Chapter 9: Connecticut
Gerald Fitch answered his own door, which meant he wasn't expecting trouble.
He was sixty-four, silver-haired, and wore the kind of weekend clothes that cost more than most people's work clothes.
He looked at Adrian on his doorstep and his face went through three expressions in under a second — surprise, calculation, and then a practiced warmth that arrived too late to be convincing.
"Adrian.
This is unexpected."
"I know.
May I come in?"
Fitch stepped back.
Adrian entered.
The house was large and quiet.
A fire in the living room.
A glass of red wine on the side table.
No one else visible, though Adrian noted the second wine glass on the kitchen counter as he passed.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," Adrian said.
"Not at all.
My wife is visiting her sister this weekend.
I was just reading." Fitch gestured toward the living room.
"Can I get you something?"
"No, thank you."
They sat.
Fitch picked up his wine glass and held it without drinking — something to do with his hands.
"What brings you out this way?" Fitch said.
"The Hargrove shipment," Adrian said.
"I've been revisiting it."
"I thought that matter was closed."
"So did I.
But I've learned some things this week that suggest it wasn't a routing error." Adrian kept his voice even and his eyes on Fitch's face.
"I've learned that the route information was passed to an outside party before the shipment moved.
And that the outside party has a relationship with a law firm in Miami called Hargrove and Associates."
The wine glass didn't move.
Fitch's face didn't move.
But his right thumb pressed against the stem of the glass hard enough that the knuckle went white.
"I'm not familiar with that firm," Fitch said.
"You've billed them four times in the past eighteen months.
The invoices are in your own records."
Silence.
"Gerald," Adrian said.
"I've known you for nine years.
I'd like to give you the opportunity to tell me the truth before this moves to a different kind of conversation."
Fitch set the wine glass down.
He looked at the fire for a moment.
"Vincent told me you'd never find the connection," he said.
"He said the Delaware structure was clean."
"It was.
A six-year-old child found the loose thread."
Fitch looked at him.
"I beg your pardon?"
"It doesn't matter." Adrian leaned forward slightly.
"The safe behind the bookcase in your study.
I'd like you to open it."
Fitch went very still.
"How do you know about—"
"Open it, Gerald."
A long pause.
Then Fitch stood, and Adrian followed him upstairs.
The study was exactly as Lucas had described.
Bookshelves floor to ceiling.
A decorative safe behind a section of false spines, disguised as a row of matching leather volumes.
Fitch worked the combination with hands that were no longer steady.
The door swung open.
Inside: a manila envelope, a USB drive, and a document bound with a blue legal cover.
Adrian picked up the document.
He read the first page.
It was a petition to challenge the Moretti family trust — on grounds of criminal enterprise, which would trigger a civil asset forfeiture proceeding and transfer control of the legitimate holdings to a court-appointed receiver.
The receiver's name was already filled in.
It was Vincent Carra.
"When was this set to be filed?" Adrian said.
Fitch said nothing.
"Gerald."
"Monday," Fitch said quietly.
"Vincent was going to give the signal from Miami."
Adrian took the document, the envelope, and the USB drive.
He placed them inside his coat.
"You're going to call your office Monday morning," Adrian said, "and you are going to withdraw from every matter connected to my family's holdings.
You will send written confirmation to my new attorney — I'll provide the name by Sunday evening.
You will not contact Vincent Carra.
You will not contact anyone connected to this arrangement."
"And if I don't?"
Adrian looked at him.
"Then on Tuesday morning, a federal prosecutor I have a relationship with will receive a package containing your billing records, the Delaware call logs, and a signed statement from a witness who can place you at three meetings with Vincent Carra in the past year." He paused.
"I'd prefer not to send it.
The choice is yours."
Fitch sat down on the edge of his desk.
He looked like a man who had just watched the floor disappear beneath a chair he thought was solid.
"I'll make the call," he said.
Adrian buttoned his coat.
"One more thing," he said from the doorway.
"The second wine glass in your kitchen.
Whoever is in this house with you — tell them to stay out of this.
Completely.
What happens next is between you and me."
He walked downstairs, let himself out, and drove back toward the city.
The document was in his coat.
May you like
The USB drive was in his pocket.
And Vincent Carra was in Miami, waiting for a signal that was never going to come.
