Chapter 8 - The Woman Before Me
I did not go to the parking deck alone.
I also did not bring police cars with lights flashing.
Lena arranged the compromise.
Detectives Bell and Shaw would be nearby but out of sight.
Dad would remain in a coffee shop across the street.
I would wear a recording device supplied by the detectives and keep my second phone in my pocket.
If the person who contacted me left because they sensed law enforcement, so be it.
No document was worth another assault.
At 8:52 p.m., I entered the River Street parking deck on foot.
The concrete smelled like rain and exhaust.
My footsteps echoed too loudly.
Level three was almost empty.
A fluorescent tube flickered above a row of parked cars.
At exactly 9:00, nothing happened.
At 9:03, still nothing.
At 9:07, my phone vibrated.
TOP LEVEL.
I touched the small transmitter clipped beneath my sweater to confirm it was still there.
Then I climbed the stairwell.
Wind hit me when I stepped onto the roof.
A man stood near the far wall wearing a baseball cap and dark jacket.
He turned when I approached.
Peter Voss looked older than he did in the Ashwood photograph.
His cheeks were hollow.
Gray stubble covered his jaw.
His eyes moved constantly toward the ramp behind me.
“You brought somebody.”
I stopped twenty feet away.
“I’m not meeting a missing man alone in a parking garage.”
He gave a humorless laugh.
“Martin raised you better than I thought.”
“You know my father?”
“I know he asked questions five years ago.”
“Why are you contacting me?”
Peter looked over my shoulder again.
“Because Julian thinks I kept originals.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
My pulse jumped.
“Where?”
“Safe.”
“Give them to the police.”
He shook his head.
“You think this is about a fake lien?”
“I think it is about multiple crimes.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Then tell me.”
He moved closer by two steps.
I held my ground.
“Bracken Ridge was Julian’s apprenticeship.”
“He was Jason Mercer.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed.
“You found that.”
“The detectives did.”
Peter cursed quietly.
“He’ll run if he knows they connected the names.”
“Why did he use Jason Mercer?”
“Because Bennett was clean.”
The answer chilled me.
“What does that mean?”
“He kept one name for banks, employers, marriage, taxes.”
Peter pointed vaguely toward the city.
“He used the other when he needed someone disposable.”
“You helped him.”
“For a while.”
“How long?”
“Too long.”
“Did you notarize documents I never signed?”
Peter looked away.
“Yes.”
The word landed harder than I expected.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have a journal.”
“I have two.”
My hands went cold.
“Why two?”
“One official.”
He swallowed.
“One real.”
I stared at him.
“You kept a secret ledger of fraudulent notarizations.”
“I kept insurance.”
“Against whom?”
“Everyone.”
He sounded ashamed, but not enough.
“Rebecca Sloan,” I said.
His face changed.
“Where did you get that name?”
“Your ledger page.”
Peter took a step backward.
“You should never have been sent that.”
“You sent it.”
“No.”
The wind seemed louder.
“You didn’t send the emails?”
“No.”
My heart began pounding.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked genuinely frightened.
“I got one too.”
“What did yours say?”
“Talk to Audrey before they erase you.”
I glanced toward the ramp.
“Who is Rebecca Sloan?”
Peter rubbed both hands over his face.
“Julian’s former fiancée.”
I stopped breathing for a second.
“He was engaged before me?”
“He told you he wasn’t?”
“He said he had one serious relationship in college.”
Peter laughed bitterly.
“Rebecca was not college.”
“When?”
“Seven years before he met you.”
“What happened to her?”
“She left.”
“Why is her name in your ledger?”
Peter did not answer.
“Did you forge documents in her name too?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Loans.”
“How much?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
“About two hundred thousand total.”
I felt sick.
“Did she know?”
“Eventually.”
“What happened when she found out?”
Peter looked toward the city lights.
“She accused Julian.”
“And?”
“He said she was unstable.”
The same phrase.
The same plan.
“What happened to her?”
“She disappeared from Raleigh.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
The relief surprised me.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know she’s alive?”
“She contacted me last year.”
My pulse jumped again.
“What did she want?”
“Copies of the old documents.”
“Did you give them to her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was a coward.”
At least he knew the correct word.
I asked about Ashwood.
Peter’s posture changed.
“That’s Eleanor’s dream.”
“The senior-living facility?”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“The facility is how they planned to wash the money.”
I forced myself to stay still.
“Explain.”
“Inflated construction bills, fake equipment purchases, management fees, contractor advances.”
“Like Bracken Ridge.”
“Bigger.”
“And my townhouse?”
“Clean collateral.”
The phrase confirmed my fear.
“Why did they need me to sell it if they already forged a lien?”
“Because the project lender started asking questions.”
“What questions?”
“About source of funds.”
Peter’s mouth twisted.
“Cash from a legitimate property sale is cleaner than private notes nobody can explain.”
I thought about Eleanor’s cheerful pressure.
Sell the townhouse.
Move in with me.
Save money.
Every sentence had been part of a laundering strategy.
“Who else is involved?”
Peter shook his head.
“I’m not giving you names here.”
“Why meet me at all?”
He reached into his jacket slowly.
I tensed.
He removed a small brass key attached to a paper tag.
“Because you can open what I can’t safely carry.”
He held it out.
I did not move closer.
“What does it open?”
“A private storage box.”
“Where?”
“Union Station lockers.”
I almost laughed.
“Those aren’t private bank boxes.”
“Not the public lockers.”
He told me there was a luggage storage business two blocks from the station that rented long-term secured bins.
“Box 214.”
“What’s inside?”
“Copies.”
“Of the journals?”
“And Ashwood records.”
“Why not bring them?”
“Because I was followed yesterday.”
The hairs rose on my arms.
“By Julian?”
“I don’t know.”
Peter extended the key again.
This time I walked close enough to take it.
His fingers trembled.
“Go tomorrow morning when they open.”
“Come with me.”
“No.”
“Talk to the detectives.”
“No.”
“You admitted crimes on a recording.”
Peter stared at me.
“You’re wearing a wire?”
He stepped backward.
“Peter.”
His fear turned instantly to anger.
“You said no police.”
“I said I wouldn’t meet you alone.”
He looked toward the ramp.
A car engine started below us.
Peter ran.
He sprinted toward the opposite stairwell.
“Wait!”
I did not chase him.
Bell and Shaw appeared from the ramp seconds later.
Shaw followed the stairwell route while Bell stayed with me.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
I opened my hand.
The brass key lay against my palm.
Bell stared at it.
“Did he give you that?”
“Yes.”
Peter escaped the deck before Shaw reached the street.
The detectives were furious, not with me, but with the lost chance to bring him in safely.
Lena was furious with Peter.
Dad was furious with everyone.
At 10:32 p.m., we were back at Lena’s office listening to the recording.
Peter’s admissions were clear.
So was his statement about Rebecca Sloan.
Shaw began searching old records for her.
Bell photographed the brass key and placed it into an evidence envelope after we agreed nobody would open the box without law enforcement present.
Then my phone buzzed.
Another anonymous email.
The sender still claimed no identity.
The message contained one line.
PETER IS LYING ABOUT WHO STARTED ASHWOOD.
A second line appeared beneath it.
May you like
ELEANOR DIDN’T FIND JULIAN’S SCHEME.
SHE TAUGHT HIM.
