Chapter 5: The Second Name
Raymond Ferris was arrested at his home in Queens at six-seventeen the following morning.
Paul called me while I was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee I hadn't touched.
Ethan was still asleep upstairs.
I had checked on him twice in the night — stood in his doorway, listened to him breathe, and felt something I had no word for except the specific weight of almost.
"Ferris had a ledger," Paul said.
"Physical.
Handwritten.
The kind of record-keeping that suggests he didn't trust digital files."
"What's in it?"
"Transactions going back four years.
Clients, compounds, quantities, dates." A pause.
"Marco's name appears three times.
The most recent entry is dated six days ago."
"And the others?"
Paul was quiet for two seconds.
"There's a second name that appears alongside Marco's on the earliest entry.
Eighteen months ago." Another pause.
"Dominic, it's someone you know."
The coffee cup was cold in my hand.
"Who?"
"Gerard Ashworth."
I set the cup down.
Gerard Ashworth had been my chief financial officer for six years.
He had managed the restructuring of three of my largest companies.
He had been at Elena's funeral.
He had sent Ethan a birthday card every year since — always handwritten, always with a small gift, always signed: *With love, Uncle Gerard.*
Ethan called him Uncle Gerard.
"What was the transaction?" My voice came out level.
I was distantly impressed by that.
"A consultation," Paul said carefully.
"Eighteen months ago, Ashworth made contact with Ferris through a third party.
The ledger entry describes it as an inquiry — what compounds were available, what quantities would be required, what the effects would be at various doses for a child with a known severe allergy."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"He was researching it," I said.
"Yes."
"Eighteen months ago."
"Yes."
"And then Marco made contact six days ago and actually purchased."
"Yes."
I stood up from the table.
Walked to the window.
The estate grounds were pale in the early morning light.
One of my security men was doing a slow circuit of the perimeter, hands in his jacket pockets.
"Were they working together?"
"The ledger doesn't confirm coordination.
But the prosecutor's office will argue the earlier inquiry established intent, and that Marco's purchase was the execution of a plan that had been in development for over a year."
"Where is Ashworth now?"
"His assistant says he's traveling.
A conference in Boston." Paul's voice was careful.
"Dominic.
If Ashworth knew this was happening and said nothing — if he helped plan it and then stepped back and let Marco take the action—"
"I understand what that means."
"He has access to your financial accounts.
Your business records.
Your family's medical files."
Ethan's allergy information.
The specific compound.
The exact dose required.
Ashworth had known all of it.
He had sat across from me in board meetings for six years.
He had shaken my hand.
He had signed Ethan's birthday cards.
"Pull his access," I said.
"Everything.
Accounts, systems, building entry.
Do it now, before he knows we have the ledger."
"Already started."
"And call Detective Reyes.
Tell her about the second name."
"I will." Paul hesitated.
"There's one more thing.
The ledger entry from eighteen months ago — Ferris noted the reason for the inquiry.
The client's stated motivation."
"Tell me."
"Ashworth told Ferris he was acting on behalf of a group of investors who stood to benefit significantly from a restructuring of the Moretti holdings in the event of—" Paul stopped.
Started again.
"In the event of a change in the direct line of inheritance."
A group of investors.
Not just Marco.
Not just Ashworth.
A group.
I turned away from the window.
"How many names are in that ledger, Paul?"
The silence on the other end lasted long enough that I already knew the answer was going to be worse than I had prepared for.
"The prosecutor's office is still counting," Paul said.
"But right now — at least four."
Four people.
Four people who had looked at my eight-year-old son and seen an obstacle.
"I need the full list," I said.
"Every name.
Today."
"You'll have it by noon."
I ended the call and stood in my kitchen in the early morning quiet.
Then I heard the stairs creak.
Ethan appeared in the doorway in his pajamas, hair pressed flat on one side from sleep.
He looked at me with his mother's eyes.
"Dad?
Why are you up so early?"
I crossed the kitchen and put my hand on the top of his head.
"Couldn't sleep."
He studied my face the way children do when they know an adult is carrying something heavy.
"Is it about last night?"
"Some of it."
"Is Lily okay?"
"She's fine.
She's with her mom."
He nodded slowly.
Then: "Dad.
The man who touched my cake." He said it carefully, like he'd been thinking about how to ask.
"Did he know me?"
I looked at my son.
"Yes," I said.
"He did."
Ethan absorbed that.
His jaw moved in a way that reminded me so sharply of Elena that it was briefly difficult to breathe.
"Okay," he said finally.
Just that.
He went to the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of orange juice.
I watched him drink it and thought about four names in a ledger and a group of investors and eighteen months of planning — all of it aimed at this boy standing in his pajamas in my kitchen on the morning after his eighth birthday.
My phone buzzed on the table.
A message from Vincent: *Ashworth's assistant just called his cell.
No answer.
Hotel confirms he checked out at 5 a.m.
May you like
His car is gone.*
Gerard Ashworth was running.
