Chapter 7 - THE DRIVER WHO HAD BEEN THERE THE NIGHT ELENA DIED
The forged signature changed the investigation.
Until that moment, we had evidence of harassment against Olivia, suspicious driver assignments, irregular financial transactions, and unauthorized access to Elena's belongings.
Now there was a financial document bearing the signature of a woman who had already been dead for four days.
Naomi immediately arranged for the original to be secured.
The forensic accountants compared it with authenticated examples of Elena's signature.
They could not conclusively identify the person who had signed it.
But the date was beyond dispute.
The bank's own transaction records showed that the transfer had been processed after Elena's death.
Someone had represented that she was still personally approving payments.
The money had gone to a company called Lakefront Fleet Services.
I remembered the name from Elena's notebook.
The same company had received the eighty-six-thousand-dollar vehicle maintenance payment two days before her accident.
Now another transfer, much larger, had been processed after her funeral arrangements were already underway.
"How much?" I asked Naomi.
"Four hundred and twenty thousand dollars."
I stared at her.
"From the foundation?"
"Yes."
"Who approved it internally?"
"The records show authorization through Vincent's division."
I began pacing.
"How did nobody notice?"
Naomi closed the file.
"Because the accounts were treated as routine expenses."
"And because the person responsible for the administrative approval was also involved in explaining discrepancies."
Rachel stood beside the window.
She had barely spoken since Naomi showed us the document.
Finally, she turned.
"Does that company still exist?"
"Not under the same name," Naomi answered.
Rachel picked up her laptop.
"I think it changed names."
She showed us a corporate registration history she had obtained from publicly available business records.
Lakefront Fleet Services had dissolved several years earlier.
One of its former officers later became associated with a company named Northside Executive Transportation.
Northside was the contractor that employed Daniel Voss.
I stared at the screen.
"Daniel worked for Lakefront Fleet?"
"Possibly."
"The names overlap."
"But I don't have employment records from twelve years ago."
Naomi nodded.
"That's something investigators can seek."
Rachel looked at me.
"Adrian, the same transportation network might have been involved before Elena died."
I felt as though I were standing at the edge of something terrible.
For twelve years, I had accepted that my wife died because she lost control of her car in heavy rain.
Now the company billing repairs to our family's vehicles was connected to false foundation payments.
And a driver associated with its successor company had been seen beside the man stalking my daughter.
I wanted answers immediately.
Instead, I called Detective Vega.
She listened without interrupting.
Then she explained that the potential financial crimes and questions surrounding Elena's death would require additional investigators.
The old collision report could be reviewed.
Relevant records could be sought.
But suspicion alone did not establish homicide.
I understood.
I hated it.
But I understood.
The following afternoon, Olivia received a call from Ethan's attorney.
The lawyer wanted to discuss whether she would be willing to communicate through counsel.
She declined direct contact and referred the inquiry to the detective handling her complaint.
Vega later told her that Ethan had provided an account of his interactions with Daniel.
She could not share everything while investigators checked the details.
But she could confirm that Ethan was being investigated for his own conduct regardless of what anyone else had encouraged him to do.
Olivia listened quietly.
Then she asked:
"Did he tell you I was making everything up?"
Vega's answer was careful.
"He disputed parts of the timeline."
"That doesn't erase the messages you've preserved."
After the call, Olivia sat on the hotel couch, staring at her phone.
I sat beside her.
"Do you want to talk?"
"I don't know."
I waited.
Finally, she spoke.
"I keep remembering the good things."
I looked at her.
"Ethan used to bring me soup when I was sick."
"He remembered when I had exams."
"He knew I hated crowded elevators."
"Sometimes I think about those things and wonder whether I misunderstood everything else."
I shook my head.
"Good memories don't make the threats imaginary."
She looked at me.
"Rachel said the same thing."
"Then Rachel was right."
Olivia gave a small smile.
"You've been saying that a lot lately."
"She's giving me plenty of opportunities."
The smile disappeared.
"I loved him once."
"I know."
"I don't want to hate him."
"You don't have to."
"But you do have to take his actions seriously."
She leaned back.
"How do you stop feeling responsible for somebody else's choices?"
I thought about Elena.
About twelve years of blaming the rain.
About believing I could have saved my wife if I had called her at the right moment.
About trying to control Olivia because I could not control what had happened to her mother.
"I don't think there's a simple answer," I said.
"But somebody else's decision to hurt you isn't something you caused by saying no."
Olivia turned toward me.
"That's actually good advice."
"Don't sound so surprised."
She laughed.
Then she rested her head on my shoulder.
For a few minutes, we were simply a father and daughter sitting together.
No detectives.
No suspicious invoices.
No men threatening our family.
Just us.
Then my phone rang.
Marcus.
"We found Daniel's employment history."
I stood.
"Tell me."
"He worked for Lakefront Fleet Services in 2014."
My heart began pounding.
"Doing what?"
"Vehicle transport and maintenance coordination."
"Did he work for us?"
Marcus hesitated.
"He was assigned to several Bellini-related accounts."
"One of them involved Elena's car."
I gripped the phone.
"Are you sure?"
"There's a service authorization bearing his employee number."
"It was issued forty-eight hours before the accident."
I stared toward the window.
"Who requested the service?"
"Vincent's office."
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Twelve years ago, my cousin had authorized work on Elena's vehicle.
A man connected to that service had reappeared in my daughter's life.
And the same man had been photographed with Ethan.
"What service?" I finally asked.
"That's the problem."
"The invoice describes a brake system inspection."
"But we don't have the underlying repair report."
I closed my eyes.
Elena's accident had been attributed to loss of control on a wet road.
Nobody had suggested a mechanical problem.
At least, nobody had suggested one to me.
"Did the police inspect the brakes?"
"The collision report says the vehicle was examined."
"But Marcus, that report should still be available through the official case records."
"It is."
"I've requested the relevant documents through counsel."
"Don't contact anyone from the old company directly," I told him.
"Understood."
I ended the call.
Olivia was watching me.
"What happened?"
I sat beside her again.
"Daniel worked for a company that serviced your mother's car before she died."
Her face changed.
"Before the accident?"
"Yes."
"Do you think he hurt her?"
"I don't know."
I forced myself to say the next part.
"And I'm not going to tell you I know something until I can prove it."
Olivia nodded.
Then she asked:
"Can we find out?"
"Yes."
"Together?"
I took her hand.
"Together."
That evening, we reviewed Elena's notebook with Naomi and the forensic accountants.
Rachel noticed a small notation beside the vehicle maintenance entry.
H.M.
Unlike the initials V.B., it appeared only once.
She asked whether the company had an employee whose initials matched.
Marcus checked the surviving payroll records.
There was one.
Henry Mercer.
A senior mechanic who had worked for Lakefront Fleet Services until its closure.
He was seventy-six now.
Retired.
Living in a small assisted-living community outside Chicago.
Naomi asked an investigator to contact him.
The investigator returned the following morning with unexpected news.
Henry remembered the Bellini vehicle.
He remembered the inspection.
And he said he had tried to report a problem in 2014.
I stood so quickly that my chair scraped against the floor.
"What problem?"
The investigator consulted her notes.
"Mr. Mercer said he prepared an inspection report identifying a brake-line defect."
"He says his supervisor told him to destroy it."
I gripped the table.
"Did he?"
"No."
I looked up sharply.
"He kept a carbon copy."
The investigator explained that Henry had retained several old service records after a dispute over unpaid wages.
He had never known the woman whose car he inspected was going to die.
When he later saw the accident reported on television, he contacted the company.
He was told the vehicle had passed inspection and that the collision involved weather conditions.
He had no proof that the defect caused the crash.
And when he raised concerns, his supervisor threatened legal action over confidential customer records.
"Did he contact the police?"
"According to him, he contacted a traffic investigator."
"But he never received a follow-up."
I looked toward Naomi.
"Could the report still matter?"
"Absolutely."
"But it must be authenticated and compared with the official inspection findings."
"And the original copy needs to be secured properly."
I looked at Rachel.
She was staring at Elena's notebook.
"What is it?"
"Henry Mercer's initials."
"Elena wrote them beside the payment."
"She knew him?"
"Maybe."
Rachel pointed to the entry.
"Look at the amount."
"That wasn't a normal inspection bill."
"Eighty-six thousand dollars for vehicle maintenance?"
Naomi nodded slowly.
"That payment requires explanation."
I turned toward the investigator.
"Did Henry say who told him to destroy the report?"
She hesitated.
"His supervisor."
"Name?"
She looked at her notes.
"Daniel Voss."
I stopped breathing.
Twelve years earlier, Daniel had been the man supervising work on my wife's vehicle.
Now he was connected to the man threatening my daughter.
I looked at the photographs, payment records, and handwritten notes spread across the table.
The same people.
The same financial channels.
The same pattern of intimidation.
And in the center of it all was a woman who had been dead for twelve years.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A voicemail.
I played it on speaker.
A man's voice spoke quietly.
"Mr. Bellini, my name is Daniel Voss."
"I know you're looking for me."
"I didn't send those messages to your daughter."
"But I know who wanted her frightened."
He paused.
I could hear traffic in the background.
Then he said:
"And I know what happened to your wife's car."
The recording ended.
For twelve years, I had wanted to ask someone what really happened on the night Elena died.
May you like
Now a man connected to that night was offering answers.
And I had no idea whether he intended to tell the truth or lure me into the same trap he had helped build around Olivia.
