Chapter 3 - A Guest at the Resort
I sent the photograph to Veronica without answering Jamie.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
The image was slightly blurred, but Adrian Kessler's silver hair and narrow black glasses were unmistakable.
"He knows Mauro," I said.
"That isn't proof of an unlawful agreement," Veronica replied.
"It's proof my husband forgot about mirrors."
She almost smiled.
We agreed not to contact Blackridge until we understood what had been filed in the board portal.
Veronica's litigation partner arranged for our forensic specialist, Daniel Cho, to examine the logs.
Daniel arrived with a compact laptop and the patient expression of a man accustomed to explaining alarming things calmly.
"The portal was accessed from a device that previously belonged to an authorized user," he said.
"Which user?"
"You. An old laptop registered to your office."
I remembered the laptop.
It had disappeared during our last home renovation.
Mauro had told me it was probably packed in storage.
I had changed my password, but I had not immediately revoked its device certificate.
Daniel placed two dates side by side.
The stolen laptop had connected to the portal three weeks earlier.
The emergency meeting notice was issued after the vacation departure.
"Can you identify the location?" I asked.
"The access pattern suggests the Chicago area, not Colorado. That isn't a definitive physical location."
"Someone stayed behind," Veronica observed.
The phrase settled over the room like dust.
At eleven, a woman named Lorraine Bishop called my private line.
She had cleaned the estate twice a week for the past eight years.
"Mrs. Hartwell, I need to tell you something, but I'm frightened."
I sat down.
"Tell me what happened."
"Mr. Vance had a visitor last Thursday. A man with a leather briefcase. They went into your office."
"Did you recognize him?"
"No, ma'am. But Mrs. Vance's sister was there too."
"Jamie?"
"Yes. She told me to leave early and not tell you."
Lorraine began to cry.
"I needed the job, Mrs. Hartwell. My husband just had surgery."
"You still have your job," I told her.
"And you did the right thing by calling."
We arranged for her to speak with Veronica privately.
Then I went upstairs to the office whose locked drawer Mauro had opened.
The desk had been polished.
The shelves were straight.
Nothing looked disturbed except a small framed photograph of my grandfather.
It had been moved half an inch to the left.
Behind it was the wall safe.
The keypad showed three faint smears in the dust.
I entered my code.
Inside lay the original trust papers, a sealed letter from my grandfather, and a small velvet pouch.
The pouch was empty.
It had once held a brass key.
I had not seen that key in years.
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And the only person who knew what it opened was my grandfather's former attorney, a man who had supposedly retired to Florida.
