Chapter 6 - THE NIGHT JULIAN DIED
I wanted murder.
For one hour, I wanted it.
Not because I wanted Julian’s death to be worse.
Because anger prefers a target.
The police records gave me something less satisfying.
Julian had been drinking.
A lot.
His blood alcohol was above the legal limit.
A bartender in Cambridge remembered serving him.
A rideshare receipt showed he had ordered a car.
Then canceled it.
His Porsche left a private club near Fresh Pond at 1:12 a.m.
He crashed forty-two minutes later.
No evidence of another vehicle.
No mechanical tampering found at the time.
No sign of assault.
His death remained what it had always been:
A drunk-driving crash.
But who poured his last drink?
That mattered for a different reason.
Rosalind knew.
We sat in a private room at St. Elizabeth’s after her discharge papers were finished.
Ivy colored on the windowsill.
Julian’s letter lay between us.
“He called me that night,” Rosalind said.
“What did he say?”
“That he’d found the transfer.”
“What transfer?”
“Raven money going into family trusts.”
“Gideon?”
“He thought so.”
“Did he have proof?”
“Enough to scare him.”
“What did he do?”
“He asked Gideon to meet.”
My chest tightened.
“Where?”
“The club.”
“Was Helena there?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Julian told me.”
“What happened?”
“He called again at twelve forty.”
“Drunk?”
“Yes.”
“Angry?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Rosalind looked at Ivy.
Then back.
“He said Gideon admitted moving money.”
I leaned forward.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where?”
“Property companies. Political accounts. Family office.”
“What else?”
“Julian said he was going to tell you.”
“He never called me.”
“He tried.”
I checked my memory.
Eight years ago.
I had been in Miami dealing with an Ashworth problem I no longer liked remembering.
My phone had been off during a meeting.
When I turned it on, Julian’s missed call was there.
I listened to his voicemail after police told me he was dead.
It said only:
Dom, call me.
I had kept it for years.
“What did Gideon do?”
“According to Julian?”
“Yes.”
“Poured him bourbon.”
I stared.
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“No drug?”
“Julian never said.”
“No threat?”
“He said Gideon told him he was too emotional to understand business.”
That sounded exactly like my uncle.
“So Julian drank.”
“Yes.”
“And drove.”
“Yes.”
My anger lost its convenient target.
Gideon had not necessarily killed my brother.
He may have watched him make a terrible decision.
He may have contributed to the moment.
That was not the same.
Rosalind continued.
“Julian blamed himself the whole call.”
“For what?”
“He’d been drinking before Gideon arrived.”
Good.
No saint.
“Then why write ‘ask who poured my last drink’?”
“Because he wanted you to know who he met.”
That was all.
Not a murder clue.
A name.
Gideon.
I almost respected Julian for refusing to make himself innocent.
“What happened after he died?”
“Helena contacted me.”
“Immediately?”
“Four days.”
“What did she say?”
“That Julian had told her about Ivy.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Two months before.”
“So Mother knew while he was alive.”
“Yes.”
“She never told me.”
“No.”
“What did she offer?”
“Money. Security.”
“In exchange for silence.”
“In exchange for staying away.”
“Same thing.”
Rosalind shook her head.
“Not exactly.”
I looked at her.
“She said Gideon had asked whether Julian left any children.”
My skin tightened.
“When?”
“Day after funeral.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t know.”
“So she hid Ivy.”
“Yes.”
“Partly to protect her.”
“Yes.”
“And partly to keep the trust quiet.”
Rosalind’s eyes hardened.
“Yes.”
There it was.
Helena’s motive split down the middle.
Protection.
Control.
My mother was capable of both at once.
That evening, I moved Rosalind and Ivy into a secure apartment owned by one of my legitimate holding companies.
Not Ashworth Manor.
Rosalind refused.
Then agreed after Desmond showed her the police report from her break-in.
Ivy asked whether the apartment had pancakes.
It did after I made three phone calls.
At midnight, Desmond came to my study.
“Nolan’s attorney contacted ATF.”
“And?”
“He’s cooperating.”
“Why?”
“Because the bomb case scares him more than Gideon.”
Good reason.
“What did he say?”
“He approved the Bentley maintenance access.”
My hand tightened.
“Then he’s involved.”
“He says Gideon told him you wanted the car security upgraded.”
“I didn’t.”
“Nolan approved Bayline.”
“Who installed the device?”
“Federal investigators have a suspect. Former Bayline contractor.”
“Connected to Gideon?”
“Through a second company.”
That was getting closer.
“Did Nolan know about the bomb?”
“He says no.”
“Do they believe him?”
“They’re checking.”
I hated that answer because it was correct.
Desmond continued.
“Nolan admitted something else.”
“What?”
“Gideon asked him to prepare the six-point-four-million Corvus transfer.”
“Why?”
“Close Julian’s branch before the descendant claim reached you.”
My chest tightened.
“He knew about Ivy.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Nolan says at least three months.”
“Did Helena?”
“Not according to him.”
“And the bomb?”
Desmond looked at me.
“Nolan says Gideon asked him a question four days before your Bentley exploded.”
“What?”
“If you died before Fenwick acknowledged a descendant claim, who would control Julian’s trust?”
I went still.
“What did Nolan say?”
“Helena and Gideon until a replacement trustee was appointed.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“Did Gideon respond?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
May you like
Desmond’s voice dropped.
“He said, ‘Then Dominic is the only real problem left.’”
Related Stories
