“The company charter lists Winston Aldrich as both founder in 1847 and current president. Same signature across one hundred and seventy-five years.”
Sullivan set down his mug. “Either we’re looking at the most elaborate document forgery in state history, or this family has run their operation longer than anyone imagined.”
Brooks had avoided the conclusion, but the evidence mounted. Multiple people using the same name, the same signature, to maintain the illusion of legitimate business while trafficking contraband.
Rain hammered the windows outside. The tunnel rescue felt both recent and distant—Melissa pulled from the flooded chambers, Gerald and the others taken into custody. Processing evidence, conducting interviews, building the prosecutorial case that would end the family’s criminal empire.
But Winston remained free. Dangerous. Desperate.
“Perfect forgeries to maintain continuity of the business,” Brooks said. “Multiple generations using the same identity to avoid scrutiny.”
“Or one person using multiple identities.” Sullivan picked up his mug again. “We’ve seen it before. Criminals who fake their deaths, assume new names, continue operations under different guises.”
Brooks made notes, his mind working through possibilities. The Aldrich operation had thrived for over a century by staying invisible, by maintaining the appearance of respectability while trafficking stolen artifacts through hidden tunnels. Using the same name, the same signature, would create the illusion of a legitimate family business passing through generations.
His phone buzzed. Porter.
“Winston used a credit card. Different location this time—Maine border. We’re coordinating with state authorities.”
Brooks felt hope flicker. “How long ago?”
“Less than an hour. If he’s heading north, we can set up roadblocks.” Porter’s voice carried caution. “But he’s been careful so far. This could be another misdirection.”
“Keep me posted.”
Brooks ended the call and immediately texted Vivienne.
Possible lead on Winston. Stay alert. Detail stays with you until we have confirmation.
Her response came quickly
Vivienne Hawthorne
Understood. Be careful.
He stared at those two words. Vivienne wasn’t just a consultant or a witness anymore. She was someone who cared about his safety as much as he cared about hers.
Sullivan was watching him. “Maine border?”
“Credit card hit. Porter’s team is coordinating with state authorities.” Brooks stood. “I need to brief the protection detail. If this goes wrong, if Winston slips away again, he might come back here. Vivienne’s still the biggest threat to him.”
“Agreed. Double the detail until we have confirmation he’s in custody. I’ll call the state for more help.”
Brooks grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
Then it hit him.
His throat constricted. Air wouldn’t come. Pressure wrapped around his neck like invisible hands, squeezing, choking. He grabbed the doorframe, gasping, his vision darkening at the edges.
“Brooks?” Sullivan was at his side. “What’s wrong?”
He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. The sensation was overwhelming, foreign—not his panic, not his fear. Something else. Someone else.
Vivienne.
As quickly as it came, the pressure released. Brooks sucked in air, his heart hammering.
“You okay?” Sullivan gripped his arm.
