Chapter 13 - The Warehouse Where Julian Disappeared
Federal agents entered the warehouse eleven minutes later.
Julian was gone.
No body.
No blood.
No obvious struggle.
One rear door stood open.
Security cameras had been disabled.
A burner phone sat on the floor.
On its screen was a photograph of Thomas Ellison.
Someone had wanted Julian there.
Clara arrived against Agent Cole’s instructions.
He was furious.
“I told Daniel not to bring you.”
“Daniel didn’t.”
“You drove yourself?”
“Yes.”
“You are now connected to at least four people who have disappeared or been attacked.”
“Then stop letting them disappear.”
Cole looked like he wanted to argue.
Instead, he handed her gloves.
“Don’t touch anything without permission.”
The warehouse had once belonged to a shipping broker.
Mercer Shipping used it decades earlier.
Clara walked slowly.
Old metal shelving.
Rotting wooden crates.
Faded freight markings.
Then she saw something painted on one wall.
CRESCENT.
Not the company.
A symbol.
A thin crescent moon.
“Daniel.”
He looked over.
“That symbol appears on the Crescent incorporation seal.”
Clara approached.
Beneath the paint, someone had scratched initials.
T.E.
Thomas Ellison.
The warehouse had been part of her father’s investigation.
Agent Cole called specialists.
Behind the crescent wall, they discovered a concealed room.
Inside were filing cabinets.
Old bank records.
Photographs.
Cassettes.
Letters.
The lost archive.
Thomas had hidden more evidence than anyone realized.
One photograph showed Thomas with Diane Reed.
Another with Charles.
Another with Helena.
One showed Thomas standing beside a much younger Beatrice Lang.
They were smiling.
On the back:
WE FINALLY FOUND THE SOURCE.
Clara stared at Beatrice’s face.
Thomas trusted her.
More than any Mercer.
Beatrice had already admitted knowing the murder might happen.
Could she have done it herself?
Another file contained medical records.
Thomas’s autopsy.
A second autopsy.
Clara frowned.
“Why are there two?”
Cole compared them.
The official version listed fatal blunt-force trauma.
The second documented cardiac arrest inconsistent with crash injuries.
Potassium chloride suspected.
Signed by Dr. Samuel Grant.
Clara froze.
Grant.
“Michael.”
Daniel looked at her.
“What?”
“Captain Michael Grant.”
She pulled out her phone.
Michael had been protective from the beginning.
Present on the flight.
Present when the envelope arrived.
He knew her father?
She called.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Agent Cole searched.
Samuel Grant was Michael Grant’s father.
Former medical examiner.
Retired.
Deceased five years.
Clara’s skin turned cold.
Samuel Grant performed the hidden second autopsy.
Why?
And why had Michael never told Clara?
Her phone vibrated.
Michael.
She answered.
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Did your father examine Thomas?”
Silence.
“Michael.”
“Yes.”
Clara closed her eyes.
“You knew.”
“I knew my father was involved in a case connected to yours.”
“And never told me?”
“He made me promise.”
Clara laughed bitterly.
“Apparently every man in my life took vows of silence around my father’s corpse.”
“Clara, listen.”
“No. You listen. Julian is missing.”
“What?”
“He went to this warehouse.”
Michael went quiet.
“Which warehouse?”
“Brooklyn. Mercer Shipping.”
A long silence.
Then Michael whispered:
“Get out.”
Clara frowned.
“What?”
“Get everyone out now.”
“Why?”
“My father told me about that building.”
“When?”
“Before he died.”
“What did he say?”
“That Thomas hid evidence there.”
“We found it.”
“Then someone knows you found it.”
Clara looked around.
Agents moving.
Daniel reading files.
Cole near the doorway.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You always know more than you say.”
“Clara.”
“Tell me.”
Michael inhaled.
“My father did the second autopsy because Thomas asked him to.”
“That makes no sense. Thomas was dead.”
“He arranged it beforehand.”
Clara went still.
“What?”
“Thomas believed someone might poison him. He gave my father written instructions.”
“What instructions?”
“If Thomas died unexpectedly, Samuel was to examine him privately before burial.”
“How?”
“Your father arranged funeral-home cooperation.”
Clara remembered the closed casket.
She had assumed crash damage.
“Why hide the results?”
“Because Samuel was threatened.”
“By who?”
Michael’s voice trembled.
“A woman.”
Clara stared at the photograph of Beatrice.
“What woman?”
“He never knew her name.”
“Description?”
“Silver-blonde hair. Mid-forties then.”
Beatrice would have been in her early sixties, not mid-forties.
“Not Beatrice.”
“I don’t know.”
Clara looked through more photographs.
Then she found one she had never seen.
Thomas standing beside Diane Reed and another woman.
Younger.
Blonde.
Beautiful.
On the back:
CATHERINE VALE - WESTBRIDGE CLIENT REPRESENTATIVE.
Clara showed Daniel.
He searched quickly.
Catherine Vale.
No modern public record.
Then Agent Cole looked over and turned pale.
“What?”
Cole took the photograph.
“I know that face.”
“Who is she?”
Cole hesitated.
“Her current name is Catherine Shaw.”
Clara frowned.
Shaw.
Patrick Shaw.
Julian’s attorney.
“No.”
Cole nodded.
“Patrick Shaw’s mother.”
Clara stared toward the warehouse entrance.
Patrick had been beside Julian in Paris.
Inside every legal meeting.
Trusted for twenty years.
His mother had been inside Thomas’s investigation.
Michael’s father said a blonde woman threatened him.
Clara called Patrick.
Disconnected.
Cole called the surveillance team assigned to him.
No answer.
Then a shout came from the hidden room.
Daniel had opened one of Thomas’s final notebooks.
He looked stunned.
“What?”
Daniel turned it toward Clara.
One sentence:
CATHERINE IS THE ACCOUNT HOLDER.
Below it:
BEATRICE DOESN’T KNOW.
CHARLES DOESN’T KNOW.
EDWARD DOESN’T KNOW.
Then another:
IF I DIE, FIND HER SON.
Clara stared.
“Patrick.”
May you like
Agent Cole was already moving.
Then the warehouse lights went out.
