Part 11
Not rage.
Procedure.
If the drink had been prepared for her, the violence may have been a second plan.
“Keene would know how to do that,” Celia said.
“So would anyone he trained,” Gideon replied.
“Did he train the current security staff?”
“Some.”
“Who?”
Gideon’s eyes moved toward the ceiling, as if names were written there.
“Most senior supervisors worked under him.”
“So calling the gate would have told him where we were.”
“Yes.”
Sloane leaned her head back.
“Then the corded phone was left working on purpose.”
Gideon looked at her.
“He wanted me to call you.”
“Why?”
“To bring you into the house.”
Celia’s gaze shifted toward the open cabinet.
“The card.”
“No,” Sloane said. “If he wanted the card, he could have kept searching.”
“You may have lost consciousness.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were injured.”
“I remember him stopping when the phone rang.”
“Who called?”
Sloane looked at the receiver.
“I don’t know.”
“You answered?”
“No. He pulled the cable from the desk before it could ring again.”
“But the line still worked when you called Gideon.”
“He reconnected it.”
Gideon crouched beside the telephone outlet. The wall plate had fresh scratches near one screw.
“He wanted the call made,” he said.
Celia’s face tightened. “Then why hide upstairs?”
“To see what we said.”
“About the file?”
“About each other.”
Sloane looked toward the dark landing.
The anonymous messages had not merely guided Celia to evidence. They had arranged the three Mercers inside the library and given fear enough time to make them confess.
“Someone wanted the truth spoken in this room,” she said.
Gideon stood.
“Then they have it.”
“Not all of it,” Celia said.
He looked at her.
She had gone pale beneath the warm brass light.
“What haven’t you told us?” Sloane asked.
Celia’s hand moved to the pearl necklace. This time she did not smooth it. She pulled at the clasp until the strand loosened and fell into her lap.
“I met Martin Keene after Adrian died.”
Gideon’s face became unreadable.
“When?” he asked.
“Three weeks after the funeral.”
“Where?”
“A hotel.”
“What did he want?”
“He said Adrian had copied the North River files.”
“You told me he contacted you once and you refused to see him.”
“I lied.”
“What did you give him?”
“Nothing.”
“What did he give you?”
Celia looked at Sloane.
“A warning.”
“About Dad?”
“About everyone.”
Gideon stepped closer.
“What warning?”
“He said Adrian had misunderstood the payments. Keene claimed the money was not to silence witnesses after Ward’s death. It was to protect another Mercer project from the person who ordered the substitution.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“What did he ask for?”
“The second copy.”
“You told him you didn’t have it.”
“I did not know it existed.”
“Did he believe you?”
“No.”
Gideon’s voice lowered. “Why did you hide the meeting?”
“Because he showed me a photograph.”
“Of what?”
Celia stared at the pearls in her lap.
“Your car on the North River road the night Adrian died.”
Sloane stopped breathing for a moment.
Gideon’s face remained still.
“I wasn’t there,” he said.
“I know.”
“How?”
“The license plate was wrong.”
He looked at her.
Celia continued. “One digit had been altered. Poorly. Keene expected me to panic before I noticed.”
“What did you do?”
“I pretended I believed it.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to know what else he had.”
“What else did he show you?”
“A photograph of Adrian meeting a woman at the train station.”
“The woman who came to my office,” Gideon said.
“Perhaps.”
“Did you recognize her?”
“No.”
“What did Keene say?”
“That she had arranged Ward’s death.”
Sloane felt the plastic sleeve beneath her bandage.
“Was that true?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why would a woman working with Adrian kill the supervisor he was trying to protect?”
“Keene said she was not working with him. He said she was using him to get company records.”
“For whom?” Gideon asked.
“He would not tell me.”
“What did you give Keene in return?”
“Money.”
Gideon closed his eyes.
“How much?”
“Five hundred thousand.”
“From where?”
“My trust.”
“When?”
“Over two years.”
Sloane stared at her mother.
“You kept paying him.”
“I paid for information.”
“You paid him to remain in our lives.”
“I was trying to find out what happened to Adrian.”
“Did he tell you?”
“No.”
“Then why continue?”
“Because every few months he produced something new.”
“Real?”
“Some.”
“Did Dad know?”
“No.”
Gideon opened his eyes.
All the cold control had left his face. What remained was not fury but humiliation—the recognition that while he had spent years protecting Celia from Keene’s records, she had maintained a separate relationship with the same man.
“You paid him with money I could trace,” he said.
“It was mine.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I used distributions through the family office.”
“Then someone in finance knew.”
“They believed the payments were for art consultation.”
“Five hundred thousand dollars of art consultation?”
“You have paid more for worse.”
He almost replied. The old argument rose automatically and died before reaching his mouth.
Sloane said, “Keene came tonight because he thought the invitation meant you had the copy.”
Celia nodded.
“He may believe I found it,” Sloane said.
“Yes.”
“But the anonymous sender knew he would believe that.”
“Yes.”
“So the sender knows about your meetings with him.”
Celia’s expression froze again.
Gideon turned toward the dark upper floor.
“Who knew?”
“No one.”
“Someone processed the payments.”
“My financial adviser.”
“Name.”
“Peter Lang.”
Gideon’s eyes narrowed.
Sloane knew the name. Peter had managed family trusts for more than twenty years. He attended birthdays, funerals, and board retreats. He spoke softly, remembered dietary restrictions, and always stood near the back of photographs.
“Was he at the reception?” Sloane asked.
Celia looked toward the front doors.
“Yes.”
“Did he bring a guest?”
“I don’t know.”
Gideon gave a bitter breath. “You arranged the seating.”
“He was assigned alone.”
“Could he have brought Keene?”
May you like
“Yes.”
“Would he know the house systems?”
