago,” Richard said. “Said she had finally found the missing document.”
Mason leaned closer to his camera.
“What missing document?”
“The original Sloan agreement.”
Mason’s face lost color.
“You told me it was destroyed.”
“I believed it was.”
Clara looked between them.
“What would the agreement prove?”
Richard answered.
“Whether Joseph Sloan was ever entitled to an ownership percentage.”
The disputed fortune suddenly became secondary.
If the original agreement granted equity, Patrick Sloan might possess a legitimate legal claim.
Not to Vale Holdings as it existed today.
But perhaps to specific legacy assets.
Enough to create years of litigation.
Enough to stain reputations.
Enough to make people hide.
“What did Rebecca say?” I asked.
“Only that she found a copy in a municipal archive attached to an unrelated property filing.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t meet?”
“No. She never arrived.”
Mason picked up another phone offscreen.
“I’m calling her.”
No answer.
He tried again.
Straight to voicemail.
Clara stood.
“Where does she live?”
“Boston.”
“Does she have family there?”
Mason nodded.
“A husband. Two adult stepchildren.”
“Call her husband.”
Mason did.
This time someone answered.
We heard only Mason’s side.
“David? It’s Mason.”
Pause.
“Is Rebecca there?”
Longer pause.
“No, I’m sure she’s fine. I just need—”
He stopped.
His expression changed.
“When?”
We all watched him.
“Did she say where?”
Another pause.
“Okay. Thanks.”
He ended the call.
“What?” I asked.
“Rebecca left for New York three days ago.”
“So she lied about Boston.”
“No.”
Mason looked thoughtful.
“She called me from Boston yesterday because she’d already gone home.”
Clara understood first.
“She came to New York, visited Vale Tower, then returned home.”
“Yes.”
“So she wasn’t missing.”
“No.”
Relief moved through the room.
Not everything mysterious had to become catastrophe.
A fact I was beginning to appreciate.
“Why didn’t she meet Richard?” Clara asked.
Mason called again.
This time Rebecca answered.
His face tightened with annoyance.
“Where have you been?”
Even from across the room, we heard a woman’s faint reply.
Mason rubbed his forehead.
“Apparently gardening.”
Clara blinked.
My mother smiled faintly.
Mason put the call on speaker.
Rebecca Rusk’s voice filled the kitchen.
“If everyone is finished imagining dramatic scenarios, may I ask why six people have called me before nine?”
Clara looked at me.
I almost laughed again.
Mason did not.
“You went to Vale Tower.”
“Yes.”
“You told me you were in Boston.”
“I was in Boston when you called.”
“You omitted New York.”
“You didn’t ask for my travel history.”
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“I married one.”
Mason closed his eyes.
“Rebecca.”
Her tone softened.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t involve you until I knew what I found.”
Clara leaned toward the phone.
“This is Clara Whitmore.”
A pause.
“I know who you are.”
Clara glanced at her father.
“Did you use my security credentials?”
“No.”
“Did you use Adrian’s father’s archived credentials?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Mason muttered something under his breath.
Rebecca continued.
“Thomas gave my father a recovery key before he died. Dad left it with his files.”
“Why use it?”
“Because I didn’t want my visit connected to Harbor Light.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone has been monitoring access to the trust.”
Clara’s fingers stopped.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“And the original Sloan agreement?”
“I found it.”
Richard leaned toward the phone.
“Rebecca, where is it?”
“Safe.”
“Does Patrick Sloan have a claim?”
Silence.
Then Rebecca said, “Not the claim he thinks.”
That was an accountant’s answer if I had ever heard one.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Joseph Sloan was promised fifteen percent of one development company.”
“Which one?”
“East River Storage.”
I recognized the name.
One of my father’s earliest properties.
Long sold.
“So Patrick’s claim is worthless.”
“Not exactly.”
Of course.
Nothing that morning could be simple.
“The agreement included a conversion clause,” Rebecca continued. “If East River Storage merged into another company without settlement, Joseph’s percentage could convert into equivalent value.”
Richard looked disturbed.
“We never saw that clause.”
“It was handwritten.”
“By whom?”
“Daniel.”
Mason stared at the screen.
“My father.”
“Yes.”
I leaned against the table.
“Is it enforceable?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. That’s why I wanted Richard.”
Clara asked, “Why did you leave Vale Tower without meeting him?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“When I reached his floor, I saw someone inside Richard’s office.”
Richard frowned.
“Who?”
“I couldn’t see clearly through the glass. I thought it was Adrian.”
“It wasn’t,” I said.
“I know that now.”
“Why leave?”
“Because whoever it was was photographing Harbor Light files.”
Silence.
Clara’s face changed.
“You saw the person?”
“Mostly from behind.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“Description?”
“Medium height. Gray hair. Dark suit.”
That described half the senior executives in Manhattan.
“Anything distinctive?” I asked.
Rebecca thought.
“A watch.”
Richard looked at me.
“What kind?”
“Old silver chronograph. Brown leather strap.”
My mother’s cup stopped halfway to her lips.
I noticed.
“Mom?”
She put the cup down.
Her gaze drifted toward the wooden box.
The silver watch inside.
My father’s watch.
Except it was still there.
She opened the box.
Removed it.
Turned it over.
Then frowned.
“What?”
She looked at me.
“This isn’t Thomas’s watch.”
I stared.
“It was in his box.”
“Yes.”
She examined the back.
“Thomas’s had his initials.”
She showed me.
The engraving read:
D.R.
Daniel Rusk.
Mason stood abruptly on the screen.
“That was my father’s.”
My mother looked stricken.
“I thought it was Thomas’s.”
Two men.
Two watches exchanged somewhere in the past.
Another ordinary object carrying a history no one had bothered to ask about.
Rebecca spoke through the phone.
“I saw that watch two days ago.”
Mason’s voice was low.
“On whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’d recognize him?”
“Yes.”
Clara closed her laptop.
“Then we stop guessing.”
Everyone looked at her.
“We meet.”
Mason frowned.
“Where?”
“Somewhere neutral.”
Richard said, “Vale Tower isn’t neutral.”
“My foundation office,” my mother suggested.
I turned.
“You have an office?”
She looked offended.
“I run a foundation, Adrian. I don’t conduct it from the kitchen.”
By ten-thirty that morning, we gathered at the Evelyn Vale Community Foundation in Brooklyn.
The offices occupied two renovated floors above a neighborhood arts center.
Nothing about the space resembled Vale Tower.
No marble.
No private elevators.
No security detail.
Just warm wood, bookshelves, children’s artwork from funded programs, and a receptionist named Lorraine who told me I looked tired before offering coffee.
May you like
My mother seemed more powerful there than she ever did at corporate events.
It was her world.
