Chapter 5 - Vincent Moretti’s Blind Spot
Vincent arrived at Emma’s apartment at 4:38 in the morning.
He did not send an assistant.
He came himself.
That frightened James Carter more than if Vincent had arrived with police.
“You don’t sleep?” James asked.
“Not tonight.”
Vincent stood inside the tiny kitchen wearing the same tuxedo shirt from the gala, now without the jacket or bow tie.
Emma placed the threatening photograph on the table.
Vincent examined it.
“Your father was being watched before tonight.”
“That’s what I think.”
James studied Vincent.
“You recognize me?”
Vincent looked carefully.
“No.”
“Your mother might.”
Vincent’s eyes shifted.
James explained the hospital renovation fifteen years earlier.
The false invoices.
The pediatric wing.
The documents he had given Isabella.
Vincent listened without interruption.
When James finished, Vincent said, “Langford Medical Properties became one of our largest charitable-development partners nine years ago.”
“Then perhaps you should ask why.”
Vincent did not react to the challenge.
Emma did.
“Dad.”
“No. Men like him survive because everyone becomes polite around money.”
Vincent pulled out a chair.
“Please don’t become polite.”
James almost smiled.
Vincent opened a tablet.
“Our preliminary review found that the Moretti Relief Trust transferred forty-two million dollars to community health programs over the last four years.”
Emma leaned forward.
“How much reached hospitals?”
“We’re still determining that.”
“That means you already know some didn’t.”
“Yes.”
James tapped the bill.
“My daughter’s been working double shifts because a hospital supported by your trust charges patients fees your charity supposedly exists to prevent.”
Vincent looked at the balance.
His face hardened.
“I’m going to investigate that.”
“I don’t want a favor.”
“Neither do I.”
Vincent looked at Emma.
“The threatening photograph changes things. Whoever stole my mother’s ledger knows your father’s history.”
Emma crossed her arms.
“Why?”
“Possibly because his old reports are connected to the same scheme.”
James shook his head.
“That would mean this started fifteen years ago.”
“Or something started then and evolved.”
Naomi entered from the hall carrying her laptop.
“I searched Langford Civic Health.”
James frowned.
“You should be asleep.”
“So should every person in this room.”
She placed the computer on the table.
“The nonprofit lists administrative vendors.”
Vincent scanned the screen.
One name stopped him.
Northstar Strategic Services.
“What?” Emma asked.
Vincent zoomed in.
“That company received payments from our trust.”
“How much?”
“Roughly six million over three years.”
Naomi clicked another tab.
“It has no real website. The business address is a private mailbox in Delaware.”
James looked at Vincent.
“Your mother noticed shell companies.”
Vincent nodded.
“Northstar was one of them.”
Emma asked, “Who approved payments?”
Vincent hesitated.
“Leonard Shaw.”
“And?”
Vincent’s expression closed.
“And me.”
The kitchen went silent.
Emma stared.
“You signed them?”
“Quarterly authorization packages. Hundreds of disbursements at a time.”
James gave a bitter laugh.
“There it is.”
Vincent’s voice cooled.
“You think that makes me part of the theft.”
“I think powerful men become very interested in details after the details threaten them.”
Emma expected Vincent to leave.
Instead, he nodded.
“That’s fair.”
James seemed surprised.
“So what now?” Emma asked.
“I’ve frozen nonessential transfers from the relief trust.”
“What about hospitals relying on grants?”
“Essential patient-care transfers continue under direct review.”
“Leonard?”
“His company access is disabled. His attorneys contacted mine thirty minutes ago.”
“Meaning he has a lawyer before anyone accused him publicly.”
“Yes.”
Vincent stood.
“My mother wants to see your father.”
James looked startled.
“Why?”
“She remembers him.”
Emma felt something shift.
Vincent continued.
“She remembered after I described your name.”
“What did she say?”
Vincent looked at James.
“She said you warned her once that charity becomes dangerous when donors care more about plaques than patients.”
James stared at him.
“That sounds like me.”
“She also said she made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
Vincent’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
He answered.
“Say that again.”
Emma watched every trace of exhaustion vanish from his face.
“When?”
A pause.
“Do not touch anything.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?” Emma asked.
Vincent looked at her.
“Someone broke into my mother’s house.”
James stood too quickly and grabbed the table.
“Is she there?”
“No. She’s at my residence.”
“What did they take?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Vincent reached for his jacket.
Then his phone vibrated again.
A photograph appeared from security.
He turned it toward Emma.
Isabella’s home office had been destroyed.
Drawers ripped out.
Paintings removed.
Books scattered.
Yet one object had been placed carefully in the center of her desk.
An old engineering invoice.
At the bottom was a familiar signature.
James Carter.
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And across the page, written in red ink:
HE SHOULD HAVE TAKEN THE MONEY.
