Chapter 5
CAIN
The photographs spread across the desk of my home office showed a body that had been arranged with almost artistic precision.
That was the clear sign that told me Declan had taken his time.
I always appreciated his attention to detail and this showcase was no exception.
Each photo captured a different angle of Gary Nast’s final moments.
The images before me told the full story of the man who had been unwise enough to place himself between me and what I wanted.
Declan had a way of making these things look like accidents and that was another thing to add to the appreciation list that I could dedicate to Declan.
This one would be ruled a suicide; I was sure of it.
Gary had threatened to expose certain irregularities in the shipping manifests unless I paid him double what we’d originally agreed upon. The word blackmail never entered our conversations, but that’s what it was. I don’t respond well to extortion, no matter how it’s packaged.
“Clean?” I asked without looking up from the photos.
“As it gets,” Declan replied from his position near the door. “No witnesses, no cameras in range.”
I nodded as I studied Gary’s face in one of the photographs. His expression had captured surprise rather than fear, which suggested Declan had been efficient. Good. I didn’t enjoy suffering for its own sake. Violence was a tool, nothing more, and sometimes it had to be used for my benefit.
“The weapon?” I asked.
“Disposed of. Components scattered across three states.”
“And the vehicle?”
“Rental under a dead man’s license. Returned to a different location than where I picked it up. They won’t connect it.”
“Transfer to your account will clear by morning,” I said, already moving past the matter. Gary was handled. The deal would proceed. That’s all that required my attention.
“Appreciated.” Declan shifted his weight slightly. “Anything else you need?”
“Do you have an update on Sutton?” I did my best not to sound desperate and I think I achieved my goal.
“Tuesday,” he began. “My team reported that she left her condo at six-fourteen. Stopped at the coffee place down the street from Prescott Vantage.” He paused.
“Arrived at the office, had a big client meeting that lasted almost three hours and came out looking like she’d won something.
Lunch at her desk.” Another pause. “Left at six forty-eight. Went straight home. Lights out at eleven.”
I listened to all of it the way I listened to everything Declan brought me.
I wasn’t surprised that she’d come out victorious in a meeting with her clients because she almost always did.
I would find out what by morning. The desk lunch meant she was working through something significant.
The early departure, early for her, I might add, suggested she was tired.
Good for her for knowing when to call it quits this time.
I knew her routines better than she did.
In the beginning there had been gaps, patterns I hadn’t yet understood and behaviors that required context I didn’t have.
Those gaps were gone. I could reconstruct her interior state from the external data Declan brought me with an accuracy that would have disturbed her if she knew.
“The Thursday before,” Declan continued, “she had dinner with the friend. Cassie. A wine bar, it’s one they’ve been going to off and on over the years.
Spent about two hours, fifteen minutes. Sutton did most of the talking.
Whatever she was saying she didn’t want overheard.
They sat in the corner of the establishment.
We couldn’t get close enough for audio without risk of being discovered. ”
“That’s fine. Anyone around her I should know about?” I asked. The question was routine. I asked it every time. The answer was almost always the same.
“No one serious,” Declan said. “If I had to make an assumption based on the data we’ve gathered, she’s too busy.”
I wanted to say excellent, but I settled with, “Good.”
She was not easy to impress and I appreciate that about her.
Things like sweet talking and charming didn’t work on her the way they worked on other people.
Which meant that what I was doing, like being patient and building this up over the last three years, was not excessive.
It was simply what she required and it’s what she deserved.
Most men would never have understood that. And I did everything in my power to make sure that no one ever stepped near what was mine. That was the difference between me and every other man who had ever looked at Sutton Prescott and wanted her.
They had wanted. I had decided.
“Same schedule next week,” I said.
Declan stood. “Anything specific you want flagged?”
“Her mood,” I said. “Going into the next stage of this operation, I want to know if anything changes. If she’s distracted, if something at work goes wrong, if the friend dynamic shifts.” I paused. “I want her in the right state when we meet again.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s it. I’ll be in touch.”
He left without another word. I gathered the photos and slid them into a folder that would be shredded before the night was over. Evidence retention served no purpose once a matter was resolved.
Neither did sentiment. Gary had made a calculation and the solution had not been in his favor. He’d been dead wrong and that was the entirety of the matter. No harm, no foul.
Well, except there was harm and foul done to Gary.
I set the folder aside and grabbed the Scotch I’d poured just minutes before Declan stopped by.
I took a long sip of the amber liquid and considered my next steps.
I savored the notes of oak and vanilla for a moment before taking the tumbler with me over to one of my floor-to-ceiling windows.
I watched the traffic below slowly make their way to whatever destination they chose, not envying being stuck in any vehicle one bit.
From up here the city looked the way it always looked to me: stuck in an endless cycle, stalled because of the inability to see more than one move ahead.
Or it just had everything to do with when one was able to leave.
Behind me, my penthouse was completely silent, void of any other human or animal.
The only sound was the occasional ping from my phone, which sat on the desk behind me.
I preferred it this way. The quiet allowed me to think without distraction, to think through my next moves without my brain being interrupted.
The aesthetic of the penthouse had been chosen to directly contrast the brightness of Ashcroft Group’s headquarters.
Dark walls, wood, and marble surfaces surrounded me, but this was also where I allowed my space to showcase some personality.
The interior designer and her team who worked on the design and execution of this project had made sure to include personal photos from my childhood, including a photo of my parents at their summer house in the Hamptons, and a shot of me standing next to my father’s Bentley when I was seven.
A soft ping came from my phone once again. I turned from the window and walked back to my desk, picking it up to see a message from Sylvia.
Need to discuss Prescott Vantage with you. There seems to be some hesitation that has come up within the last day or so that needs to be addressed.
“Interesting timing,” I murmured, setting my glass down.
I scrolled through my calendar to this evening and tomorrow’s schedule. Meetings stacked back to back until 3 p.m., but nothing going on for the rest of today. Perfect and given what I was about to do today, there was a chance that tomorrow’s agenda would change as well.
I typed back:
Have Nancy arrange dinner with Howard Prescott for tonight.
I drained the rest of my Scotch and grabbed the folder with the images of Gary Nast before walking back into my room to prepare for this last-minute trip.
I slid the folder into my briefcase and slammed it closed.
The Prescott Vantage situation now demanded immediate attention and while I’d been known to allow members of my team to take my place at times, this was too important to be handled by anyone but me.
No one was going to disrupt my carefully orchestrated plan.
Howard Prescott was a creature of habit and predictability. His hesitation now meant someone had gotten to him. And he was about to get a lesson in what happened when someone tried to rewrite my script.
I called my pilot as I packed a small overnight bag, instructing him to have the jet ready within the hour.
The beauty of private aviation wasn’t just the comfort, it was the ability to decide at 4 p.m. that you needed to be in another city by dinner.
People with commercial tickets lived in a different reality, one where their schedules were dictated by others.
I’d outgrown that particular constraint long ago.
Within thirty minutes, my driver was navigating Manhattan traffic toward Teterboro.
I scrolled through Howard Prescott’s file on my tablet.
Sixty-eight years old. Widower. Two heart attacks in the last five years.
He had one daughter, Sutton. I wondered how involved she was in the opposition to this acquisition.
Howard had built Prescott Vantage from nothing, but he was a man of his generation: risk-averse, tradition-bound, and increasingly aware of his mortality.
Men like Howard craved legacy above all else. The question was who had gotten to him, planting doubts about selling to me. I had a short list of possibilities, each requiring a different approach.
My phone rang and I knew it was Nancy before I even read her name.
“Yes?” I answered, not bothering with pleasantries because I already knew who it was.
“I’ve arranged dinner with Howard at 1789 Restaurant,” she said. “It’s set for eight o’clock and it’s in a private room. He believes this is a casual check-in. I’ve also booked you the presidential suite at The Jefferson.”