Chapter 8 - VICTOR
Police identified the second voice by lunchtime.
Victor Salerno.
Not a gangster.
Not exactly.
He owned three private lending companies, two pawn businesses, and half a dozen properties across the county.
He also had a reputation for loaning money to people banks rejected.
Victor agreed to meet police.
To everyone’s surprise, he also agreed to meet me.
We sat in a conference room at the station.
Victor was about sixty.
Gray suit.
Gray hair.
Calm eyes.
Nothing about him looked threatening.
That somehow made him more frightening.
He listened while Ruiz played the recording.
When it ended, Victor leaned back.
“Robert recorded that?”
“Apparently.”
Victor shook his head.
“Your father is an idiot.”
“Did you threaten him?”
“No.”
“You gave him until Friday.”
“To repay a loan.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred thousand principal. More with penalties.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happens Friday?”
“I file against his remaining assets.”
“So the ‘accidents happen’ conversation?”
Victor looked directly at me.
“That was your father trying to impress me.”
“Impress you?”
“He wanted me to believe he had solutions.”
“Did you know one solution might be killing me?”
“No.”
He sounded angry now.
“I lend money. I don't murder people.”
Ruiz asked, “Why didn't you report the conversation?”
“Because I thought he was talking about burning an empty building for insurance.”
I stared at him.
“And that sounded acceptable?”
Victor didn't blink.
“I didn't say acceptable. I said that's what I thought.”
Not comforting.
He slid a folder toward Ruiz.
“These are Robert’s loan applications.”
One document listed assets Dad claimed to own.
My bakery building.
My business.
My grandmother’s trust.
Even my house.
“He doesn't own any of these.”
“I know that now.”
Victor pointed to another page.
“He also gave me this.”
It was a purchase agreement.
Morning Finch Bakery.
Buyer: Warner Development.
Seller: Hannah Carter.
Sale price: $320,000.
My signature appeared at the bottom.
Forged again.
“The developer never showed me this,” I said.
Victor raised an eyebrow.
“You might want to ask him why.”
That afternoon, Paul Warner agreed to meet at the damaged bakery.
He arrived wearing an expensive coat and the expression of a man entering a funeral.
“Hannah, I heard what happened.”
“Did my father give you a signed sale agreement?”
Paul stopped.
That was answer enough.
“Paul.”
“Yes.”
“You knew the signature wasn't mine.”
“I suspected.”
“You never called me?”
“Your father said you wanted the transaction handled privately because of tax issues.”
“My father does not represent me.”
“I understand that now.”
I stepped closer.
“No. You understood it then.”
Paul looked away.
“How much did he promise you?”
Nothing.
I felt rage rise into my throat.
“You were going to buy my business from someone who didn't own it?”
“He offered favorable terms.”
“How favorable?”
Paul finally said, “Two hundred forty thousand.”
My mouth fell open.
“My offer was three twenty.”
“That offer was directly to you.”
“And Dad offered it for eighty thousand less?”
“Yes.”
“Where would the money go?”
“Silver Pine.”
I laughed once.
It sounded ugly.
“So everybody had a deal except me.”
Paul said, “Hannah, I can make this right.”
Police had given me specific instructions about anything suspicious.
So I asked one question.
“How?”
Paul glanced toward the broken front window.
Then lowered his voice.
“Your father called me an hour ago.”
I froze.
“What did he want?”
“To finish the sale.”
“He’s wanted by police.”
“I told him that.”
“And?”
“He said he has something that will make you sign.”
My blood turned cold.
“What?”
May you like
Paul looked at me.
“Your mother.”
