Chapter 16 Brooks
SIXTEEN
brooks
The financial anomalies didn’t make sense.
Brooks sat in his office after the FBI briefing, staring at transaction records that refused to align with what he knew about the Aldrich family. Agent Porter’s team had been cataloging evidence around the clock, but these shipping manifests kept catching his attention.
A contract from 1923 bearing Winston Aldrich’s signature. Another from 1945. A third from 1978. The handwriting matched across fifty-five years of documents, down to the distinctive curl in the capital W.
Mayor Winston Aldrich’s birth certificate stated 1962.
He cross-referenced death certificates. Winston Aldrich Senior died in 1961, one year before his grandson was born. Yet the shipping company continued operating under the same signature, the same hand.
The genealogy records made even less sense. Winston Aldrich appeared as his own grandfather in some documents, his own son in others. Marriage certificates showed him wedding women listed as both his wife and their great-grandmother.
“Chief.” Brooks didn’t look up from the spreadsheet. “Can you verify something?”
Sullivan appeared in the doorway, coffee mug in hand. The manhunt for Winston had pushed everyone past exhaustion.
“What’ve you got?”
Brooks turned the laptop screen. “Transaction records from the Aldrich shipping company. Contracts signed by Winston Aldrich in 1985, 1978, even 1963. His birth certificate says 1962.”
Sullivan studied the screen. “Could be a father with the same name?”
“Death certificate for Winston Aldrich Senior, dated 1961. So the current Winston conducted business a year before his birth and two years after his grandfather died.”
“Family name on the business registration?”
“The company charter lists Winston Aldrich as both founder in 1847 and current president. Same signature across one hundred and seventy-five years.”
Sullivan set down his mug. “Either we’re looking at the most elaborate document forgery in state history, or this family has run their operation longer than anyone imagined.”
Brooks had avoided the conclusion, but the evidence mounted. Multiple people using the same name, the same signature, to maintain the illusion of legitimate business while trafficking contraband.
Rain hammered the windows outside. The tunnel rescue felt both recent and distant—Melissa pulled from the flooded chambers, Gerald and the others taken into custody. Processing evidence, conducting interviews, building the prosecutorial case that would end the family’s criminal empire.
But Winston remained free. Dangerous. Desperate.
“Perfect forgeries to maintain continuity of the business,” Brooks said. “Multiple generations using the same identity to avoid scrutiny.”
“Or one person using multiple identities.” Sullivan picked up his mug again. “We’ve seen it before. Criminals who fake their deaths, assume new names, continue operations under different guises.”
Brooks made notes, his mind working through possibilities.
The Aldrich operation had thrived for over a century by staying invisible, by maintaining the appearance of respectability while trafficking stolen artifacts through hidden tunnels.
Using the same name, the same signature, would create the illusion of a legitimate family business passing through generations.
His phone buzzed. Porter.
“Winston used a credit card. Different location this time—Maine border. We’re coordinating with state authorities.”
Brooks felt hope flicker. “How long ago?”
“Less than an hour. If he’s heading north, we can set up roadblocks.” Porter’s voice carried caution. “But he’s been careful so far. This could be another misdirection.”
“Keep me posted.”
Brooks ended the call and immediately texted Vivienne.
Possible lead on Winston. Stay alert. Detail stays with you until we have confirmation.
Her response came quickly
Vivienne Hawthorne
Understood. Be careful.
He stared at those two words. Vivienne wasn’t just a consultant or a witness anymore. She was someone who cared about his safety as much as he cared about hers.
Sullivan was watching him. “Maine border?”
“Credit card hit. Porter’s team is coordinating with state authorities.” Brooks stood. “I need to brief the protection detail. If this goes wrong, if Winston slips away again, he might come back here. Vivienne’s still the biggest threat to him.”
“Agreed. Double the detail until we have confirmation he’s in custody. I’ll call the state for more help.”
Brooks grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
Then it hit him.
His throat constricted. Air wouldn’t come. Pressure wrapped around his neck like invisible hands, squeezing, choking. He grabbed the doorframe, gasping, his vision darkening at the edges.
“Brooks?” Sullivan was at his side. “What’s wrong?”
He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. The sensation was overwhelming, foreign—not his panic, not his fear. Something else. Someone else.
Vivienne.
As quickly as it came, the pressure released. Brooks sucked in air, his heart hammering.
“You okay?” Sullivan gripped his arm.
“Something’s wrong.” Brooks straightened, his hand already reaching for his phone. “Something’s wrong with Vivienne.”
His phone rang before he could dial.
Vivienne.
“Brooks, something’s wrong. I’m at the shop and—”
The line went dead.
Brooks ran for his car, Sullivan right behind him. He tried calling back. No answer. He radioed for backup, navigating the wet streets toward Harbor Street.
“Lynch?” Sullivan demanded into his own radio.
“Unit 7 reporting. I’m at The Mystic Cup. Front door’s open. No sign of Ms. Hawthorne,” the current trooper said.
Brooks’s stomach dropped. Maine. The credit card hit at the border had been a diversion. Winston hadn’t fled north. He’d doubled back.
“Secure the scene,” Brooks ordered. “Get more units there now. He has her. He took her to the lighthouse. I just know it.”
Sullivan was already on his phone with Porter. “Your fugitive didn’t go to Vermont. He’s here. He has our witness.”
Brooks pushed the accelerator harder, rain blurring the windshield. He’d promised to keep Vivienne safe. He’d promised this would be over soon.
And Winston had outplayed them all.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Lighthouse. Come alone. Or she dies.
Brooks showed it to Sullivan.
“You’re not going alone.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“The hell you don’t. Porter’s redirecting her team. We’ll have backup in position within twenty minutes.”
“Vivienne might not have twenty minutes.” Brooks pulled up to the station. “I need to go now.”
Sullivan grabbed his arm. “Then I’m coming with you. No arguments.”
Brooks wanted to refuse, wanted to follow Winston’s demands exactly to keep Vivienne safe. But Sullivan was right. Going in alone was suicide, and that wouldn’t help anyone.
“We go quiet. No sirens. No visible backup. But we go together.”
Sullivan nodded. “I’ll drive. You call Porter and tell her we need eyes on the lighthouse from a distance. No one moves in until we have the situation assessed.”
Brooks made the call as Sullivan navigated toward the coast. The lighthouse stood dark against the rain-heavy sky, its beacon dormant since the FBI had seized it as evidence.
Winston had chosen his battlefield carefully. The place where his family’s crimes had originated. The place where they’d killed Lily Morgan twenty-five years ago.
Now he’d brought Vivienne there. And Brooks would walk into that trap to save her, whatever the cost.
His phone buzzed again. Another text from the unknown number.
Ten minutes. Then I start hurting her.
Brooks typed back:
On my way. Don’t touch her.
No response.
Sullivan parked two blocks from the lighthouse, and they approached on foot. Rain soaked through their jackets within seconds. Brooks’s weapon felt heavy in his hand.
“FBI will have eyes on us in five minutes,” Sullivan murmured. “We just need to keep him talking until then.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then we adapt.”
They reached the lighthouse grounds. The door stood open, darkness beyond. Brooks stepped inside, Sullivan covering him.
“Winston!” Brooks called. “I’m here. Let her go.”
Silence. Then footsteps on the spiral stairs above.
“Come up, Detective. Alone.”
Sullivan started to object, but Brooks shook his head. “Stay here. If I’m not back in five minutes, come get me.”
“Brooks—”
“Five minutes.”
Brooks began climbing the spiral stairs, each step taking him higher into the tower. His weapon stayed ready, his senses alert for any sound, any movement.
The iron steps rang under his boots. Water dripped from somewhere above, echoing in the confined space. Wind howled around the lighthouse walls, making the entire structure groan.
He climbed past the first landing, then the second. The lamp room was at the top. Where Lily had hidden her evidence twenty-five years ago. Where Winston now held Vivienne.
Brooks’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. Focus on the stairs. On what waited above.
Another landing. The air grew colder as he climbed higher. His breath misted in front of him.
Then he heard it. Vivienne’s voice, muffled but unmistakable. She was alive. She was up there.
Brooks quickened his pace, taking the stairs two at a time now. His heart hammered against his ribs.
He reached the final landing. The door to the lamp room stood partially open, pale light spilling through.
Brooks took a breath, steadied his weapon, and pushed through the door.
What he saw inside made his blood run cold.