Chapter 7 - ELEANOR'S VOICE
By sunset, the case had grown beyond assault, fraud, and kidnapping.
Someone inside law enforcement was warning the Caldwells.
Rachel removed herself from official communications and took us to a safe apartment in Oakland owned by a retired detective.
Maya put her daughters to sleep in the back room.
Then we returned to the drive.
“We need something they cannot explain away,” Rachel said.
We opened the E.C. folder again.
Most of the documents proved fraud.
None proved what had happened to Eleanor.
Then I noticed a file with no extension.
Its name was simply 2147.
Maya entered the password ELEANOR1989 again.
Nothing.
I tried the date of Charles and Eleanor's wedding.
Nothing.
Rachel looked at the number.
“Could be a property address.”
A search showed 2147 Franklin Street in San Francisco.
Eleanor's townhouse.
I typed FRANKLIN.
The file opened.
It was a video.
The image shook, as if someone had hidden a small camera inside a bookcase.
Eleanor stood in a living room facing Charles and Graham Pike, the family attorney.
She looked younger than Victoria, with dark hair and a white sweater.
Charles held a transfer deed.
“Sign it,” he said.
“No.”
“You are my wife.”
“That does not make my home yours.”
Pike moved between them.
“Eleanor, be reasonable. Charles has already arranged financing against the property.”
“You borrowed against my house without permission?”
Charles grabbed her wrist.
“You will sign.”
Eleanor pulled free.
“If I disappear, the police will find copies of everything.”
Charles laughed.
“The police will find what we tell them to find.”
The video ended.
A second clip began automatically.
It showed the same room hours later.
Victoria entered wearing a nurse's uniform.
She carried a medical bag.
Eleanor was crying near the window.
Victoria filled a syringe.
Maya covered her mouth.
Rachel froze the image before anything more happened.
“We don't need to watch the rest,” she said. “This is enough to establish conspiracy and unlawful restraint.”
But the audio continued.
Charles said, “After tonight, she never existed.”
Then Victoria answered, “And the house becomes ours.”
The screen went black.
A final text file appeared.
ELEANOR CALDWELL — ST. AGNES FACILITY — PATIENT 311.
“She might be alive,” I whispered.
St. Agnes had closed fifteen years ago.
Its property now belonged to Caldwell Vineyards.
Rachel pulled up satellite maps.
The old facility stood in the hills north of the estate, hidden behind private roads.
Maya came closer.
“My father-in-law visits that property every Thursday night.”
May you like
It was Thursday.
And according to the map, Charles was already heading there.
