Chapter 4 - THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR
The rain had turned into a steady, freezing downpour by eleven o’clock, rattling against the tall windows of the master library on the second floor.
A single brass desk lamp cut a yellow circle across the mahogany surface.
Nathan sat in the high-backed leather chair, the open ledger spread before him. Page after page detailed the network of corruption that connected Newport’s elite, Boston investors, and the city’s police department in a web of offshore accounts and cash payoffs.
Nero lay across the threshold of the library door, his massive head resting on his paws, watching the dark hallway with unblinking vigilance.
Downstairs, a floorboard creaked.
It wasn't the settling of the old house. It was the deliberate, heavy tread of a rubber-soled boot coming up the curved staircase.
Clack.
Then silence.
Warrick stepped out from the shadows near the fireplace, a heavy iron poker in his right hand. He didn't speak. He simply stood beside the door frame, his eyes fixed on the landing.
The footsteps stopped outside the library.
The brass doorknob turned. Slowly. With infinite care.
The door swung inward.
Detective Whitaker Doyle stood in the doorway, drenched in rain, his trench coat soaked through, his hat dripping water onto the Persian rug. He held a small flashlight in one hand and a revolver pointed safely toward the floor in the other.
He didn't look surprised to find them waiting.
“I told you,” Doyle said, his voice raspy and tired. “No one pays me to read the old files. But sometimes you find things when you're looking for where the bodies are buried.”
Nathan didn't stand up. He closed the ledger and slid it into the leather briefcase beside his chair.
“You didn't come here to talk about old files, Detective,” Nathan said. “You came because you knew the wall behind the staircase was fresh.”
Doyle stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He didn't look at Warrick or the iron poker. He looked directly at Nathan.
“I’m the one who called Prescott Lyle three years ago,” Doyle said quietly.
Nathan’s hand stopped on the edge of the desk.
“You?”
“I was a rookie patrolman in 2019,” Doyle said, pulling a metal chair away from the reading table and sitting down without being invited. He looked older than thirty-three in the amber light—haggard, worn down by years of keeping secrets in a town that pretended to be clean. “I was the first officer to arrive at the guesthouse fire. The fire was already out when I got here. Julian Ostrander was sitting on the lawn with a glass of scotch, watching the timbers smoke.”
“And his wife?” Nathan asked.
“Inside the main house,” Doyle said. “Tied to a chair in the basement with her throat cut. Next to her was an accountant from Boston who had been skimming from the shipping accounts.”
“And the official report?”
“Accidental fire, followed by a domestic murder-suicide,” Doyle spat the words out like poison. “Signed off by the district attorney within forty-eight hours because Julian Ostrander promised to hand over his entire shipping dock to a Boston syndicate if the department looked the other way.”
“And why didn't you take the ledger then?” Nathan asked.
Doyle leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“Because Julian’s uncle—the man who really ran the operation—wasn't Julian. It was the Chief of Police. He told me that if I opened my mouth, my career—and my mother’s medical pension—would vanish before the morning shift.”
He looked toward the hallway, where Nero lay watching him with those unblinking yellow eyes.
“I couldn't touch them. Not with the whole department in their pocket. So I waited. I watched every real estate auction for six years, waiting for someone stupid enough—or powerful enough—to buy the house and tear down the walls the police department had sealed with their own cement.”
Nathan stared at him for a long moment.
“You didn't come to arrest us,” Nathan said.
“No,” Doyle said, reaching into his wet trench coat and pulling out a heavy manila envelope stamped with the state attorney general’s seal. He tossed it onto the desk beside the ledger. “I came to drop off the unredacted arrest warrants for the current Chief of Police and the three surviving members of the Ostrander shipping board.”
Nathan picked up the envelope. He broke the red wax seal and pulled out the papers.
Every signature was legitimate. Every federal judge’s stamp was current.
“You’ve been busy, Detective,” Nathan said.
“I told you,” Doyle said, standing up and heading toward the door. “I’m the only one in Newport who cares what happens after the property taxes stop arriving.”
He paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder.
“Oh, and Vance?”
May you like
“What?”
“The well behind the carriage house? You might want to bring a couple of your dock workers with you in the morning. The water’s very deep, but things tend to float to the top eventually.”
