Chapter 5 - The Prescription Trail
Frank pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket, picked up Margaret’s discarded canvas tote bag from the floor, and dumped its contents onto the rug.
A stack of hundred-dollar bills, bound by a standard bank band, tumbled out alongside a crumpled white delivery slip.
“Ten thousand dollars,” Frank muttered, counting the edge of the stack with his thumb. “Banded by Eastern Commerce Bank two days ago.”
“Eastern Commerce,” I said, turning the name over in my mind. “That’s a private boutique bank. You need an account balance of at least five million dollars just to hold a checking line there.”
“Margaret,” Emily said, stepping forward with her eyes fixed on the delivery slip. “Did the courier hand this to you at the front gate, or did he come inside?”
“He... he met me at the kitchen service entrance,” Margaret whimpered, clutching her apron. “He had a visitor’s lanyard. The guards at the front gate let him through.”
Frank immediately tapped his ear-piece, connecting to the gatehouse security team. “Tom, pull the vehicle log for 5:00 PM today. Who cleared a medical courier through the main gate?”
There was a long pause over the radio before a nervous voice responded. “Sir, the courier was cleared using the master override code from the guest house terminal.”
Frank’s face hardened into stone. “Repeat that, Tom.”
“The guest house terminal, Mr. Miller. The clearance was entered into the system at 4:48 PM under User Profile Two.”
Frank cut the connection and looked up at me, his eyes dark with dread. “User Profile Two is Julian’s account, Michael.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine, chilling me more thoroughly than the storm outside. “Julian is in New York. He called me from Manhattan at noon to discuss tomorrow’s quarterly board meeting.”
“No, he isn't,” Emily said quietly, drawing our attention back to her.
I frowned at her. “What did you say?”
“Mr. Julian Carter checked into the west guest wing at three-thirty this afternoon,” Emily stated with absolute clarity. “I folded his laundry and placed two fresh bath sheets in his suite forty minutes before Noah stopped breathing.”
“Why wasn’t I informed my brother was on the property?” I demanded, glaring at Frank.
“Julian’s security access is permanent, boss,” Frank said, his jaw clenching. “He told the gate guards he wanted to surprise you for dinner before the board vote tomorrow morning.”
“Let’s check that prescription slip,” Emily suggested, pointing at the crumpled paper on the rug.
Frank smoothed the paper against the desk. At the top was the legitimate watermark of the Beacon Hill Pediatric Clinic, complete with Dr. Harrison’s medical registration number.
I immediately grabbed my desk phone, punched in Dr. Harrison’s private emergency cell, and put it on speaker.
The phone rang twice before the physician picked up, his voice filled with background hospital noise. “Michael! I’m in the elevator at Mass General right now. Noah just arrived in the trauma bay. His vitals are stable, and the pediatric toxicologist is already flushing his system.”
“David, thank God,” I exhaled, leaning against the desk. “Listen to me carefully. Did you send a courier to my home today with a fentanyl patch?”
“A what?” Dr. Harrison’s voice rose in genuine horror. “Fentanyl? Are you insane, Michael? I would never prescribe an opioid transdermal patch to an infant! That’s an immediate lethal dose!”
“Someone used your clinic’s prescription pad,” I said, looking down at the delivery slip. “It has your license number and your clinic seal.”
“Wait,” Dr. Harrison paused, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing over the line. “Our clinic’s central administrative server was hacked yesterday afternoon. Someone accessed our digital stationery templates and pharmacy order forms.”
“Did you trace the breach?” Frank asked, leaning toward the phone.
“The IT team said the intrusion came from an IP address routed through an offshore VPN,” Dr. Harrison said grimly. “Registered to an entity called Apex Maritime Holdings.”
May you like
I felt the air leave my lungs as if I had been punched in the gut.
Apex Maritime Holdings was not an offshore mystery; it was the private shell corporation my younger brother Julian had founded three years ago to manage his personal investments.
