Chapter 7 - The Confrontation in the Foyer
Detective Doyle stared at the black mastiff as if he were looking at a ghost stepping out of a grave.
“That’s impossible,” Doyle muttered, his hand trembling slightly as he reached out and gripped the wooden banister of the staircase for support. “Animal control recovered three dead dogs from the guesthouse ruins in September 2019. The veterinary report signed off on every single one.”
“Bureaucracy is notoriously sloppy when men like Lyle pay the inspectors to look the other way,” Nathan said calmly. He stood between the detective and the hallway leading to the library, his hands resting easily in the pockets of his charcoal trousers.
Doyle swallowed hard, his eyes darting back to Nathan. “You found the archive, didn't you?”
“I found a room that was never placed on the architectural blueprints,” Nathan replied. “A room containing six years of financial records, municipal audits, and signed confessions detailing how the former Chief of Police and half the state legislature engineered the Ostrander murders to protect a dock extortion ring.”
Doyle went completely still. The rain outside seemed to quiet for a brief moment, leaving only the hollow dripping of water through the rotting ceiling above.
“You have the servers?” Doyle asked, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“Intact. Along with the backup tapes and the original land titles.”
Doyle closed his eyes for a long moment, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose. When he opened them, the weariness that had defined him for six years was gone, replaced by a fierce, long-denied resolve.
“Lyle isn't just an investor,” Doyle said softly. “He’s the operational head of the syndicate. He’s the one who gave the order to burn the guesthouse down when Arthur refused to hand over the keys to the digital vault.”
“I am aware,” Nathan said.
“Where is he now?”
“Waiting at the edge of the property line,” Warrick chimed in from the doorway, his voice like grinding stones. “Watching the gates. Waiting to see if you arrested us or if we failed to walk out alive.”
Doyle unclipped his radio from his shoulder strap. He pressed the transmit button, his thumb whitening against the plastic. “Dispatch, this is Detective Doyle. Unit Four-Zero-Two. I need backup at the Ostrander estate immediately. Notify State Police Intelligence and federal marshals. We have an active recovery of stolen federal evidence.”
A crackle of static hissed from the radio speaker, followed by the dispatcher’s voice: “Copy, Detective. Backup is twenty minutes out from Newport Central.”
“We don't have twenty minutes,” Nathan said, checking his watch. “Lyle has a satellite uplink in his car. The moment he realizes Doyle isn't arresting us, he’ll wipe the remote servers in Boston and board a private flight out of TF Green Airport.”
Doyle looked at Nathan, then down at the mastiff, which gave a short, sharp bark—the first sound the animal had made all night.
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“What do you suggest, Vance?” Doyle asked.
Nathan’s eyes hardened into chips of slate. “We don't wait for state police. Warrick, bring the sedan around to the rear service exit. Detective, you’re riding with us. We’re going to invite Mr. Lyle to a family meeting.”
