Chapter 34 - The Cassette of 1985
The air inside the diner instantly grew suffocating. The waitress behind the counter took one look at the two towering security guards flanking Richard Sterling and quietly vanished into the kitchen, the swinging door squeaking softly in the silence.
"Richard," Julian choked out, pressing his back against the vinyl seat as if trying to merge with the wall. "How... how did you find me?"
"You used your credit card at a gas station three miles back, Julian," Richard Sterling said, not even looking at him. His focus was entirely on me. "A remarkably foolish move for a man who claims to be in hiding. But then again, intellect was never the defining characteristic of the men Victoria chose to keep around her."
Richard Sterling pulled out a wooden chair from an adjacent table, turned it around, and sat down smoothly, resting his forearms on the backrest. Up close, his resemblance to the portrait of Marcus Sterling that once hung in the downtown trust office was uncanny—the same sharp, aquiline nose, the same ice-blue eyes devoid of warmth.
"Ms. Miller," Richard said, his voice measured and calm. "You have had an eventful evening. Unearthing a long-lost father must be an emotional ordeal. On behalf of the Sterling family, you have my deepest sympathies."
"Save your condolences, Mr. Sterling," I said, sliding the leather notebook closer to my edge of the table. "Your father cracked my father's skull with a crowbar and buried him under six inches of concrete. Sympathy isn't the legal remedy I’m looking for."
Richard didn't flinch. In fact, a faint, condescending smirk played at the edge of his lips. "My father was an impetuous man of a different generation. What occurred in 1985 was unfortunate. But the law is an instrument of pragmatism, Charlotte, not sentimentality. Marcus is dead. The statute of limitations on civil conspiracy expired during the Clinton administration. And that notebook you are clutching? An interesting historical relic, but entirely inadmissible without chain of custody."
"Is that why you chased Julian through the rain to get it?" I countered. "Because it's just an irrelevant relic?"
Richard sighed, reaching into his charcoal overcoat. My muscles tensed, my hand tightening around the pepper spray in my pocket, but he didn't pull a weapon. Instead, he produced a vintage, handheld microcassette recorder—the heavy, silver kind used by corporate executives in the 1980s.
He set it squarely in the center of the Formica table.
"My father was many things, Ms. Miller, but he was not an idiot," Richard said quietly. "He knew Victoria Vance was a viper. When she brought him into that conservatory that night to deal with Arthur Miller, Marcus wore a wire. He recorded the entire transaction. Every single word."
Julian stared at the recorder, his eyes wide. "The missing tape... she searched the manor safe for that tape for twenty years."
"Indeed," Richard murmured. "And it has been sitting in my family's private vault in Zurich. Until this morning, when your mother-in-law had the audacity to demand ten million dollars from the Meridian Group in exchange for her continued silence."
Richard tapped the play button on the recorder.
A loud hiss of static filled the quiet booth. Then, through the tinny speaker, the muffled sound of torrential rain on glass could be heard, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps.
A man's voice—Arthur's voice, deep and resonant, the voice I only remembered from half-forgotten bedtime stories—echoed through the booth:
*"...I don't care how much money you put in that envelope, Victoria. The foundation specs for the river towers are five hundred pounds per square inch below safety threshold. If a category three hurricane hits this coast, those towers will collapse into the harbor. You are trading human lives for a country club membership."*
Then came Victoria’s voice. It wasn't the refined, cultured voice she used at charity galas. It was venomous, razor-sharp, and dripping with hatred:
*"No one cares about the foundation, Arthur. People only care about the view from the penthouse. Now sign the patent transfer, or you will never see that precious little girl of yours again."*
A scuffle. The sound of shattered glass. A sickening, dull thud.
A gasp, followed by the heavy, labored breathing of a man dying on the floor.
Then Marcus Sterling’s voice cut in, cold and detached: *"He’s gone, Victoria. Get George out here with the shovel. And call the city inspector. We pour the concrete at dawn."*
The tape ended with a harsh click.
The diner fell into a tomb-like silence. My hands were trembling violently. Hearing my father’s final moments—hearing him defend the safety of strangers, hearing him fight for me—shattered something fragile inside my soul and replaced it with iron.
"Why are you playing this for me, Richard?" I whispered, my voice deadly level.
"Because," Richard said, leaning closer, his eyes locking onto mine, "Victoria Vance is playing both of us. She told the federal prosecutor that Marcus struck the blow, but the tape proves it was her. *She* hit him, Charlotte. My father only told George to clean up the mess. And right now, Victoria’s lawyers are filing paperwork to pin the entire corporate fraud on Vance Industries—on Walter Vance, and by extension, on you."
Richard reached forward and pushed the tape toward me.
May you like
"I don't want the notebook," Richard said. "I want Victoria Vance buried so deep in a federal penitentiary that she never sees the sun again. But to do that, I need you to do something for me tomorrow morning."
***
