Chapter 3 - The Ghost from Albany
The rain had turned into a steady, freezing downpour by 3:00 AM when Vincent returned to his private study on the third floor of his brownstone on Shore Road. The estate overlooked the Narrows; through the bay windows, the distant lights of the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge hung in the fog like a string of glowing pearls suspended over black glass.
Frankie ‘The Pen’ Varga sat in one of the leather armchairs, a thick manila folder resting on the mahogany desk between two crystal tumblers of twelve-year-old scotch.
"Her real name is Amelia Hayes Fletcher," Frankie began without preamble, tapping the edge of the folder. "Twenty-four years old. Born in Troy, New York. Graduated top of her class from Syracuse with a degree in forensic accounting."
Vincent took a sip of his scotch, remaining standing by the fireplace. "Go on."
"Two years ago, she married Raymond Fletcher." Frankie flipped the file open, revealing a color photograph of a man in his late thirties with slicked-back dark hair, high cheekbones, and the cold, predatory eyes of a reptile in an expensive suit. "Raymond isn't a street guy. He’s the eldest son of Harrison Fletcher. Fletcher Maritime & Logistics out of Albany. They control the river barge traffic from the capital down to Peekskill. But that’s just the clean side."
"And the dirt?" Vincent asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Weapons running for the Montreal syndicates, state contract kickbacks, and high-level money laundering through upstate casinos," Frankie said. "Harrison Fletcher is an old bastard with friends in the governor's mansion. But Raymond... Raymond is worse. Raymond is sadistic. He served two years as an assistant district attorney before taking over the family’s enforcement wing. He knows how the law works, how to bend it, and how to bury anyone who questions him."
Vincent stared at Raymond Fletcher’s photograph. "Why did she run?"
"About four months ago, Harrison Fletcher suffered a massive stroke. Raymond made his move to take complete control of the family empire. Amelia was working as their internal auditor. She found a second set of books—digital ledgers detailing millions in payoffs to federal marshals, state judges, and shipping port authorities along the eastern seaboard." Frankie leaned forward. "Raymond found out she copied the drive. According to an Albany hospital record we managed to pull from an emergency room visit three months back, Amelia was admitted with a dislocated shoulder, three broken ribs, and severe contusions to the face. The police report was scrubbed within twelve hours."
"He beat her half to death," Vincent whispered, his voice dangerously low.
"And then he locked her in their private estate in the Adirondacks," Frankie confirmed. "Three days later, she set fire to the guest house as a diversion, slipped through the perimeter fence, and disappeared into the night. Raymond has had private investigators, off-duty state troopers, and Albany muscle turning the Northeast upside down looking for her. There’s a half-million-dollar bounty in the upstate underworld for her return. Alive, so Raymond can deal with her himself."
Vincent took a slow breath. He walked over to the desk, picked up the photograph of Raymond Fletcher, and held it over the open flame of the desk lighter.
The corner caught fire, curling into black ash that dropped silently into the crystal ashtray.
"Does Raymond know she is in Brooklyn?" Vincent asked.
"Not yet," Frankie said. "Derek Lawson had nothing to do with Fletcher. But Derek’s uncle, Sal Terranova? When Paul broke Derek’s hands tonight, Sal started squawking on the wire. He called a couple of his old associates upstate asking if Calder was losing his mind over some random waitress. If Raymond’s bloodhounds are listening to the chatter—and they always listen—they’ll put two and two together by sunrise."
Vincent set his glass down. "Where is the flash drive? The ledger she copied?"
"We don't know. She didn't have it on her when she arrived at St. Jude’s."
"Call Paul," Vincent ordered. "Bring Amelia here. Tonight."
"Boss, Dr. Graham said she needs bed rest—"
"She will rest here," Vincent said, turning toward the window where the storm lashed against the thick panes. "St. Jude’s is secure against street thugs. It is not secure against a squad of corrupt state troopers carrying federal warrants signed by Fletcher’s pocket judges. Bring her to Shore Road. Prepare the guest suite on the second floor. And Michael?"
Michael, who had been standing silently by the study door, straightened. "Yes, Mr. Calder?"
May you like
"Tell the gate guards that anyone approaching the property without an escort from my inner circle is to be treated as an invading force. No warnings. No negotiation."
***
