Chapter 5 - A Man Named Marcus Vale
Marcus Vale had spent most of his adult life learning what wealthy people feared.
It was rarely poverty.
It was irrelevance.
That was how he had first entered Damien Crowe’s world.
Two years earlier, Marcus arrived at Crowe Meridian as an adviser to a private investment group interested in purchasing a minority stake in one of Damien’s infrastructure subsidiaries.
He was intelligent enough not to flatter Damien.
Instead, he challenged him.
“You built a company that protects everybody’s systems except its own succession,” Marcus said during their second meeting.
Damien had smiled.
“That sounds like a sales pitch.”
“It’s an observation.”
Damien liked him immediately.
That mistake would cost him more than money.
Marcus became a regular presence at corporate dinners.
Then charity events.
Then the Crowe estate.
He and Evelyn connected over something Damien did not understand at the time: resentment.
Marcus resented men who controlled rooms simply because their names were on buildings.
Evelyn resented being introduced as Damien Crowe’s wife.
The affair began eleven months before the pool.
Not with passion.
With grievance.
“You know what people ask me?” Evelyn once told Marcus after a foundation gala. “What does it feel like to have everything?”
Marcus poured her another drink.
“What do you say?”
“That none of it belongs to me.”
He looked at her.
“That bothers you.”
“It’s supposed to.”
“Does it?”
She drank.
“Yes.”
From there, Marcus did what he did best.
He listened.
He learned about Damien’s prenup.
His trust.
The unresolved feud with Simone.
The internal politics at Crowe Meridian.
Most importantly, he learned that Damien believed financial transparency was the same thing as emotional transparency.
It was not.
Now Marcus sat alone in a leased office in Century City, staring at three phones.
One belonged to him.
One belonged to Vale Strategic Partners.
One technically belonged to a consulting entity that did not exist anywhere except Delaware corporate records and two bank accounts.
The third phone rang.
Marcus answered.
“Tell me.”
A male voice said, “Ruiz contacted the reptile vendor.”
Marcus’s expression tightened.
“How do you know?”
“I was asked whether Vale Strategic had reimbursed any specialty transport expenses.”
“And?”
“I said I needed to check.”
“Good.”
“That buys you maybe a day.”
Marcus stood.
“What about the invoice?”
“Still buried.”
“Keep it buried.”
“You said nobody would look.”
“They’re looking.”
The man lowered his voice.
“I want out.”
Marcus smiled without humor.
“You were paid.”
“To alter consulting expenses, not help cover murder.”
“You never covered murder.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“You do that.”
Marcus ended the call.
He walked to the window.
Los Angeles glittered below.
He had spent a decade close enough to wealth to touch it and too far away to own it.
Damien’s fortune enraged him because Damien treated it as ordinary.
He gave away millions and complained about board meetings.
He owned seven homes and preferred sleeping in the same bedroom.
He had everything Marcus wanted and seemed bored by it.
Evelyn understood that rage.
At least Marcus thought she did.
His phone buzzed.
Evelyn.
We need to talk.
Marcus typed:
Not electronically.
Her reply:
You’re already texting.
He smiled.
Fear was making her careless.
Good.
He needed her frightened.
At the Crowe estate, Damien sat with Martin Feld, the attorney who had managed his estate planning for fourteen years.
Martin was sixty-three, silver-haired and deeply unimpressed by billionaires.
He examined the counterfeit trust restatement.
“This is good.”
Damien frowned.
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“I mean the forgery.”
“I understood you.”
Martin turned pages.
“Correct fonts. Correct formatting. Accurate references to earlier amendments. Whoever made this had access to genuine documents.”
Claire stood beside the window.
“What would it accomplish?”
“If accepted as valid? Evelyn becomes successor trustee after Damien’s death and gains temporary control over several holding companies.”
“Temporary?”
“The corporate bylaws still limit her.”
Damien looked up.
“Could she sell my voting shares?”
“Not directly. But a successor trustee could influence board composition, authorize certain transactions and create chaos before anyone stopped her.”
“Enough chaos to steal the company?”
Martin considered.
“With help.”
“Marcus Vale?”
Martin’s eyes narrowed.
“The investment adviser?”
“Former adviser.”
“I never trusted him.”
“Convenient time to mention that.”
“I told you eighteen months ago his proposed fee structure was predatory.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It was lawyer language for ‘don’t invite this man into your life.’”
Claire almost smiled.
Martin pointed to the notarization.
“This is the weakness.”
“Why?”
“The notary is Sandra Beech.”
Damien did not recognize the name.
“She worked for my firm?”
“Until eight months ago. Junior estate paralegal. Fired for accessing client files outside her assignments.”
Claire straightened.
“Where is she now?”
“Nevada.”
Damien and Claire exchanged a look.
The reptile container had been purchased through Nevada.
Martin noticed.
“What?”
Damien stood.
“Call Ruiz.”
Before Claire could reach her phone, Damien’s rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Damien Crowe?”
“Yes.”
A woman whispered, “You don’t know me.”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Sandra Beech.”
Martin went still.
Damien put the phone on speaker.
Sandra continued.
“I saw the news about the snakes.”
Damien’s pulse quickened.
“What do you know?”
“I know somebody used my notary seal.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say this on the phone.”
“Then meet me.”
A pause.
“I’m scared.”
“Of Evelyn?”
Silence.
Then Sandra said something nobody in the room expected.
“No.”
“Who?”
“Marcus Vale.”
The call ended.
Claire immediately tried the number.
Disconnected.
Damien stared at the forged trust.
Until that moment, Evelyn had been the center of the nightmare.
Now another possibility appeared.
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What if his wife was not the architect?
What if Marcus had been building the trap around both of them?
