Chapter 10 - Preston VancePreston looked smaller in custody.
At least, that was the first version.
The second was worse.
His passport had been used at O’Hare.
But surveillance showed someone else carrying it.
Grant’s car was found near the Indiana border.
Empty.
His phone had been destroyed.
His wife claimed not to know where he was.
Federal agents believed he was either running or hiding.
Preston claimed Grant had suffered a nervous breakdown.
Nobody believed Preston anymore.
Then Grant called me.
At 2:17 in the morning.
Private number.
I was asleep in my childhood bedroom.
The ringing woke me.
I answered without thinking.
“Hello?”
“Rebecca.”
I sat up.
His voice was unmistakable.
“Grant?”
“Don’t hang up.”
I reached for the recording app, then remembered Lena’s instructions.
“Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to the FBI.”
A dry laugh.
“I’m sure it does.”
“What do you want?”
“To make a trade.”
“I’m not trading anything.”
“You want the Red Book.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“Carter told you?”
“No. Carter is predictable.”
“What do you want?”
“Protection.”
“I can’t give you that.”
“You can connect me to your agent.”
“Then call the FBI.”
“I don’t trust them.”
“Why trust me?”
“Because your father did.”
I froze.
“You knew him?”
“Better than Preston realized.”
Grant’s voice shook.
“I helped Daniel too.”
“Elaine never mentioned you.”
“Elaine didn’t know.”
“Thomas helped him.”
“So did I.”
“Then why didn’t Dad write about you?”
“Because I asked him not to.”
Convenient.
“What proof do you have?”
“The red sailboat.”
My breath stopped.
“What?”
“The toy you and Daniel built. He told me it sank before it reached the end of the dock.”
Nobody outside my family knew that.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Bring Owen.”
“Where?”
“A church in Evanston.”
“Why a church?”
“Because your father used to say Preston never went anywhere he couldn’t control.”
“And a church is different?”
“Preston stopped believing in God years ago.”
I contacted Lena immediately.
She was furious Grant had called me directly.
But she agreed to supervise.
The church was empty except for Grant.
He sat in the third pew.
He looked twenty years older than he had at the wedding.
He raised his hands when agents entered.
“I’m unarmed.”
Lena searched him.
Then Owen and I approached.
Grant looked at me.
“You have Daniel’s eyes.”
I hated hearing that from him.
“Where’s the Red Book?”
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“Not until we talk.”
Lena said, “You’re in no position to negotiate immunity.”
“I’m not asking for immunity.”
“What are you asking for?”
“My daughter.”
Grant’s daughter, Lily, was thirty-one.
She worked in Boston.
“What about her?”
“Preston threatened her.”
“With what?”
“Something from the Red Book.”
“What?”
Grant looked ashamed.
“An accident she caused when she was nineteen.”
Owen crossed his arms.
“Drunk driving?”
“Yes.”
“Someone hurt?”
“A cyclist.”
“Did they survive?”
“Yes.”
“Was it reported?”
“No.”
Grant had paid the cyclist.
Preston kept the evidence.
For twelve years, Grant did whatever Preston demanded.
“Including helping steal pension money?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Helping destroy my father?”
Grant looked at me.
“No.”
“Were you involved in his death?”
“No.”
“Who was?”
He looked at Lena.
“I don’t know who physically did it.”
“But?”
“Preston ordered Moss to ‘solve the Mercer problem.’”
Silence.
“What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what you think.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did you hear him?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The night before Daniel died.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I was a coward.”
No excuse.
Just truth.
That made him more believable.
Grant continued.
“Moss hired someone.”
“Who?”
“I never knew.”
“Can you prove any of this?”
“The Red Book contains payment references.”
“Where?”
Grant looked at me.
“Vance Memorial.”
The family mausoleum.
Of course.
A place Preston assumed nobody would search.
Lena got a warrant.
By afternoon, agents opened a concealed compartment behind a stone panel.
Inside sat a red leather notebook.
Preston’s handwriting covered hundreds of pages.
Initials.
Dates.
Amounts.
Threats.
Favors.
One entry from July 2005 read:
GM — 250K — D.M. cleanup.
Another:
Boat incident closed. G.M. confirms no review.
My knees nearly gave out.
Dad.
Cleanup.
Boat incident.
Closed.
Lena put a hand on my shoulder.
“We have enough to move.”
“Move how?”
“Arrests.”
That evening, federal agents entered Vance Industrial headquarters.
Preston was taken into custody.
So was Gerald Moss.
Three former executives.
Two accountants.
A banker.
By midnight, six more warrants had been executed.
News helicopters circled downtown.
Vance Industrial’s board suspended senior leadership.
Trading in associated companies froze.
The empire cracked in public.
I should have felt victorious.
Instead, I sat at my parents’ kitchen table staring at a photograph of Dad.
Mom sat across from me.
“He knew,” I whispered.
“He suspected.”
“He knew they might kill him.”
“Yes.”
“And he still kept going.”
Mom nodded.
“Why?”
She smiled sadly.
“Because hundreds of people were losing money they had earned their entire lives.”
I looked down.
“That sounds like him.”
“It was.”
The next morning, Lena called.
“Rebecca, Preston wants to speak to you.”
“No.”
“I assumed.”
“Why?”
“He says he has information about Daniel’s death.”
My breath caught.
“What kind?”
“He claims Gerald Moss didn’t kill your father.”
“Then who did?”
“That’s what he says he’ll tell you.”
“In exchange for what?”
Lena paused.
“You.”
I went cold.
“What?”
“He will only speak if you are physically present.”
Owen immediately said no.
Mom said no.
Dad used several words I won’t repeat.
I said yes.
May you like
Not because Preston deserved it.
Because my father did.
