The burner phone, purchased with cash from a nondescript convenience store, felt heavy and illicit in Mr. Finch’s trembling hand. He had spent two days holed up in a cheap motel room on the outskirts of town, too terrified to go home, too paranoid to face his usual contacts. Beatrice had called, but he ignored her, letting her increasingly agitated voicemails pile up.
He pressed the call button, his finger slick with sweat. The number he dialed was one he’d found on an old business card Elara had once given Robert, tucked away in a dusty drawer in Robert’s office. He had taken it during one of his “asset assessment” visits, a desperate, pre-emptive measure.
The phone rang twice, then a calm voice answered. “Hello?”
“Elara Caldwell?” Finch whispered, his voice cracking with fear.
“Speaking,” I replied, my voice steady, betraying no surprise. Silas had warned me Finch might crack.
“It’s… it’s Kenny Finch,” he stammered, rushing his words. “Beatrice Jensen’s agent. I… I need help.”
His desperation was palpable through the line. I remained silent, letting him speak.
“They’re coming for me,” Finch blurted out, his voice a frantic whisper. “The audits, the calls, my car… someone’s making my life a living hell. I know it’s because of Bea. Because of what we did.”
“What did you do, Mr. Finch?” I asked, my voice calm and even.
“Everything!” he exclaimed, a hysterical edge to his tone. “The appraisal documents for Robert’s office building? The ones Bea showed you? They’re falsified. Backdated. Inflated in some places, deflated in others, all to hide the real value, to shuffle money around for her.”
He was pouring it out, a dam breaking.
“She forced me to do it for years, not just recently. Shell companies, offshore accounts, property transfers that looked legitimate on paper but were designed to funnel funds away from Robert’s actual assets, all under his nose. She was doing this for a long time, Elara. Even before… before Robert got sick.”
My blood ran cold. *Years* of fraud. This was far more extensive than even Robert had initially suspected, though he’d been certain of her long-term manipulations.
“And you have proof of this?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral, transactional.
“Yes! Yes, I do!” Finch insisted. “I kept copies. Always do. A little insurance policy. Scanned them, physical copies, even a few recordings of her instructing me. I knew she’d throw me under the bus if things went south.”
His selfishness was evident, but it was also my leverage.
“What do you want, Mr. Finch?” I asked directly.
“Protection,” he pleaded. “From them. From whoever is doing this to me. And from Beatrice. She’ll ruin me. She’ll make sure I take the fall for everything.”
“And what kind of protection are you expecting?”
“Just… make it stop,” he begged. “Make the audits disappear. Make the calls stop. And keep me out of jail. I’ll give you everything. Every single document, every record, every detail of Beatrice’s dealings.”
His offer was significant, and clearly born of genuine terror.
“The evidence must be irrefutable, Mr. Finch,” I stated, my voice firm. “It must be comprehensive. It must be verifiable. No holes, no room for doubt.”
“It is, I swear!” he cried. “Bank statements, fake invoices, doctored land deeds, everything. It links Beatrice directly. Not just to the will, but to years of embezzlement and tax evasion.”
“And you are willing to testify to this?” I pressed.
He hesitated for a long moment. “If I have to. But… can’t you just make it all go away without me going public?”
“We will discuss the specifics of your protection once I have reviewed the evidence,” I said. “And once I am certain it is everything you claim it to be.”
I was not making any rash promises. Robert’s plan required precision.
“How do I… how do I get it to you?” Finch asked, his voice still shaking.
I gave him an address, a secure drop-off location that Silas had set up, known only to a trusted few. “Leave it there, in a clearly marked package, by noon tomorrow. No name, just ‘For Elara Caldwell.'”
“Yes! Yes, I can do that,” he said, sounding relieved, as if simply having a plan was a lifeline. “Please, Elara. Just make them stop.”
“I will review the evidence,” I repeated, a promise that was conditional, but enough for him.
The line went dead.
I held the phone for a moment longer, my mind reeling. Years of fraud. Beatrice wasn’t just opportunistically grasping at Robert’s recent death; she had been systematically undermining him, eroding his estate, for far longer than anyone had known. Robert’s suspicion had been completely justified. Finch’s betrayal confirmed the depth of Beatrice’s depravity and provided the crucial, irrefutable evidence we needed. The trap was almost sprung.
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