Page 16 of A Cobbled Conspiracy
I approached the largest board, grateful for the distraction from my churning stomach. “Red marks show locations where someone stole property records, architectural plans, and financial documents. These thefts follow a clear pattern—systematic intelligence gathering for development purposes, at least I think so.”
Penny bounced up from where he’d been organizing papers, his scent bright with excitement despite the serious subject matter. “I color-coded everything by date and type of document stolen. See how the red thefts cluster around properties with development potential?”
“So the vandalism wasn’t random,” Jake added quietly from his position by the windows. Over the past few weeks, he’d surprised us all by emerging from his shell like a butterfly from its chrysalis—one of the few bright spots since Dominic’s arrest and Blake’s loss to Adelaide last week.
According to Blake, the results had been predictable. Adelaide Fairfax won with 62% of the vote. Despite everything, Blake had managed a respectable but distant second.
“Hard to run an effective campaign from federal courthouse hallways,” he’d said with that cavalier grin. “My supporters understand, but understanding doesn't win elections.”
“Not random at all. Look at the blue circles.” I traced a different pattern on the map with my finger, pausing as another wave of queasiness hit me. The symptoms were definitely getting worse instead of better, which didn’t make sense if this was just bond separation.
“These represent a completely different type of theft,” I continued, trying to ignore the nausea. “The Historical Society’spersonal archives, old patient records from when the original hospital closed after the new one broke ground, even some family documents that Mrs. Henderson donated years ago. Whoever hit these locations knew exactly where to find materials related to the early 1970s.”
“The question is are they looking for something, or trying to hide something?” Blake mused quietly. “It looks like we’re dealing with different agendas. The red pattern suggests someone’s working for development interests. But the blue pattern…”
“Someone with intimate knowledge of something that happened in the 1970s,” I said. “Someone who knew exactly which records they wanted.”
I moved to the timeline we’d created along the far wall, where Penny had used his organizational skills to map out every theft by date and time. “They took everything from early 1972 through late 1973,” I explained, pointing to the cluster of incidents. “But they left everything prior to 1971 and everything after 1974.”
“That’s a very specific window,” Blake observed. “Eighteen months of records, precisely.”
Penny tapped his chin with a manicured finger. Pink and white polish alternated across his nails, the embedded glitter catching the light with each thoughtful tap. “What happened in that period that someone would want to erase?”
“Construction on the new hospital broke ground,” I said, pulling out the photocopied newspaper article I’d found at the library. “The preservation guidelines were established, several buildings in the District underwent preservation restorations. And Thomas Wong, the architect behind all of it, disappeared.”
Jake set down his mug with a soft clink against Blake’s marble coffee table. “Can I see the complete list of what was taken?”
I handed him a copy of the inventory we’d compiled from police reports and Adelaide’s victim statement. Jake’s eyes moved down the list.
“Property deeds, boundary surveys, architectural plans,” he murmured, more to himself than to us. “But also correspondence files, personal papers, and…” His voice trailed off as he reached the bottom of the list. “Financial records. They took bank records from the Millcrest First National branch office.”
“Is that significant?” I asked, though the tension in Jake’s shoulders suggested it was.
Jake looked up, and for a moment, I saw something in his eyes that reminded me he’d seen things the rest of us had only heard about in crime movies. “In Boston, I remember overhearing conversations about cleaning house—they always seemed focused on financial records first. Bank statements, loan documents, transfer records. I didn't understand it all at the time, but...”
Blake’s expression grew sharper. “You think someone was laundering money through development projects in the 1970s?”
"Maybe?" Jake said hesitantly. "I mean, I heard them talking about development companies and city contracts, inflating costs for things that didn't seem real. It makes sense it’d work the same way then, right?”
“It does.” Blake nodded. “Set up a legitimate development company, get city contracts for preservation work, then inflate costs or create phantom expenses to move dirty money throughthe books. If Thomas Wong was the architect overseeing those projects…”
“He would have seen the financial irregularities,” I finished. “He would have known if someone was using preservation work to launder criminal funds.”
“Which could explain his sudden disappearance,” Penny added.
Another wave of nausea hit me, stronger than before, and I had to grip the back of Blake’s fancy leather sofa to steady myself.
Penny perched on the arm of the sofa’s matching armchair, his usual cheerful demeanor tempered by the worried glances he kept shooting in my direction. “The question is whether our two thieves know about each other?”
“I don’t think they do,” I said, thinking back to the patterns we’d mapped.
Blake pulled out his tablet and began taking notes with the efficiency of someone used to analyzing complex scenarios. “So we have Brian Collins double-crossing us to work for the Antonelli family. And we have someone else—someone with intimate knowledge of district history—systematically stealing what… evidence of criminal activities from the 1970s?”
Before I could respond, Blake’s intercom buzzed. His assistant’s voice came through with professional calm: “Mr. Harrington, there’s a delivery for Mr. Sterling-Hart. The courier says it’s urgent.”
My blood chilled. I hadn’t ordered anything, and the timing felt ominous given recent events. Blake and I exchanged glances that conveyed the same thought: after two weeks of looking over our shoulders, unexpected deliveries were never good news.
“I didn’t order anything,” I said, my omega instincts immediately shifting into alert mode.