Chapter 4 - The Shadow Mechanic
The public arrest of Cassandra Vale sent shockwaves through Chicago’s financial and social elites. The Chicago Tribune ran the headline on the front page: BILLIONAIRE'S WIFE ARRESTED AT GALAS: CHILD STARVATION & MURDER INVESTIGATION.
While the media swarmed the Blackwood estate, Richard stayed inside, completely isolated from the outside world. He didn't care about the falling stock price of Blackwood Capital. He didn't care about the panicked calls from his board of directors demanding an emergency meeting.
He was in the basement with Marcus Vance and a team of private forensic accountants.
"Cassandra’s legal team is already fighting the arrest," Marcus said, laying out a grid of financial records across a long wooden table. "The audio recording you found on the server is strong, but her attorney is arguing it’s inadmissible because it was recorded without a warrant or dual consent under Illinois eavesdropping laws. If the judge throws out the audio, we don't have enough physical evidence to hold her on the murder charge for more than seventy-two hours."
"What about the mechanic?" Richard asked, his eyes bloodshot. "The man on the phone call. Did you trace the voice?"
Marcus slid a dark manila folder across the table.
"We ran a voice-frequency analysis against all contacts in Cassandra’s private phone records from four years ago. It matched a man named Julian Vance."
Richard frowned. "Vance? Any relation to you?"
"No," Marcus said darkly. "Julian Vance is an ex-racing mechanic who ran an high-end performance auto shop in West Loop. Four years ago, three days after your wife’s crash, his shop suddenly burned down in an 'unexplained fire.' He collected a two-million-dollar insurance payout and disappeared."
"Where is he now?"
"He didn't leave the country," Marcus said, tapping a printout of a bank statement. "He’s been living in a luxury condo in Miami under a fake shell company named 'Elysian Investments.' And guess where Elysian Investments gets its monthly funding?"
Richard stared at the paper. "From one of my offshore accounts."
"Specifically," Marcus pointed out, "an account that Cassandra had power-of-attorney over for 'household management.' She wasn't just paying him off four years ago. She’s been paying him a thirty-thousand-dollar monthly hush fee ever since."
Richard stood up, his jaw set like iron. "Get the plane ready."
"Richard, wait," Marcus warned. "You can't just go to Miami and confront a man who tampers with brake lines. If he realizes we’re onto him, he’ll run or worse."
"I'm not going alone," Richard said coldly. "And I'm not going as a businessman."
That afternoon, Richard took Ethan to a quiet, secure house in the suburbs owned by Clara’s sister, Sarah—the only family member Richard knew he could trust completely.
"Is he safe here?" Richard asked Sarah at the front door, looking at Ethan who was playing happily in the backyard with his cousins, a sight Richard hadn't seen in half a decade.
"He’s safe, Richard," Sarah said, her eyes tearing up. "I can't believe... I can't believe what she did to him. To Clara. We always thought something was wrong with that crash, Richard. Clara was the safest driver in the world."
"I'm going to fix it, Sarah," Richard said softly. "I'm going to bring every single person involved in this to justice."
Three hours later, Richard’s private Gulfstream jet touched down at Miami Executive Airport. Accompanied by two retired Special Forces operatives hired by his security firm, Richard drove straight to a secluded marina in Biscayne Bay where Julian Vance kept a ninety-foot yacht.
The Florida sun was brutal, reflecting off the ocean water.
Richard walked onto the dock, his steps deliberate. Julian Vance was on the deck of his yacht, wearing sunglasses and drinking a beer, looking like a man who believed he had gotten away with the perfect crime.
When Julian saw Richard walking up the gangway flanked by two massive men, he dropped his beer bottle. It shattered on the teak deck.
"Richard... Blackwood?" Julian stammered, scrambling backward off his lounge chair. "What... what are you doing here?"
Richard stepped onto the deck, stepping over the spilled beer and broken glass. He didn't say a word. He walked up to Julian, grabbed him by the collar of his linen shirt, and slammed him against the boat's aluminum railing.
"Four years ago," Richard said, his voice dropping into an icy whisper that made the humid Miami air feel like liquid nitrogen. "You cut the brake lines on a grey Lexus RX 350."
Julian’s face went white. "I... I don't know what you’re talking about! I'm a retired mechanic!"
"Cassandra was arrested two days ago," Richard lied smoothly, tightening his grip on Julian’s neck until the man gasped for air. "She gave up everything. She gave the state prosecutor your name, your bank statements, and the exact date you sabotaged my wife’s car. She claims you were the mastermind."
Julian’s eyes darted wildly in panic. "That bitch! She’s lying! It was her idea! She paid me fifty grand up front and promised thirty grand a month for life!"
"Where is the proof?" Richard demanded, leaning in so close Julian could see his own terrified reflection in Richard’s eyes. "Give me the original comms logs, or I drop you into this ocean right now and let the police search your boat."
"In... in the safe!" Julian choked out, tears mixing with sweat on his face. "In the master cabin! The encrypted hard drive! It has the original text messages and her wire instructions!"
Richard looked at one of his security guards, who immediately moved down into the cabin. Two minutes later, the guard emerged holding a small, silver fireproof safe.
"Got it, sir," the guard said.
Richard let go of Julian’s collar. Julian collapsed onto the teak deck, gasping for air and clutching his throat.
"You took a mother away from an eight-year-old boy for fifty thousand dollars," Richard said, looking down at the groveling man with absolute disgust.
He pulled out his satellite phone and pressed speed dial.
"Marcus? I have the encrypted drive and a full verbal confession. Call the FBI field office in Miami. Tell them to pick up Julian Vance."
Richard turned around and walked off the yacht, leaving the mechanic whimpering on the deck. But as he reached the end of the pier, his phone rang.
It was an unknown, restricted number.
Richard answered it. "Hello?"
May you like
A cold, unfamiliar male voice came through the receiver, speaking with absolute authority.
"Mr. Blackwood. You’re playing a game much bigger than Cassandra Vale’s stupid ambition. Put the hard drive in the nearest trash receptacle and board your plane back to Chicago. If you turn that drive over to the authorities, your son won't make it to his ninth birthday."
