Chapter 2 - The Housekeeper Vivian Needed Gone
Nathan did not collapse.
That was the first thing Vivian noticed.
For the next forty minutes, he allowed her to wonder why.
He crossed the ballroom with the calm ease people expected from Nathan Mercer, shaking hands with judges, developers, charity directors, politicians and businessmen whose private interests were significantly darker than their public résumés.
Vivian remained near him.
Too near.
“You’re quiet,” she said.
“I’m hosting.”
“I’m hosting.”
He glanced at her.
“Then apparently I’m decorative.”
She smiled.
“That would be a first.”
Anyone watching them might have mistaken the exchange for flirtation.
Nathan was studying her pupils.
Her breathing.
Her hands.
Vivian had been part of his life for three years.
Engaged for nine months.
They had met through Patrick at a Miami development conference. Her father, Malcolm Cole, had been a respected shipping investor before dying of cancer four years earlier.
Vivian was polished, educated, disciplined.
She never became emotional in public.
She understood expensive rooms.
Important men.
Long silences.
Nathan had admired her competence.
He had never loved her.
That had seemed irrelevant.
At thirty-eight, Nathan no longer believed marriage required love.
His parents had been married thirty-four years and had spent at least twenty-nine quietly resenting each other.
Love, in his experience, was a liability wearing perfume.
Owen had believed differently.
That was one of the thousand things Nathan had mocked him for.
Then Owen died.
And Nathan stopped mocking anything.
Vivian touched his arm.
“You barely drank.”
Nathan held up the empty tumbler.
“Enough.”
Her gaze lingered on it.
“I thought that bottle was your favorite.”
“It is.”
“Was it good?”
Nathan smiled.
“Excellent.”
That was the moment he knew.
Vivian relaxed.
Only slightly.
But Nathan had built an empire from slight movements.
Across the room, Patrick drank champagne.
Nathan looked at him.
His uncle raised his glass.
Nathan returned the gesture.
Then Cal appeared near the terrace doors.
One touch to his cuff.
Their signal.
They had found something.
Nathan kissed Vivian lightly on the cheek.
“I need five minutes.”
“For what?”
“Business.”
“It’s our engagement benefit.”
“And unfortunately people still insist on needing me.”
She smiled.
“Five.”
Nathan walked away.
Cal met him in the library.
“Wallace is gone.”
“How?”
“Service elevator to the garage.”
“His car remains.”
“He left in another vehicle.”
“Whose?”
“Rental SUV. Plates cloned.”
“Footage?”
“Driver kept his face turned.”
Nathan removed his jacket.
“And Patrick?”
“Still downstairs.”
“Vivian?”
“With the guests.”
Cal put a tablet on the desk.
“I pulled cellar footage.”
Vivian appeared on-screen.
8:14 p.m.
She entered.
Thirty seconds later, Patrick followed.
They remained inside four minutes.
When Vivian emerged, she carried the bottle.
Patrick emerged separately.
Wallace entered six minutes later, collected the bottle from a service tray and delivered it upstairs.
“Did Wallace add anything?”
“No.”
“So Vivian or Patrick did.”
“Probably.”
Nathan stared at the footage.
“What was Owen investigating before he died?”
Cal frowned.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Nate, that was ten years ago.”
“What was he doing?”
“Working freight.”
“Which yards?”
“Nine and Twelve mostly.”
“Who supervised Nine?”
Cal's expression changed.
“Patrick.”
Nathan nodded.
Cal stared at him.
“You think Owen’s death connects to this?”
“I think Vivian entered his room four nights ago and stole something.”
“Who saw her?”
“Clara.”
Cal looked toward the ceiling.
“And Vivian tried firing Clara today.”
“Yes.”
“Could be coincidence.”
Nathan gave him a look.
Cal sighed.
“I know.”
“Did Owen ever mention Malcolm Cole?”
“Vivian's father?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Nathan opened a desk drawer.
Inside was Owen’s old watch.
Nathan had removed it from his brother’s body himself.
The glass was cracked from the fire.
The hands had stopped at 2:13.
He had never repaired it.
“Who told us the Alvarez organization burned Warehouse Nine?”
“Patrick.”
“Evidence?”
“Police report.”
“Based on?”
Cal thought.
“An informant.”
“Name?”
“I don't remember.”
“I do.”
Nathan looked at him.
“Wallace Byrne.”
Cal became completely still.
Wallace.
The missing waiter.
Ten years earlier, Wallace Byrne had been a dockworker.
He had claimed he'd seen an Alvarez car near Warehouse Nine the night Owen died.
Nathan had rewarded him.
Gave him a stable job.
Helped his wife through cancer.
Allowed his son into a Mercer apprenticeship program.
Wallace had worked inside Mercer House for five years.
And tonight, Wallace delivered Nathan a drugged drink and disappeared.
Cal swore.
Nathan said nothing.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find everything from Owen's case.”
“Police?”
“Police. Insurance. Internal records.”
“Patrick had most of the internal files.”
“Then don't ask Patrick.”
Cal nodded.
Nathan added, “Find out where Wallace goes.”
“You think he’ll lead us somewhere?”
“I think frightened men go to whoever frightens them most.”
Cal left.
Nathan went upstairs.
The east guest suite was larger than Clara's apartment.
He knew that because household records listed her address and Cal had once performed the standard background review.
He hadn't known it because he'd cared.
At least that was what Nathan told himself.
He knocked.
Clara opened the door.
She was no longer wearing the black service jacket.
Her sleeves had been rolled to her elbows.
Ellie slept sideways across the enormous bed with one fairy wing still attached.
Atlas lay on the carpet beside her.
Nathan looked at the dog.
“You climbed stairs?”
Atlas blinked.
Clara smiled.
“He insisted.”
“Traitor.”
The mastiff sighed.
Nathan looked back at Clara.
“Can we talk?”
She stepped into the hallway and closed the door quietly.
“Did you find something?”
“Yes.”
Her face tightened.
“Is Ellie in danger?”
“I don’t know.”
“That means yes.”
“No. It means I refuse to lie to you.”
Clara studied him.
She had unusual eyes.
Gray.
Not blue.
Not green.
Gray.
Nathan wondered why he had never noticed.
Then realized he had.
He had simply refused to call it noticing.
“Why did you take this job?”
Her brows furrowed.
“Because I needed work.”
“Where did you work before?”
“Hotel cleaning. Then private homes.”
“Your husband worked for me.”
Clara's face changed.
There.
Nathan saw it.
Daniel Walsh.
The name had been bothering him downstairs.
Then he remembered.
Daniel had worked electrical maintenance at Mercer Freight.
“Warehouse Twelve,” Nathan said.
Clara swallowed.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Seven years.”
“Did he know Owen?”
“I don't know.”
Lie.
“Clara.”
Her eyes hardened slightly.
“Mr. Mercer, I just learned somebody tried to drug you and that your fiancée forged a letter firing me. Maybe tonight isn't the best time to interrogate me about my dead husband.”
Nathan should have been offended.
Instead, something close to respect moved through him.
“You're right.”
That surprised her.
Nathan leaned against the wall.
“Start wherever you want.”
Clara hesitated.
“Daniel didn't talk about work much.”
“Neither did Owen.”
“After your brother died, Daniel changed.”
Nathan straightened.
“How?”
“He stopped sleeping.”
“Why?”
“He said something happened at the yard.”
“What?”
“He wouldn't tell me.”
“Why?”
“He said knowing would put me in danger.”
Nathan almost laughed.
The sentence sounded exactly like something a Mercer man would say before creating ten times more danger through secrecy.
“Did he mention Patrick?”
Clara looked away.
Nathan knew.
“Clara.”
“One time.”
“What did he say?”
“That Patrick Mercer was not the man you thought he was.”
Nathan's jaw tightened.
“When?”
“About six months before Daniel died.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She looked at him as if the answer should be obvious.
“You were Nathan Mercer.”
“I’m still Nathan Mercer.”
“I know.”
Her voice dropped.
“You don't understand what your name sounds like to people outside your world.”
Nathan said nothing.
“Daniel told me not to go to the police. Not to go to you. He said if anything happened to him, I should take Ellie and leave Miami.”
“You didn't.”
“I had eighty-three dollars after the funeral.”
That silenced him.
Clara folded her arms.
“The insurance company denied part of his claim. Our savings disappeared into medical bills and funeral costs. I had a four-year-old.”
Nathan felt something cold.
“His accident.”
“Hit-and-run.”
“Was the driver found?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“Biscayne Boulevard.”
“Time?”
“Eleven thirty at night.”
“Why was Daniel there?”
Clara stared.
“He'd told me he was working late.”
Nathan knew the Mercer yards.
Daniel would not have needed Biscayne Boulevard.
Not from Warehouse Twelve.
“Did he leave anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“Files. Notes. Keys.”
“No.”
Another lie.
This time Nathan did not call it out.
Not yet.
Ellie moved inside the room.
They both turned instinctively.
Clara lowered her voice.
“She was four when he died.”
Nathan looked at the closed door.
“Does she remember him?”
“Bits.”
“Like?”
“He used to let her sit on his shoulders while he changed light bulbs.”
A faint smile appeared.
“He called her peanut.”
Nathan remembered Owen calling every child under ten peanut.
Another tiny connection.
“Do you have somewhere else to go?”
Clara's smile vanished.
“My apartment.”
“I mean somewhere Patrick wouldn't know.”
“You really think your uncle had something to do with Daniel?”
“I don't know.”
“But you think it.”
“Yes.”
Clara rubbed her forehead.
“I have a cousin in Tampa.”
“Not tonight.”
Nathan moved closer.
“I'll put security outside this door.”
“I don’t want men with guns outside Ellie’s room.”
“They’ll stay out of sight.”
“You don't understand children.”
“No.”
Nathan paused.
“I understand losing family.”
That changed her.
The hard edge softened.
Nathan continued.
“You saw Vivian with Owen's box. I need to know why she wanted it.”
“What was inside?”
“When I opened it after Owen died, nothing important.”
“Maybe something was hidden.”
Nathan looked toward the west corridor.
“Yes.”
They walked there together.
Mercer House became quieter after midnight.
The gala had ended.
Guests left believing Nathan had spent the evening charming donors.
Vivian went to her apartment in the south wing.
Patrick left in his Bentley.
Neither knew Nathan was awake to everything.
Owen’s door remained locked.
Nathan used his key.
The room smelled faintly of cedar.
Dustless, because Mrs. Hargrove insisted on maintaining it.
But unchanged.
Dark green walls.
Old books.
A guitar Nathan never heard Owen play well.
Photographs.
Atlas stopped at the threshold.
Clara noticed.
“He won't come in?”
“Hasn't for ten years.”
Nathan entered.
Clara followed.
The metal box was gone from beneath the desk.
Exactly as she'd said.
Nathan crouched.
A rectangle in the carpet showed where it had sat.
“What was inside?”
“Nothing worth stealing.”
Clara studied the desk.
“Then maybe the box was worth stealing.”
Nathan looked at her.
“Explain.”
“If you searched it, anyone close to you would assume you'd already checked everything inside.”
He understood immediately.
A hiding place inside an obvious hiding place.
Nathan pulled the desk drawers out.
Nothing.
Clara ran her fingers beneath the edge.
“Daniel used to hide Ellie's Christmas money under drawers because she opened everything.”
She stopped.
“Here.”
A tiny ridge.
Nathan felt it.
Tape.
He pulled.
A small brass key came free.
Attached was a paper tag.
Nathan stared.
Clara whispered, “That wasn't there by accident.”
“No.”
Atlas suddenly whined from the doorway.
Nathan turned.
The old dog stared at the key.
Then walked into Owen’s room for the first time in ten years.
One step.
Then another.
His nails clicked on the wood floor.
He approached Nathan.
Sniffed the key.
And sat down.
Nathan's throat tightened.
“Owen showed you this.”
Atlas leaned against his leg.
Clara looked away, giving him privacy he hadn't asked for.
Nathan crouched beside the dog.
Ten years disappeared.
Owen laughing.
Owen swearing.
Owen stealing Nathan's shirts.
Owen telling him he had become too much like their father.
The warehouse.
The phone call.
The body.
Nathan closed his fist around the key.
“317.”
Clara whispered.
“Could be a locker.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Nathan looked toward Owen's photographs.
Behind one frame was a picture of Owen standing outside the old Miami Central train terminal.
Storage lockers had once filled the basement.
Most had been removed after redevelopment.
But Mercer Properties owned the building.
Nathan stood.
“I know where.”
Clara reached for his arm.
“It's almost one in the morning.”
He looked at her hand.
She immediately removed it.
“Sorry.”
“You're coming.”
“What?”
“You recognized things I didn't.”
“I have a child asleep down the hall.”
“She stays here with Atlas and six security men.”
“No.”
“Clara—”
“No.”
It was not a frightened answer.
Nathan was discovering Clara Walsh contained significantly more steel than her uniform suggested.
“I am not leaving Ellie in a house where someone drugged you.”
Nathan considered arguing.
Then stopped.
She was right.
Again.
“We go tomorrow.”
Clara relaxed slightly.
Nathan slipped the key into his pocket.
As they returned to the guest wing, Cal called.
“We found Wallace.”
“Where?”
“Not him exactly. His phone.”
“Where?”
“At the old Central Terminal.”
Nathan stopped walking.
Clara saw his face.
“What?”
Nathan ended the call.
“Your theory was right.”
“Locker?”
“Maybe.”
“What happened?”
“Wallace's phone was found in the same building.”
Clara went pale.
Nathan looked down the long corridor toward Ellie’s room.
Three hours earlier, the most dangerous problem in his life had been a drugged whiskey.
May you like
Now his dead brother, Clara's dead husband, his fiancée, his uncle and a missing waiter all seemed connected to a brass key hidden beneath a drawer for ten years.
And somebody had reached the locker before Nathan.
