Chapter 3 - The Audit of Beacon Hill
At 04:15 a.m., the kitchen of the historic townhouse at 84 Mount Vernon Street was perfectly lit by three low-wattage halogen bulbs recessed into the custom walnut cabinetry. The room smelled of expensive espresso beans, imported marble sealant, and the faint, sweet scent of the vanilla-scented candles Grant Vale’s interior designer had placed along the limestone hearth to soften the architectural severity of the space.
Grant Vale stood by the copper island, his silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his fingers methodically turning the pages of an un-executed separation agreement his personal attorneys had prepared three months prior. His face, usually perfect for the television cameras of the early-morning news broadcasts, looked thick, yellow under the halogen light, his lower jaw showing the blue shadow of a thirty-hour stubble.
"The state police unit reported that the gurney was empty when they reached Trauma Two, Grant," his chief of staff, a thirty-four-year-old corporate attorney named Philip Vance, said from the doorway. Philip was holding a black leather briefcase that contained the encrypted communication files for the campaign’s finance committee. "The hospital’s digital log showed she was admitted under the name Elizabeth Sterling, but the admission sheet was cleared from the terminal by an administrator three minutes before our units cleared the main gate."
"She didn't run to her sister's house in Newton," Grant said, his voice holding that sharp, nasal precision that had made him the favorite prosecutor of the city’s suburban districts. "She doesn't have the financial liquidity to clear a hotel room on her own card. I had the bank freeze her personal accounts at midnight."
"She didn't use her card, Grant," Philip said, stepping into the room and setting the briefcase onto the marble counter. "The security camera at the hospital's ambulance bay caught a silver laundry van leaving the sector at 12:18. The plate was registered to a commercial maritime supply firm based out of the north side of the harbor. The primary shareholder of that firm is Luca Moretti."
Grant’s hand stopped turning the page. His thumb remained pressed against the corner of the watermarked paper until the sheet creased with a dry, white crack. "Moretti wouldn't touch her. He knows that if he interferes with a federal witness in a active racketeering investigation, the governor will approve the deployment of the National Guard to lock down his shipping terminals before the weekend."
"He isn't treating her like a witness, Grant," Philip said, his voice dropping into a low, defensive whisper that didn't carry past the walnut cabinets. "He’s treating her like an account that has been mismanaged by the field supervisor. The Commonwealth Bank just issued a notice of immediate margin call on our campaign’s secondary mortgage facility. They’re demanding the physical title deeds for the Chelsea easement to be delivered to their main office by 08:30, or they’ll log a formal notice of default with the state election commission."
Grant stood up, his leather loafers making a sharp, dry scraping sound against the herringbone oak floorboards. "The deeds are in the vault at the bank, Philip. They can't execute a default notice while the eminent domain petition is still pending before the land court."
"The land court judge just recused himself from the case, Grant," a new voice said from the back entryway.
Luca Moretti stood in the shadow of the pantry door. He had entered through the service entrance—the one Grant had installed to allow the catering staff to bring the roast capons and the chilled champagne into the dining room without disrupting the view from the front parlor. He was alone, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his canvas jacket, his boots leaving two dark smears of river-slush on the custom silk rug that lined the hallway.
Grant’s hand reached automatically toward the drawer where he kept his service automatic, but he stopped when he saw the small, blue light of a digital camera recording his movements from the pocket of Luca’s jacket.
"The judge’s son was appointed to a senior vice presidency at the Vance Technology Group three weeks ago, Grant," Luca said, stepping into the white light of the kitchen. "The appointment wasn't logged with the state ethics commission because the compensation package was routed through an offshore shipping trust based out of Panama. My marketing firm found the registration files during a routine cross-index of the maritime cargo manifests this morning. The audit is already on the governor’s desk."
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Grant’s jaw shifted to the left, his eyes fixing on the brass zipper of Luca’s jacket with a look of raw, focused hatred that had never been captured by the television cameras of the local news network. "You think you can run a campaign audit from a dry-dock pump house, Moretti? My office has forty-two indictments against your terminal managers ready to log with the grand jury by noon."
"You have forty-two signatures on un-verified affidavits, Grant," Luca said, his voice remaining flat, low, completely insulated from the emotional clutter of the room. "And every one of those witnesses was paid through the campaign’s secondary debt facility at the Commonwealth Bank. Tomorrow morning, those men will testify that your office threatened to seize their commercial fishing licenses if they didn't sign the templates your staff prepared for them. The ledger is complete, Grant. You just didn't realize that your wife was the clerk who was keeping the duplicates."
