Chapter 4 - The Van Beyond the Windows
Detective Elena Ruiz entered my ballroom with rain on the shoulders of her jacket and an expression that suggested expensive rooms impressed her very little.
She surveyed the damaged portrait, the scattered papers, Nora's injured leg, and the terrified guests before she spoke to me.
"Mr. Romano, I need everybody to stop moving things."
For once, I was grateful to surrender control.
Ruiz separated the people involved, assigned officers to take statements, and asked a paramedic to examine Nora.
She did not treat Celeste's silk gown or Vincent's familiar surname as reasons to alter procedure.
"You say someone planned to move your daughter overseas," she told me.
"Tell me what you actually know, not what you suspect."
I showed her the envelope and explained how I found it.
I did not claim to know who signed the forged pages or what the people in the van intended.
I described the threat as it had unfolded, including Celeste pushing Nora and my own confrontation with Celeste.
Ruiz wrote carefully.
She asked why I had believed the signature was forged.
"I never signed it, and I would never authorize a security release without discussing it with my daughter," I said.
The detective nodded but did not declare the case solved.
"We'll verify that."
At the window, two officers spoke to the occupants of the black van.
One man remained behind the wheel.
The other stood outside with his hands visible, looking alternately at the mansion and his phone.
I wanted to storm through the doors and demand an explanation.
Instead, I stayed where Ruiz directed me.
Isabella sat near her cake with a young officer beside her.
She had pulled her champagne-pink dress tightly around her knees, as though the room had suddenly become cold.
Every few minutes she looked toward Nora, who was having the scrape on her shin cleaned.
The sight undid me.
Two young women had just endured a frightening evening because the adults around them had confused authority with care.
Ruiz returned from the driveway after speaking with another officer.
The van was registered to a small travel-services company, she said, and its occupants had given inconsistent explanations for waiting at my address.
One claimed they were hired to collect a guest.
The other said they expected to deliver luggage.
Neither could name the passenger.
"We aren't making arrests merely because their stories are odd," Ruiz warned.
"But we are documenting what they're saying and preserving the vehicle information."
She asked Isabella whether she had agreed to travel.
"No," my daughter replied.
"I told my uncle I had college work and didn't want to go."
"Did anyone threaten you?"
She hesitated.
"Celeste said I was selfish for refusing."
Ruiz asked her to describe exactly when, where, and how the words had been spoken.
As Isabella answered, I realized how often I had heard the same accusation from Celeste without recognizing its cruelty.
My daughter had been made to feel guilty for possessing a future of her own.
A uniformed officer approached holding a printed copy of a vehicle reservation obtained voluntarily from the driver.
The reservation listed a pickup at the estate followed by a transfer to a private aviation facility.
The passenger name was Isabella's.
A second column identified the arranging contact only by initials.
V.R.
Vincent Romano.
I stared at the letters until the edges blurred.
My brother had denied knowing anything about the documents.
Yet his initials appeared on the reservation for the waiting van.
When Ruiz questioned him, he replied that initials proved nothing and requested an attorney.
She acknowledged his request without argument.
Celeste began insisting she was also entitled to counsel, which she was.
Nobody in that room was required to surrender their legal rights for my satisfaction.
But their sudden coordination left me with more questions than answers.
The detective then asked about the birthday portrait itself.
It had been a gift from Vincent, commissioned months earlier and delivered through a gallery he recommended.
That detail had once seemed generous.
Now the frame looked like a carefully chosen hiding place.
The police photographed the damaged painting, its backing, and the mark where tape had held the envelope.
Ruiz asked for surveillance video from the ballroom, service corridors, front drive, and entrances.
Gabriel explained the system's preservation procedures and began preparing copies under the officers' supervision.
I had never been so grateful that my security team documented access changes rather than relying on memory.
At the staircase, Celeste stood apart from the other guests, her diamonds reflecting in a shard of glass beneath the painting.
She watched the officers with an expression I had seen before during business negotiations.
She was measuring what could still be denied.
Isabella came to stand beside me.
"Do you remember the day Uncle Vincent gave me the painting?" she asked.
"Of course."
"He said that wherever I traveled, the family would always be able to find me."
I had thought it a sentimental statement.
Now my daughter shivered.
"I thought he meant he loved me."
I placed a hand over hers and told her I had misunderstood things as well.
The officer who had been speaking with the van driver entered the ballroom carrying a small paper receipt in a clear evidence sleeve.
He said the driver had volunteered it when asked who booked his services.
The receipt was dated before the party began and bore a payment reference for an unfamiliar holding company.
I recognized the company name.
It appeared in financial reports Vincent had handled on my behalf for years.
The room seemed to tilt.
The van was not merely connected to my brother socially.
It appeared to be connected to money he had controlled.
Ruiz asked me not to interpret the receipt before investigators checked it.
But I already understood that the attempted journey might be part of something much larger than a cruel fiancée's jealousy.
I looked at Isabella, at the shattered portrait, and at Nora's bandaged leg.
The house was full of people who had come to celebrate a young woman's life.
Somebody had been preparing to make that life a bargaining chip.
May you like
Outside, the driver's phone rang again.
This time, he refused to answer it.
