Chapter 64 - THE SEVEN-YEAR-OLD CORPSE IN VAULT 4
Arthur Vance stepped forward, drawing his badge and slamming it onto the genetic report. "That's enough fairy tales, Madame von Brandt. I was the lead detective on Charles St. Claire’s death investigation seven years ago. We pulled dental records from the crash site. We verified the DNA against Julian's samples from the family registry."
Katherine didn't flinch; she simply took a sip of iced water from a crystal tumbler, her rings clinking against the glass. "Then you verified the dental records Charles bought from a dead transient in Portland, Detective. Did you ever open the lead vault in the St. Claire mausoleum at Sleepy Hollow, or did you just rubber-stamp the casket because Eleanor gave you a weeping widow's smile?"
Arthur's face paled beneath his weathered tan. He looked at Julian, the silence between them heavier than an anvil.
"Call the coroner, Arthur," Julian commanded, rising to his feet, towering over Katherine. "Right now. Get an emergency exhumation order for Vault 4. If my father’s bones are in that crypt, this woman spends the rest of her life in federal solitary."
Forty-five minutes later, three Westchester County police cruisers and an unmarked federal van pulled up outside the wrought-iron gates of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. The snow was falling thicker now, burying the Victorian headstones in a suffocating shroud of white as industrial floodlights illuminated the granite facade of the St. Claire family mausoleum.
Two cemetery workers, guided by Arthur's official warrant, used hydraulic cutters to slice through the bronze chains sealing the heavy iron gates of Vault 4. Julian walked in behind them, the smell of damp earth, old stone, and ancient decay hitting his nostrils like a slap.
In the center of the vault rested the bronze-plated casket bearing Charles St. Claire's name and the family crest.
"Pop the seals," Arthur ordered the workers, his voice shaking with a dread he had not felt in thirty years on the force.
The workers wedged their crowbars under the casket lid, grunting as the heavy metal squealed in protest. With a dull *clunk*, the lid swung back on its hinges, exposing the interior to the harsh glare of the work lights.
Julian stepped up to the edge, looking down.
The casket was completely empty, except for a life-sized mannequin dressed in a charcoal bespoke suit, its synthetic hands crossed over its chest, holding a silver-framed photograph of Eleanor on her wedding day. And pinned to the mannequin’s lapel with a gold tie clip was a handwritten note in dark blue ink:
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*You were always too late, Julian. Look behind you.*
***
