He was holding a glass of scotch, staring out over the rolling vineyards with an expression of supreme, unburdened arrogance. He took a slow sip, swirling the amber liquid against the ice cubes, looking like a king surveying his newly conquered empire.
“Turn up the terrace audio,” Reynolds ordered.
The technician clicked a trackball. The tinny, crystal-clear sound of their conversation filled the command van.
“…honestly, Russell, the view alone is worth the headache,” Diane’s voice drawled through the speakers, dripping with satisfaction. “I spoke to the decorator in San Francisco this morning. Once the estate clears probate, I want the entire master bedroom in Briar Glen gutted. I can’t stand that rustic, exposed-timber aesthetic Maren insisted on. It looks like a glorified ski lodge.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Diane,” Russell said, turning a page of his newspaper without looking up. “First, we have to settle the firm’s balance sheet. Marcus Vance confirmed the bridge loan transfer is queued for precisely 10:00 AM tomorrow. That gives us until Monday morning to wire the 1.2 million into the master escrow account before the state examiners show up.”
“And what about the house?” Diane asked, taking a delicate sip of wine. “How long before we can list it?”
Russell lowered his paper, looking toward his son. “Elliot? What did the local funeral director say?”
Elliot turned away from the pool, his face calm, indifferent, as though they were discussing the sale of a used vehicle rather than the burial of his wife and unborn daughter.
“The local coroner’s office in Vermont has already completed the preliminary examination,” Elliot said smoothly, taking another sip of his scotch. “They ruled the cause of death as accidental hyperthermia complicated by sudden maternal cardiac arrest. The official death certificate will be signed by the county medical examiner on Monday.”
My breath caught in my throat. The sheer, chilling monstrosity of his words hung in the air of the command van.
“And the baby?” Diane asked casually, adjusting her sunglasses. “Did they… did they have to do anything with it?”
“The fetus didn’t survive,” Elliot said, his tone devoid of even a flicker of remorse. “They’re holding the remains at the Burlington regional morgue until the probate court appoints me as sole administrator of her estate. Once the bridge loan clears tomorrow morning, I’ll fly back to Vermont, sign the cremation authorizations, and have both of them interred in the Carver family plot in Manchester. It’ll look dignified. The local community will feel terrible for me. A grieving young widower who lost his pregnant wife to a tragic household malfunction.”
Russell let out a low chuckle, tapping the ash from his cigar into a crystal tray. “Tragic indeed. But necessary. If that girl had audited our books, Elliot, all three of us would be spending the next twenty years in a federal penitentiary in upstate New York. She was too sharp for her own good. Clarence Bellamy raised a very smart daughter, but he forgot to teach her that family loyalty supersedes an architectural license.”
“She wasn’t family, Dad,” Elliot said, walking over to the table and refilling his scotch from an expensive crystal decanter. “She was an investment that had outlived its usefulness.”
Beside me, Arthur Sterling’s knuckles turned white where he gripped the edge of the console. His breath came in ragged, furious bursts.
Agent Reynolds glanced at her tactical watch.
“It’s 2:15 PM,” Reynolds whispered. “Marcus Vance is currently in federal custody in Newark. He has agreed to cooperate in exchange for a recommendation of leniency. He’s prepared to initiate the dummy transfer call to Elliot’s phone whenever we give the word.”
“No,” I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the van’s electronics like an ice pick. “Not tomorrow morning. Now.”
Reynolds turned to look at me, her eyebrows arched. “The transfer was scheduled for Friday at 10:00 AM, Mrs. Bellamy. If Marcus calls them early, it might spook them.”
“Elliot is impatient,” I said, watching my husband’s face on the surveillance monitor. “I lived with him for six years. When he thinks he has the upper hand, his arrogance blinds him to risk. Have Marcus text him right now. Tell him the private lender has an early settlement window that closes at 3:00 PM today, but it requires an immediate video conference verification between the borrower and the compliance officer to confirm the encumbrance against 1442 High Ridge Road.”
Arthur’s eyes lit up with predatory brilliance. “Brilliant. If Elliot takes that video call on the terrace and verbally confirms that he is authorized under the Power of Attorney to mortgage Maren’s property while declaring her ‘deceased or medically incapacitated,’ he commits aggravated wire fraud on camera with federal agents recording every second.”
