When Empires Fall (18 page)

After all, it was his birthday and as a general rule, at least in her house, everyone was supposed to be happy on their birthday. It was the one day out of the year that was supposed to be a guarantee.

“Mr. Vasser, if you don’t mind me asking…” she began, biting her bottom lip to stifle back a smile. “How old did you turn today?”

Grant blinked at her, taken aback by the question. “Twenty-eight.”

“Right, interesting…” She was curious to learn he was much younger than she had pegged him for. He just always acted so mature, so serious. “Well, I’m only two years younger than you, so I think it’s kind of silly for you to call me Miss…you can call me Quinn, I won’t think any less of you.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you…” he began, feeling unsure. He certainly hadn’t expected her to ask this of him; it just wasn’t how he had ever done things. He had always maintained a strict professional code of conduct with the hotel staff, and now she was asking him to toe the line and break one of his rules for her. Then again, he had never before found himself standing and chatting with an employee before, either. There was just something different about her, something he couldn’t place nor could he understand. It was just there, in her smile, in her eyes, in the way she talked, the way she moved.

“Please, you haven’t offended me at all.” Quinn shook her head, not wanting him to misunderstand her. “It’s just that it’s okay to be more personal, since we’re both still on the fun side of thirty and all. And I want you to know that I’m here for you, if you need anything. I’m just a phone call or a few steps away, okay?”

“Okay…I-”

“But if you’re more comfortable keeping things the way they are, I completely understand. I don’t want to step on your toes or anything.” She smiled up at him warmly, her hazel eyes patient and kind. God, had anyone ever looked at him that way before?

“Okay.”

“Good.” Quinn let out the breath she had been holding, pleased at least that he hadn’t gotten angry with her for her suggestion. She still wasn’t sure quite where he stood on the issue, but she could tell he was definitely uncomfortable so perhaps it was best to let it be. “Well, goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.” He watched her gather up her things and nod politely at him before leaving the office alcove. His mind was racing for something, anything better to say to her. Damnit, why did he have to be so horrible with words?

Before he could do no more than scold himself for being a fool, Quinn suddenly turned around and smiled at him once again, just beyond the alcove door.

“Happy Birthday, Grant,” she said softly, a strange sort of sadness in her eyes, wishing she could give him more than just the words. He desperately looked like he needed a friend; someone, anyone to talk to.

Grant watched her silently as she turned and left, catching the elevator and disappearing from sight. He was left with only questions, doubts, and revelations that did nothing to improve his mood.

Just what was he supposed to do now, when it was impossible for him to deny that he enjoyed her much more than he ever wanted or expected to?

Damn her for being so likeable.

D
on Hughes was a pretty uncomplicated man. He was a soft talker with a mountain of patience and a handy ability to be quietly domineering without appearing forceful or abrasive. He took his time analyzing things, piecing together complex puzzles that most men would recklessly abandon at the first sniff of something easier.

But not Don. No, he enjoyed the long pursuit, the solving of riddles damn near impossible to crack. He reveled in the mystery of times past and the people who were forgotten as the years piled up and more and more crimes were committed, burying unsolved cases under stacks and stacks of the bureaucratic nightmare that was the NYPD. It was up to him to dig into the pile, and bring justice to the forgotten.

He was a cold case detective. In fact, he was New York City’s
finest
cold case detective.

And he was, for the first time in his twenty-two year career, at a complete and utter loss for words.

The goddamned Vasser family, he thought as he wearily rubbed his forehead and scanned the documents that had been brought to him just an hour before, arriving in the hands of a slender blonde woman with worried, grief stricken eyes. How in the hell had they gotten mixed up in something as awful and disturbing as this?

Then again, the documents were old and the murder even older. Few of the living Vasser heirs would know anything about what these papers revealed or of the vile accusations within them.

It was troubling, to say the least.

He supposed the best thing to do was to begin with the woman who had brought him this joyous little package: Hannah Owens Ashford. Niece of the recently deceased Maggie Owens, who had apparently held this little gem in her Queens home for sixty years without even knowing it. That is, until she had discovered the documents a few weeks earlier.

Hannah had confessed to him that when her aunt had called her that cold, December afternoon, she had written her off as having misinterpreted what she was reading or perhaps being confused by the dementia. The doctors had diagnosed Maggie with it only a few months before, so Hannah had simply assumed her aunt’s rant about documents exposing a murder disguised as a suicide by a great hotel tycoon to be a hallucination.

Until, low and behold, her aunt passed away and Hannah went through the old house to clean it up to be sold, only to discover the documents lying on the kitchen table in plain sight. That was the day she had turned the papers in to him and wiped her hands clean of it.

Now it was up to him to look through what Maggie’s mother, Rosalie Owens, had provided in the way of proof of said murder. He was thrilled, really, at the thought of uncovering what would undoubtedly be one of the biggest crimes in New York City’s history. But a part of him was feeling a bit wary about it, a bit uncomfortable.

Maybe he hadn’t been born in New York City, heralding instead from the sultry fields of Georgia, but he
knew
about the Vasser family. How could anyone not know, even those tucked away in tiny suburbs across America, nestled in quiet bedroom communities safely removed from the fast paced vibrancy of the big cities. Everyone with a television or, back in the day, access to magazines, newspapers and radio had heard of the Vassers. They were legendary; up there with the Hiltons, Astors, Rockefellers, and the Kennedys.

Countless books had been written about their legacy, along with dozens of screenplays and films depicting their empire. Classes were even taught in universities touting the entrepreneurial greatness of Alton Vasser, his son Winston and the grandsons that had succeeded him.

So yeah, he had at one time or another heard of the Vassers. And the thought of unveiling something of this magnitude, if it could be considered valid, would be a career maker.

It could also be dangerous. After all, the man that Rosalie claimed had committed the murder was, as far as he knew, still alive. Ancient, yes. But alive all the same.

Don tapped his pencil against his desk as he pondered over the documents, his dark eyes scanning the faded paper and written words, his brow creased with concern. Never had he come across a case like this. Or rather, had a case like this dropped in his lap.

Had Rosalie Owens
really
known some dark secret about her lover’s death and written it down, stowing it away for fear of being assassinated for revealing it? Or was she simply a woman scorned, looking to destroy the family that perhaps had done nothing more than refuse to acknowledge her, monetarily speaking, after Winston’s death? She had been, by her own account, the mistress while Winston was still married, so it was unlikely she would have received anything in the way of cash after his death. So what could be her motive, if not money, for exposing such diatribe as this?

He flipped through the pages, skimming over the countless love letters that Winston had written to Rosalie, some clearly decreeing her as his heir apparent if he were to be killed. But what had he done, or what did he know, to make him think he might be murdered?

He went back to the cover page, the letter Rosalie had written detailing her account of the events that had led to Winston Vasser’s staged suicide. He read over it again, having only skimmed the first of it before, now reading all the way to the very end. It was a lengthy letter, filled with numerous details, including names and dates of important events. But it wasn’t until he got to the very end that he read what was undeniably the most crucial and damning accusation.

What he read in those last few sentences chilled his blood to bitter ice.

Good God. Don’s eyes widened as he gaped at the words, reading them over and over again to be sure he had read them correctly. In all his years as a cop, as a detective, never had he heard of something as heinous as this…

If what Rosalie Owens claimed was true, then Winston Vasser had been, in his opinion, more than justified in attempting to change his will. If what she described was cold, hard fact, then the Vasser family was in for a very, very rude awakening.

Unfortunately, the only possible way for him to find out was to go to the source and ask some questions. But since the accused murderer was still living and this was undoubtedly going to be a sensitive issue that could not be allowed to leak to the press, he was going to have to be clever on just how much information he revealed from the documents to the living Vasser heirs.

The less he told them up front, the more information he could take from their statements to validate what Rosalie Owens had written.

Then, and only then, would he be able to determine if the patriarch of the Vasser family had indeed committed murder.

Not just once, but four times.

“Mr. Vasser, a
detective named Don Hughes is on line one for you.” Quinn’s voice came through the intercom.

Grant stared at it cautiously for a moment, trying to place the name. Thinking it most likely had something to do with his father, who had a habit of hassling cops and getting himself in trouble, he lifted the receiver and let out an impatient breath.

“This is Grant Vasser.”

“
Mr. Vasser, my name is Don Hughes, I’m with the cold case division of the New York City Police Department. May I have a moment of your time?
”

New York? Grant frowned, settling back in his desk chair. But his father was in California…

“What is this regarding?” he asked, keeping the anxiety that had suddenly bubbled into his throat in check. Was someone hurt? Had there been an accident?

“
It’s regarding your great-grandfather, Winston Vasser. I have some new information that I wish to share with you. Are you available to meet with me tomorrow morning?
”

“Excuse me?” Grant frowned, thinking for a split second that this must be some kind of prank. “What kind of information?”

“
Regarding his death, Mr. Vasser. Please, are you available to meet with me?
”

“I am a very busy man, detective…”

“
Hughes
.”

“Right, Detective Hughes. I have a very busy schedule and I don’t understand what kind of information you could possibly have. My great-grandfather died over sixty years ago.”