Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Julian Carter
Vincent didn't raise his voice. He didn't slam his fist on the desk. He simply walked over to the corner where David was tied, pulled an antique leather armchair across the carpet, and sat down directly in front of the sniveling restaurant owner.
“Julian Carter was a good accountant,” Vincent said softly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I remember him. He audited one of my charitable foundations five years ago. He was quiet, meticulous, and honest to a fault.”
Emily looked up, tears welling in her eyes at the sound of her late husband’s name.
“Julian didn't die in a random hit-and-run, did he, David?” Vincent asked, his voice dripping with a terrifying, predatory calm.
David shook his head frantically, tears and sweat streaming down his neck. “It was an accident! I swear to God, Vincent! It was a stolen car! The police report confirmed it!”
“Police reports in the 4th District can be bought for ten thousand dollars,” Vincent replied flatly. He glanced at Frank. “Call Captain Vance at the 4th Precinct. Tell him I know about the falsified accident report from four years ago. Tell him he has twenty minutes to get his pathetic ass over here before I send his bank statements to the FBI.”
Frank nodded and stepped out into the hallway to make the call.
Vincent turned back to Emily. “Tell me about the night Julian died, Emily.”
Emily took a shaky breath, her hands smoothing down Rory’s soft hair as the little girl rested her head in her lap, oblivious to the storm brewing around her.
“Julian came home late on a Tuesday,” Emily recalled, her voice cracking with old grief. “He was terrified. He told me he had found a double set of books in David’s office. He said David was stealing from dangerous people and using our family name to hide it. Julian told me he was going to the federal prosecutor the next morning.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“He left the house at six in the morning to grab coffee before his appointment. Ten minutes later, I got a call from the hospital. A heavy black SUV had mounted the sidewalk and crushed him against a brick wall. The driver abandoned the car and ran.”
Vincent looked at David. “Who was driving the SUV, David?”
“I don't know!” David sobbed, thrashing against his handcuffs. “I swear I don't know! I didn't kill him!”
“You didn't drive the car,” Vincent agreed coldly. “You paid someone else to do it. And then you took Julian’s grieving, pregnant widow, fabricated a mountain of fake debt, and forced her to work eighty hours a week in your kitchen for free so she would be too exhausted to ever investigate her husband’s death.”
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Vincent stood up slowly.
“You didn't just steal five thousand dollars from a child, David,” Vincent whispered. “You stole a father. You stole a life. And you tried to use my name to cover your stench.”
