Chapter 3 - Locker 317
Ethan refused to leave Claire alone.
He arranged private security outside her hospital room.
Then he called his oldest friend, Detective Daniel Ruiz.
Daniel had known Ethan since college.
He had also investigated Thomas Whitmore’s disappearance before the case was officially classified as an accident.
When Ethan showed him the key and the note, Daniel’s expression darkened.
“Your mother knows where the locker is.”
“Claire never told her.”
“She may not need Claire to tell her.”
Daniel examined the metal tag.
“This style of key belongs to the old private lockers beneath Union Station.”
“Those lockers were closed years ago.”
“Most of them were.”
“Some remained under long-term lease agreements.”
At two in the morning, Ethan, Daniel, and a transit supervisor descended into the restricted lower level of Union Station.
Dust covered the tiled corridors.
The air smelled of rust and wet concrete.
Rows of narrow metal lockers lined the far wall.
Locker 317 stood near the end.
Fresh scratches surrounded the keyhole.
“Someone tried to open it,” Daniel said.
Ethan inserted the key.
The lock resisted.
Then it turned.
Inside the locker rested a black leather briefcase.
A portable cassette recorder sat beside it.
There was also a photograph.
Ethan picked it up.
The picture showed his father standing beside a dark-haired woman outside a lakeside cabin.
Thomas looked exhausted.
The woman’s face had been partially burned away.
On the back, someone had written a date.
Three weeks after Thomas Whitmore supposedly died.
Ethan stared at it.
“This was taken after the accident.”
Daniel opened the briefcase.
Inside were account ledgers, bank records, shipping manifests, and copies of confidential foundation transfers.
Millions of dollars had been moved through companies that did not appear to exist.
Each transfer had been approved by someone using Thomas Whitmore’s electronic signature.
But several transactions occurred after his death.
Daniel lifted the cassette recorder.
A tape was already inside.
He pressed play.
Static filled the corridor.
Then Thomas Whitmore’s voice emerged from the tiny speaker.
“If Ethan is hearing this, then I failed to come home.”
Ethan stopped breathing.
His father’s voice was older than he remembered.
Tired.
Afraid.
“The theft is larger than I believed.”
“The foundation is only the beginning.”
“Someone has been using Whitmore vessels to transport unregistered cargo.”
“I confronted Eleanor.”
Ethan’s head snapped toward the recorder.
“She denied everything.”
“Then she told me something I will never forget.”
“She said the company no longer belonged to me.”
“She said it belonged to the person willing to do whatever was necessary to keep it.”
The tape crackled.
A door slammed somewhere in the recording.
Thomas lowered his voice.
“If anything happens to me, do not trust the official report.”
“The accident has already been arranged.”
A burst of static swallowed the next words.
Then another voice appeared in the background.
A man’s voice.
“You should have stayed quiet, Thomas.”
The recording ended with a violent crash.
Ethan stared at the machine.
Daniel rewound the final seconds.
They listened again.
The man’s voice sounded familiar.
Ethan searched his memory.
Then he realized where he had heard it.
Victor Hale.
Chief financial officer of Whitmore Maritime.
The man who had stood beside Eleanor at Thomas’s funeral.
A metallic sound echoed through the corridor behind them.
May you like
Daniel reached for his weapon.
The lights went out.
