Chapter 5 - Unraveling the Web
Patrick didn't want to look. Every instinct of self-preservation screamed at him to keep his head down, to let Karl and Robert finish the dirty work, to pretend he was just a technician following orders.
But there was something in my eyes that paralyzed him.
His fingers trembled as he touched the mechanical keyboard.
"What are you doing, Patrick?" Karl shouted, still clutching Barnaby by the ear. "Grab her backpack!"
"Robert..." Patrick whispered, his voice cracking like dry wood. "Robert, look at the terminal."
"Clear the lobby!" Robert roared, reaching for the radio on the lead guard's hip. "I don't care about the terminal!"
"Sir," Patrick’s voice rose to a terrified screech. "Look at the terminal *now*!"
Robert lunged over the mahogany desk, knocking over a display of fresh white carnations, and grabbed the monitor, twisting it toward his face.
The screen had gone blue.
Not the blue of a system error, but the deep, imperial navy of the Vance Executive Command Network—a network that hadn't been activated from a terminal in Chicago since Daniel Vance’s memorial service three years earlier.
Across the top of the screen, text was cascading in green phosphor lines:
*OVERRIDE AUTHORIZED: TERMINAL 01 - GRAND REGENT*
*USER: CLARA HELENA VANCE*
*ROLE: CHAIRWOMAN & MAJORITY TRUSTEE, VANCE HOSPITALITY GROUP*
*STATUS: ACTIVE ON-SITE INSPECTION*
*ALL LOCAL MANAGEMENT PRIVILEGES: REVOKED PENDING INQUIRY*
Robert Haines stared at the screen. The skin beneath his eyes went gray, the muscles in his neck tightening so hard his collar stud popped, sending a tiny gold bead skittering across the marble desk.
"No," Robert breathed. "No, this is... she's dead. Marcus Sterling said she was living in a cabin outside Boulder. She doesn't have the codes. Daniel took the encryption keys to his grave."
"Daniel gave the encryption keys to his wife," I said. My voice was very quiet, but in the dead silence of the lobby, every syllable rang against the Italian stone like a chisel. "He gave them to me on the night Lily was born. Because he knew that if anything happened to him, men like you would come out of the woodwork like termites to eat the house he built for our daughter."
Karl dropped the stuffed rabbit. It hit the carpet with a soft, dull thud.
"Uncle Robert?" Karl’s voice had lost every trace of its sneer. It was the voice of a petulant child who had just realized the stove was hot. "Uncle Robert, who is she?"
"Shut up," Robert whispered, his eyes never leaving the screen. His hands were shaking so violently that he had to brace himself against the edge of the counter to keep from falling. "Shut up, Karl."
"Patrick," I said.
The young clerk dropped to his knees behind the desk, his head bowed, his hands flat against the cold floorboards. "Mrs. Vance. I didn't know. I swear to God, I didn't know it was you. Robert said you were just an overstay. He said the corporate booking was a glitch from the regional office."
"Get up, Patrick," I said. "A man only kneels when he's praying or when he's guilty. Which one are you?"
Patrick stood up slowly, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, his crisp white collar soaked with sweat. "Both, ma'am."
"Pick up my daughter’s rabbit," I commanded.
Karl scrambled forward, dropping to his hands and knees on the floor, reaching for the faded gray toy with both hands. He held it out to me like an offering, his lower lip trembling, his arrogant posture collapsed into a heap of cheap polyester and bad cologne.
"Not you, Karl," I said, stepping over his outstretched hands. "Patrick picks it up. You keep your hands on the floor."
Karl froze, his forehead touching the carpet, trembling in the middle of the Grand Regent lobby while three dozen arriving gala guests watched in stunned, horrified silence.
Patrick stepped around the desk, picked up Barnaby, brushed the dust from the rabbit’s velvet ears with the cuff of his sleeve, and handed it to me with both hands.
"Take my bags," I told Patrick. "Take them up to the Presidential Suite on Forty. If there is a single scratch on Lily's suitcase, you will spend tomorrow morning repainting the loading dock with a toothbrush."
"Yes, Mrs. Vance," Patrick gasped, grabbing the canvas backpack and the pink bag as if they were made of spun gold. "Immediately, Mrs. Vance."
Robert Haines slowly pulled himself up to his full height, though his shoulders remained hunched, his eyes darting frantically toward the elevators where Julian Croft had disappeared.
"Clara," Robert croaked, his voice cracking into a dry rattle. "Clara, please. We have been friends for ten years. Daniel and I—"
"Daniel and you were never friends, Robert," I said, looking him straight in the eyes. "Daniel was your employer. He paid you three times what you were worth because he believed that if you treat a man well, he will grow into the shoes you bought him. But you didn't grow. You just got fat on the grease you skimmed from the kitchen."
"You can't do this tonight," Robert hissed, desperation suddenly making him bold again. "The Croft Gala... the contract is for two million dollars. If you disrupt this event, the board will remove you for gross negligence. Croft controls thirty-four percent of the shares—"
"Croft controls twenty-six percent, Robert," I said, leaning in until I could smell the stale coffee and panic on his breath. "And the eight percent you bought for him with Hector's maintenance fund? Those shares were frozen by the Delaware Chancery Court twenty-five minutes ago."
Robert stumbled back two paces, his hip striking the corner of the marble desk.
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"You have two hours, Robert," I told him, checking Daniel's pocket watch. "Two hours to put on that tuxedo your nephew left in your office. Because at seven o'clock, you are going to stand beside me on the stage in the Grand Ballroom. And you are going to introduce the owner of Vance Hospitality to Julian Croft."
***
