Chapter 6 - THE ROOM BEHIND THE WINE CELLAR
Andrew arrived at the mansion twenty-seven minutes later.
I followed separately with counsel.
Three government vehicles were parked outside the front gates.
Margaret stood in the foyer screaming at two investigators.
“This is private property!”
One of them calmly showed her the warrant again.
Brenda stood near the staircase.
She looked terrified.
Andrew rushed inside.
“What are you looking for?”
The lead investigator turned.
“Financial records.”
“What records?”
“We’ll let you know.”
That answer frightened him more.
For years, the Whitmore mansion had represented power.
Now strangers wearing identification badges opened drawers while Andrew stood helplessly nearby.
I remained near the entrance.
Margaret saw me.
Her face twisted.
“You.”
I said nothing.
“This is your doing.”
“No.”
“You brought these people into my home.”
The investigator glanced toward us.
I looked at Margaret.
“Apparently someone else brought them here.”
She moved closer.
“You vindictive little—”
“Mother.”
Andrew grabbed her arm.
“Stop.”
For once, Margaret listened.
Investigators entered Andrew’s study.
Another team went downstairs.
Twenty minutes passed.
Then one of them returned.
“There’s a locked room behind the wine cellar.”
Andrew froze.
I noticed.
So did the lead investigator.
“Do you have the key?”
Andrew recovered too slowly.
“No.”
The investigator watched him.
“You own the property.”
“It was my father’s storage room.”
“Your father has been dead for nine years.”
Andrew said nothing.
The door was forced open.
Inside were file boxes.
Dozens of them.
Old invoices.
Property deeds.
Offshore company records.
Cash payment ledgers.
And two encrypted laptops.
I looked at Andrew.
His expression told me everything.
He knew that room existed.
Margaret sat down.
Brenda whispered, “Andrew, what is that?”
He ignored her.
An investigator carried out a file marked EASTERN PACIFIC CONSULTING.
My father’s legal team had flagged the same name years earlier.
At the time, Andrew told me it was an old Whitmore vendor.
I had believed him.
The investigator opened the file.
Inside were transfers totaling more than sixty million dollars.
Several had been made while Whitmore Capital was using money guaranteed by my family.
One name appeared again and again.
M. Whitmore.
Margaret.
I turned toward her.
She looked suddenly old.
“Margaret.”
Her lips parted.
“This is not what you think.”
Andrew stepped between us.
“Don’t speak.”
Margaret looked at her son.
“What?”
“Don’t say another word.”
The investigator watched them both.
That was the moment I understood something far worse than Andrew’s betrayal.
Andrew had not invented the fraud.
May you like
He had inherited it.
And Margaret Whitmore had been teaching him how to steal long before I ever entered their family.
