Nun behauptete jemand, der Unfall sei Mord gewesen.
Und die Antworten lagen im Reich des Mannes verborgen, dem sie gerade versprochen hatte, ihn zu untersuchen.
Claire brachte das Foto um 9:17 Uhr in die Chefetage.
Dominic befand sich in einem Treffen mit zwei Investmentbankern, als sein Assistent verkündete, dass Frau
Bennett musste ihn sehen.
„Sag ihr, ich rufe sie danach an“, sagte er.
Der Assistent zögerte.
„Sie sagte, es sei wichtig.“
„Für Buchhalter ist alles wichtig.“
„Sie sagte, jemand habe sie im Zusammenhang mit den Ermittlungen bedroht.“
Dominic stand noch, bevor der Satz zu Ende war.
Die Banker tauschten überraschte Blicke, als er den Raum durchquerte und selbst die Tür öffnete.
Claire stand draußen und hielt den Umschlag in der Hand.
Ihr Gesicht war blass.
Nicht dramatisch blass.
Nicht die sorgfältig inszenierte Notlage, die Dominic bei Leuten erlebt hatte, die um Gefälligkeiten baten.
Es war die Farbe von jemandem, der entdeckt hatte, dass ein Albtraum aus der Kindheit vielleicht die ganze Zeit real gewesen war.
“Was ist passiert?”
Sie reichte ihm das Foto.
Dominic blickte auf das brennende Lagerhaus.
Sein Blut schien aufzuhören zu fließen.
„Woher hast du das?“
„Jemand hat es auf meinem Schreibtisch liegen lassen.“
Er drehte es um.
Lesen Sie die Warnung.
Lies es dann noch einmal.
„Wer hat den Umschlag berührt?“
„Das habe ich.“
Wer auch immer es geliefert hat.
Möglicherweise jemand anderes.“
„Hast du dem Sicherheitspersonal Bescheid gesagt?“
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know which department is involved, and security reports to people who may be involved.”
Dominic looked at her sharply.
Even frightened, she was thinking ahead.
“Come inside.”
He dismissed the bankers.
When the door closed, Claire sat on the edge of a leather chair.
Dominic placed the photograph on his desk.
“Why is this about your father?”
“His name was Thomas Bennett.
He worked in financial compliance for a shipping company connected to North Harbor.
He died in February 2003.”
Dominic slowly lifted his eyes.
“Thomas Bennett?”
“You knew him?”
“I knew the name.”
Claire’s fingers tightened around her handbag.
“How?”
Dominic walked to the windows.
His reflection hovered over the river.
“My father accused a financial investigator named Thomas Bennett of stealing company money after the warehouse fire.
There was supposed to be a criminal case.”
“There wasn’t.”
“No.”
“Because my father was killed before he could defend himself.”
Dominic turned.
“Claire—”
“He was driving home when a truck ran a red light.
The driver disappeared.
The police said it was an accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t.”
He stopped.
She swallowed.
“I’ve spent my entire adult life hearing people say they’re sorry about my father.
It doesn’t bring him back.
It doesn’t explain why my mother was afraid to say his name.”
Dominic remained silent.
Claire took a breath.
“I need to know whether your father had him killed.”
The question landed between them like broken glass.
Dominic could have lied.
He could have defended his family.
He could have reminded her that accusations against dead men were impossible to prove.
Instead, he looked toward the photograph.
“I don’t know.”
Claire closed her eyes.
It was not the answer she wanted.
But it was the first answer she believed.
After a moment, Dominic said, “I remember the fire.”
“So do I.”
She looked at the photograph again.
“I was ten.
My father took me to the docks because my mother was working an overnight shift at the hospital, and he said he needed to deliver something important.”
Her voice began to shake.
“I remember smoke.
Men shouting.
A door that wouldn’t open.
Someone carrying me through a corridor.
I remember losing one shoe.”
Dominic’s expression changed.
“A yellow jacket?”
Claire stared at him.
“You saw it in the picture.”
“Yes.”
But he had spoken too quickly.
As though the color had come from memory, not observation.
He moved toward his desk.
“Whoever sent this wants to frighten you.”
“They’ve succeeded.”
“Then you should go home.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“If I go home because somebody sent me a photograph, they win.
If I stop investigating because somebody threatens me, then every number in those accounts stays hidden.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“And I’m trying to find out who needs protecting from you.”
He flinched.
The words surprised even Claire.
For a moment, she expected the famous Valenti temper.
Instead, Dominic drew a long breath.
“That’s fair.”
She looked up.
He continued quietly.
„Aber ich beabsichtige, denjenigen ausfindig zu machen, der diesen Umschlag auf Ihrem Schreibtisch hinterlassen hat.“
„Dann mach es auf legalem Wege.“
Ein schwaches, humorloses Lächeln huschte über seine Lippen.
„Du vertraust mir wirklich nicht.“
„Ich vertraue auf Ihre Bereitschaft zuzuhören“, sagte sie.
„Den Rest untersuche ich noch.“
Er betrachtete sie.
Dann streckte er seine Hand aus.
„Darf ich den Umschlag haben?“
Sie gab es ihm.
Dominic drückte einen Knopf auf seinem Schreibtisch.
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