Chapter 8 - The Shadow Doctor
Rain lashed against the reinforced glass windows of the private medical examiner's lab in Queens. At three in the morning, the industrial street outside was pitch black, illuminated only by the flicker of a broken sodium streetlight.
Dr. Ronald Hayes, a retired chief forensic pathologist who had worked for the state for thirty years and owed his daughter’s life-saving cancer treatment to Richard’s foundation, pulled off his rubber gloves and set down a thick paper dossier.
"Richard, these records shouldn't exist," Dr. Hayes said gravely, leaning over the stainless-steel desk. "When a patient dies during childbirth and the family requests immediate cremation through private channels, the hospital's primary diagnostic data is archived and sealed after ninety days."
"Marcus retrieved the raw digital backups from the hospital's independent diagnostic lab servers before Vance's lawyers could execute a wipe command," Richard said, his coat damp from the rain. "Tell me what’s in those blood panels."
Dr. Hayes adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and tapped a line of red numbers on the printout.
"Eleanor didn't have an unpredictable rupture," Hayes said bluntly. "Her blood chemistry during the thirty-sixth week showed elevated traces of synthetic prostaglandin analogs—compounds used in large doses to induce violent, premature uterine contractions. Administered subtly through routine prenatal vitamin drips over several weeks, it would mimic severe preeclampsia. By the time she went into labor, her vascular system was so compromised that massive internal hemorrhaging was inevitable."
Richard felt the ground tilt beneath his feet. The room went dead silent except for the drumming rain outside.
Eleanor hadn't died from bad luck.
She had been methodically assassinated so that the Vance family could position Victoria into the mourning billionaire's life, seize control of his international logistics ports, and siphon his hundreds of millions into their sinking real estate empire.
"Where is Dr. Vance right now?" Richard asked, his voice dead, devoid of all human warmth.
"He boarded a private charter flight to Nassau two hours after Victoria’s arrest," Marcus reported, checking his encrypted tablet. "He knew the audit would blow the trust wide open. But the flight had to divert to Miami for emergency refueling due to the coastal storm."
May you like
Richard turned toward the exit, his jaw locked like a vise.
"Get the jet ready," Richard said. "We land in Miami before his plane takes off."
