Chapter 8 - The Boston Connection
The phone on the library desk had a secure, direct-dial line that bypassed the estate’s main switchboard—a relic from my father’s days managing international shipping disputes from his study.
When I punched in the seven-digit Boston number from Liam’s logbook, it didn't ring through a standard commercial exchange. It clicked twice, emitted a low, muted electronic tone, and connected instantly to a dry, raspy voice that sounded like it hadn't spoken to anyone in a week.
“Vane Maritime and Salvage. State your reference code.”
“I don’t have a reference code,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I have a name. Liam Vance.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of papers being shuffled frantically.
“Who is this?” the voice demanded, dropping its bureaucratic coldness.
“Raymond Vance. Liam’s uncle.”
A long pause stretched across the wire. In the background, I could hear the faint, hollow sound of harbor foghorns blowing somewhere out on the Massachusetts coast.
“He called me four days before he went down,” the investigator said, his tone softening with a grim, professional respect. “He told me if anything happened to him within the week, I was to mail a duplicate copy of the procurement audit to an unlisted PO box in Manhattan. But the mail never went out. Someone cleaned out his locker at the base twelve hours after the crash.”
“I know who cleaned it out,” I said, glancing at Arthur and Elena standing across the desk. “Or at least who ordered it.”
“Listen to me, Mr. Vance,” the investigator said, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. “Your nephew wasn't looking into casual bureaucratic oversight. He found a systemic paper trail linking the marine engine part failures to a shell corporation registered in Delaware under the exact same parent holding company that controls your family’s shipping dividends.”
“The Boston branch,” I said.
“They didn’t just buy maintenance contracts,” the investigator replied. “They deliberately certified substandard surplus parts for military training units across the eastern seaboard to siphon off insurance write-offs into private accounts. Liam figured out that his own unit was flying on equipment that should have been scrapped three years ago.”
The room seemed to grow colder. Every piece of family history, every bitter argument Beatrice had ever started about Vance legacy and corporate survival, suddenly snapped into a terrifying, coherent shape. The family name wasn't being protected by our traditions; it was being used as a shield to hide criminal negligence on a massive scale.
“Can you prove it?” I asked.
“I have the original digital backups of the procurement manifests,” the investigator said. “But they’re encrypted on a physical hard drive sitting in a safety deposit box in downtown Boston. And the bank requires two signatures to release it—mine, and the designated secondary trustee.”
“Who is the secondary trustee?” Arthur asked, leaning close to the speakerphone.
“A man named Howard Vance.”
I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, letting the reality wash over me. Howard—the quiet, distant cousin in Boston who had supposedly stayed out of family affairs for decades—wasn't an outsider at all. He was the vault keeper for the entire operation.
“Where is Howard right now?” I asked.
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“That’s the interesting part,” the investigator replied. “According to our travel monitors, his private car crossed the George Washington Bridge heading south toward Long Island three hours ago.”
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