Chapter 4 - The Phantom at the Service Gate
Mason did not waste another minute on speculation.
He picked up the landline phone on his desk and dialed the four-digit extension for the estate security lodge.
“Frank,” Mason ordered without greeting the guard.
“Bring up the personnel vetting file for Rachel Moore.”
“Get me the contract details from the agency that submitted her resume two months ago.”
The voice on the other end responded instantly.
“Right away, Mr. Bellini.”
Within three minutes, a high-resolution PDF document appeared on the dual monitors behind Mason’s desk.
Mason dragged the window across the screen so Rachel could see it.
The document bore the letterhead of Apex Domestic Placement Services.
It listed a registered office suite in downtown Chicago, complete with a corporate tax identification number.
Mason opened a secondary browser window and ran the corporate ID through his private database.
The screen flashed red.
Entity Dissolved: 2021.
Mason clicked through the historical registry records.
The company’s registered managing agent had passed away four years ago.
The agency that had recommended Rachel for a high-security placement inside the Bellini mansion did not exist.
It was a ghost entity maintained solely through automated bank transfers.
Rachel covered her mouth with both hands.
“Someone created an entire company just to funnel my application to your family?”
“Not just someone,” Mason said, his fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard.
“Someone who knew our security protocols.”
“Someone who knew which screening company we used to verify background checks.”
“Anthony had help from the outside.”
Ethan walked over from the sofa and climbed onto the corner of Mason’s heavy desk.
He set his sketchbook down right in the middle of the open files.
“Grandpa liked the man with the cap,” Ethan said casually.
Rachel froze.
Mason looked up from his monitors.
“What man with the cap, buddy?”
Ethan flipped back two pages in his drawing book.
The page was filled with child’s crayon strokes: a large stone house, a black iron fence, and three stick figures inside.
One figure wore a crown labeled Grandpa.
One figure wore a suit labeled Uncle Mason.
And standing directly outside the black iron gate was a figure drawn in dark grey pencil.
Beside the figure, written in Anthony’s distinctive, wavering script, was a single word:
MICHAEL.
Rachel’s heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird.
“When did your grandfather draw that, Ethan?”
“A few days before the red lights came,” Ethan answered, swinging his feet.
“The red lights?” Rachel whispered.
Mason’s face went completely bloodless.
“The ambulance.”
“Three days before he died, my grandfather had a massive stroke in his study.”
Mason pushed Ethan’s drawing aside and pulled up the master access log for the estate’s security gates.
The screen displayed hundreds of entries: deliveries, florists, maintenance trucks, security patrols.
Mason filtered the search parameters for the service entrance.
He entered the last twelve months of Anthony’s life.
He typed in the keyword: Contractor.
Dozens of names appeared.
Plumbers.
HVAC technicians.
Landscape architects.
Mason scrolled rapidly through the entries until his finger stabbed the screen.
“There.”
An entry appeared dated October 3 of last year.
Contractor Name: Michael Reed.
Company: Crestview Antique Restoration.
Badge Access: Level 3 (Private Quarters Only).
Clearance Authorization: Granted by Anthony Bellini personally.
Mason clicked on the visitor’s history.
Michael Reed had entered the estate six times over the past twelve months.
Always through the rear service gate.
Always after seven in the evening.
Always escorted directly to Anthony’s private medical suite on the third floor.
The final entry was logged at 8:15 PM on October 3.
Seventy-two hours before Anthony Bellini was pronounced dead at Saint Jude Memorial Hospital.
“Does the service gate have high-definition capture?” Rachel asked, her voice shaking violently.
“Every gate has facial recognition capture,” Mason said grimly.
He opened the archived video feed for October 3 at 8:14 PM.
The screen buffered for two seconds, then resolved into sharp night-vision footage.
A plain white service van pulled up to the security barrier.
The driver’s side door opened.
A man stepped out into the rain.
He wore a dark blue work jacket and an unbranded baseball cap pulled low over his forehead.
He walked toward the digital card reader on the gate pillar.
For less than two seconds, the wind caught the brim of his cap.
The man lifted his face toward the overhead security lamp to scan his clearance card.
The light hit his features dead-on.
The silver stubble along his jawline.
The sharp, hawkish nose.
The narrow, intelligent hazel eyes.
And the distinct, pale scar cutting straight through his left eyebrow.
The breath vanished from Rachel’s lungs.
Her knees gave out completely.
Mason caught her by the upper arm before she hit the floorboards, holding her upright against his desk.
Rachel stared at the monitor, her eyes burning with hot, blinding tears.
The man on the screen was older.
His hair was silver instead of dark brown.
His shoulders were slightly curved with age.
But there was no mistake.
There was no doubt in the universe.
It was Michael Moore.
Her father was alive.
He had walked into this house three days before Anthony Bellini died.
And the entire family had believed he was ashes scattered in an Ohio cemetery.
Rachel looked up into Mason’s stunned face.
“He’s alive.”
“My father is alive, Mason.”
Mason stared at the frozen frame on the screen, his fingers tightening on Rachel’s arm.
May you like
“He’s alive,” Mason whispered.
“And he came back to this house because the war my grandfather thought he ended is about to begin again.”
