Chapter 6 - The Vault
The rain began to fall as I walked the ten blocks to the financial district.
I kept my head down, avoiding the glow of streetlights and security cameras.
My tuxedo was ruined, stained with dirt and sweat, making me look like a drunken partygoer who had lost his way.
I reached the massive stone pillars of the First National Bank just as the morning staff was unlocking the doors.
I walked straight past the tellers and headed toward the private vault manager’s desk.
The manager, an older man named Mr. Vance, looked up from his computer and frowned.
“Can I help you, sir?”
I placed the brass key on his pristine glass desk.
Mr. Vance looked at the key, then up at my face.
Recognition slowly dawned in his eyes.
“Mr. Hayes,” he whispered, glancing nervously around the lobby.
“I need to access my father’s box,” I said.
“Your father’s box was closed three years ago by Arthur Sterling.”
My heart sank.
“But,” Mr. Vance continued softly, “your father opened a secondary box under a corporate shell name before he died.”
He stood up quickly.
“Follow me, please.”
He led me through a series of heavy steel doors and into the sterile, silent vault.
We stopped in front of box number 418.
Mr. Vance inserted his master key, and I inserted the brass key I had taken from Dr. Aris.
The lock clicked heavily.
I pulled the long metal drawer out and carried it to a private viewing room.
Inside the box was a thick manila envelope and a small digital hard drive.
I ripped the envelope open.
Inside were photographs, bank statements, and a detailed private investigator’s report.
The photographs showed Arthur Sterling shaking hands with a known cartel money launderer.
The bank statements proved that Claire’s family was entirely bankrupt.
They didn't want my father’s company to expand their empire.
They desperately needed our company’s clean assets to pay off a massive debt to the cartel.
My father hadn't died in an accident.
He was murdered because he discovered their secret and refused to let his company be used for money laundering.
I plugged the small hard drive into the viewing room’s computer terminal.
A single video file sat on the desktop.
I clicked play.
It was a recording from a dashboard camera, dated the exact night of my father’s death.
The footage showed my father’s car being intentionally rammed off the bridge by a heavy tow truck.
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The driver of the tow truck stepped out to inspect the wreckage.
It was Marcus, my father’s supposedly loyal head of security.
