When Empires Fall (39 page)

“Silas, Porter, and Harris.” Grant’s eyes shot to one of the photographs on his wall that showed the three brothers in uniform, arm in arm, on an Army base in the Carolinas back in 1942. “They were in a bunker that was hit by a German howitzer. My grandfather was the only one who managed to escape. They weren’t even all supposed to be there, but they refused to let the Army separate them.”

“Did you ever wonder why your grandfather managed to get out in time, along with the rest of the men in that bunker, but his three brothers didn’t?”

“I never really gave it much thought, no.” Grant stared once again at the detective, impatience flashing in his eyes. “Why is this important?”

“It is important, Mr. Vasser, because Rosalie Owens
did
wonder why Cyrus was the only one of the brothers to get out alive, and she did some research into military documents through a friend of hers in the State Department. She learned that when they found the bodies behind a stack of what had been wooden crates, they discovered traces of rope around their wrists and ankles. They had been bound and gagged and probably drugged, though we will never know. That particular area had been bracing for a German attack, and so it was no surprise that the bunker was targeted. Which was why most of the soldiers were ready to vacate the building the second the threat arrived. Except for Silas, Porter, and Harris Vasser.”

“If they found the rope, then how come there was never an investigation?” Grant asked, his forehead creasing as his eyes narrowed. “Why was my family told it had been an unfortunate accident?”

“More than likely whoever was in charge had been bought off.” Don shrugged as if it had been obvious. “It made it into the file, but whoever would have been notified of the possible foul play afterwards decided not to pursue an investigation.”

“That’s impossible,” Grant challenged, though doubt circled miserably in his gut. “Why did no one else present question why the bodies had been found tucked behind some crates?”

“It was war, Mr. Vasser,” Don said coldly, his eyes hardening. “Men don’t waste time standing around asking a lot of questions when there are bullets and bombs flying at them from every which direction. They accepted, and they moved on. And from what I understand, most of the men who managed to escape that day were not so lucky just five days later when the Germans attacked again. It seems your grandfather picked an excellent setting to dispose of his brothers.”

Grant said nothing for a long, haunted moment. He stared at the detective, his breath caught in his lungs and his heart a stone cold weight in his chest. When he finally blinked, he felt a chill settle over him that sent a violent shiver down his spine.

“I don’t believe you,” he managed, his voice quiet and distant, hollow and aged. The pen he held slipped from his fingers and tumbled onto his desk, but he didn’t even notice it. Instead he saw, in his mind, thousands of memories of the man he had known, the grandfather who had raised him, who had always been a source of respect, strength, and admiration. It had been bad enough to try and come to terms with that same man murdering Winston in cold blood, but having also taken out his own brothers in the heat of war? Sure, he had known Cyrus to have been ambitious, ruthless, and at times cruel, but the man he had known his entire life could not have been responsible for such vicious acts of hate.

Don’s mouth set in a grim line as he watched Grant carefully, knowing this to be one of the hardest parts of the job. Oftentimes people chose to simply dismiss the claims against their loved ones and live in resolute denial. Other times, people collapsed into puddles of inconsolable grief. And, in the rarest of cases, people believed him, and accepted. He could see now by the dulled expression on Grant Vasser’s face that his mind was urging him to accept the truth. It was a troubling thing to witness.

“Now you understand why I wanted to come to you first.”

Grant nodded slowly, at a loss for words.

“I’ve researched the Army’s files myself and confirmed that what Rosalie included in this package is factual. The Army is, as of this moment, informed of this oversight and they are conducting their own investigation. Within a few weeks, the files on your three great- uncles will be updated to show the true cause of death. Since your grandfather is already deceased, there will be no charges filed.”

Grant nodded again, avoiding looking at the photographs on his wall, not yet ready to face them. “Is that all, detective?”

“Not quite, Mr. Vasser,” Don said evenly, patient as always despite the irritated stare he earned from the man across from him. “When Rosalie discovered the truth, she told Winston and showed him the proof. By her own account, he did not want to believe her, but she had been convincing enough to place some measure of doubt within his mind. Then she confronted Cyrus and told him that he wasn’t going to get away with it, and that his father was going to change his will and leave the hotels, the money, and the power to her instead.

“She said that she wanted to see the fear in his eyes, but he wasn’t afraid of her. Instead, he was cold, and as she described it, amused. The very next day, Winston was dead and she was followed home from work by a stranger, a man with a gun who threatened to kill her if she didn’t disappear. Right after that, Rosalie claimed she received a letter and a hefty chunk of cash from Fern Vasser, Winston’s soon to be ex-wife, urging her to silence for the remainder of her life. Evidently she fulfilled the bargain, only leaving behind this file for someone to eventually find after her death.”

“Alright…but I still don’t understand why he would have killed his own brothers. Isn’t it possible that it was someone else?”

“I’ve done some research into your family tree, Mr. Vasser, and it appears as though Silas, Porter and Harris were the only ones standing in the way of Cyrus becoming next in line to run the family estate and business. His other brother Luther, according to public record, relocated to the USSR in the 1930s and never returned. And above him was Winston II, who was busy establishing the Vasser hotel in Los Angeles and was not in competition for the New York hotel. And lastly, the first and oldest son, Alton II, had died five years earlier of tuberculosis.”

“But other than speculation, you have no proof that this is true. Just because he stood to benefit from their deaths doesn’t make him their killer,” Grant argued.

Don nodded slowly, looking away from Grant for a moment in order to open the file folder and pull out a plain white envelope that bore his name on its face. He stared at the letter for a brief moment before passing it to Grant, leveling his gaze with the younger man before he spoke.

“This was dropped off at the precinct this morning by your sister. Your grandfather left it in one of his books and she found it while she was going through his things.”

Grant accepted the envelope and frowned as he opened it and pulled out the letter. As he read, his eyes slowly narrowed and his hands tightened on the thin sheet of paper until his grip nearly tore it in half. It was impersonally straightforward and to the point, and outlined the crimes Cyrus was admitting to have committed. Included were the murder of his father, Winston, and the murders of his three brothers during the war. Grief and denial settled hotly in Grant’s gut, but he pushed them aside in order to maintain his composure. Control had always been his strongest skill, after all. It was one he had inherited from the very grandfather he now knew was a cold-blooded killer.

“Did Madison read this?”

“It was sealed when she gave it to me, so I’m going to assume that she didn’t,” Don said, reaching out for the letter as Grant handed it back to him. Before he spoke again, Don rose to his feet and held out the file folder for Grant to take. “Inside you’ll find copies of everything Rosalie Owens wanted to be found. I urge you to look through it all and carefully consider how best to inform the rest of your family.”

Grant accepted the folder dully, meeting Don’s eyes.

“What happens now? With the case?”

Don slipped the confession letter into the inside jacket pocket of his coat. “I go and get your father’s testimony, then I go back to my office and I close this case.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Don replied simply, his expression professionally distant and yet still politely sympathetic. “I can personally promise not to deliver news of this to the press, Mr. Vasser. But as I am sure you are aware, this will not be kept under wraps, either.”

Grant nodded, understanding. “I’ll take care of the press.” He rose to his feet then and held out his hand for Don to shake. “I should probably thank you, detective, but I hope you understand that it is only halfhearted.”

With a small, measured smile, Don bowed his head. “I’m hired to discover the truth, Mr. Vasser. Good and bad. Take care.”

As the detective turned and left the room, Grant slowly settled back into his chair, his gaze reluctantly finding its way over to his grandfather’s portrait. He stared at it for a long, silent moment, as of yet still unsure exactly how to react to the whole situation.

His grandfather had written out a confession to both crimes and then he had killed himself. It was so incredibly
un
like the man he had known all his life that he wondered if this was just some insane nightmare that he would soon wake from.

Had his grandfather really felt the only way out was death? Had he thought at all about how his actions were going to impact the rest of the family and the hotels? Surely he had some kind of plan, something in motion that would protect the empire from imploding in upon itself. But what? What kind of plan could he enact from beyond the grave?

“Grant?”

His eyes shot almost guiltily to the doorway where Quinn stood, a small brown paper package in her hands. Her lips curved into a sunny smile, and he felt the heavy lump in his chest that was his heart lighten ever so slightly at the sight of it.

“Hello.” He pushed the manila folder containing Rosalie’s documents aside, knowing he couldn’t share it with her, no matter how badly he may have needed to confide in someone with an outside, objective point of view. It wasn’t as though she would have any answers, anyway. It would just worry her and he didn’t have it in him to burden her with it just yet.

She walked purposefully towards his desk, handing him the package cheerfully. “I made you my world famous, traditional Sicilian cannolis. I thought maybe you could use a pick me up today.”

He accepted the package and set it before him on the desk, a somewhat delirious half laugh managing to make its way out of his throat. “If only you knew.”

Just then, his cell phone rang. He lifted his index finger to motion for her to hang on as he glanced at the Caller ID and answered the phone. “Mother.”

“
I wanted to remind you that the fundraiser is tonight. Are you bringing a date?
”

“Why do I have to go?” he asked, shutting his eyes and rubbing them tiredly with his free hand. “There is a lot going on, I really don’t have time for this.”

“
You will be there, Grant, and that’s final,
” Charlene snapped. “
This is not just a fundraiser any longer, it is a show of strength, unity and mourning, and we must all be present.
”

Because he knew she was right, he let his hand fall from his face and let out a slow, measured breath. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

“
Good. Are you going to bring a date?
”

“Who would I bring?” he scoffed, even as his eyes rose to Quinn, who was busy plating a cannoli for him at the kitchenette. “Never mind. Yes, I’ll bring someone.”

“
Excellent. See you tonight.
”

“Goodbye, mother,” he mumbled as he hung up the phone, scowling as Quinn approached and set a small paper plate in front of him with one of her cannolis on it.

“If you don’t try the first bite in front of me, I’ll be very sad,” she informed him, standing back with her hands clasped together excitedly. “Go ahead, try it.”

“Okay, but let me ask you something first.” Grant met her eyes evenly, annoyed that, even at twenty-eight, he still felt the fear of being rejected. It was downright pathetic. “The fundraiser is tonight, and I need a date. You’ll need to meet me in the lobby at eight o’clock sharp.”

Quinn blinked, her mouth falling open stupidly. “You want
me
to be your date? To a fancy New York City fundraiser? Where all the elites hang out and drink several hundred dollar champagne and eat Beluga caviar on little toast points? Really, Grant? You can’t do better than me?”

“There is no one better than you,” he said simply.

She considered that for a moment, but the thought of having to pretend to be classy and rich for an evening scared the crap out of her and distracted her from his comment. “You don’t know what you’re asking. People like me don’t go to parties like that because we get nervous and laugh too loud or say stupid things or trip over our own feet or use the wrong fork for our salads…oh God, you can’t possibly want me there, seriously.”

Amused, he sat back in his chair and smiled at her. “Actually, it sounds like you’ll make the evening much more enjoyable for me.”

Flabbergasted, she wrung her hands together in front of her and chewed her bottom lip restlessly, terrified by the humored look on his face. Great, he thought her misery was funny. Just great.