Chapter 4 - The Living List
Detective Ortiz refused to call it a kill list.
Not yet.
Good investigators hate dramatic nouns before evidence earns them.
“It may be a contact schedule, disposal schedule, blackmail schedule, or something else,” she said.
But no one in that hospital room believed “FINAL DISPOSITIONS” was harmless.
My name had tomorrow’s date.
My mother’s date corresponded with her planned cremation.
Dr. Mercer’s date was two days later.
Walter Dean’s was next week.
We went through the remaining twelve names.
Some I recognized.
A county health inspector.
A former Whitmore driver.
An attorney who represented a family in a wrongful-cremation complaint.
Two insurance auditors.
A retired crematory technician.
Others meant nothing to me.
Detective Ortiz’s team began contacting all of them.
Three could not be reached.
One had moved.
One refused to speak without an attorney.
Seven were confirmed alive.
That mattered.
The list might represent planned intimidation rather than murder.
Still terrible.
Still not the same.
Then my mother asked for Vanessa’s purse.
Police had seized it after the funeral.
Ortiz looked at her.
“You said you put a recorder inside?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Without her permission?”
“Yes.”
“That may affect admissibility depending on what was captured and where.”
My mother nodded.
“I know.”
She had spent thirty-eight years handling death certificates, police releases, and chain-of-custody paperwork.
She understood law did not become optional because she hated someone.
“What were you trying to record?”
“Adrian meeting Vanessa.”
Ortiz requested the purse through evidence procedure.
Inside was a lipstick.
Wallet.
Phone.
My mother’s missing wedding ring.
And a tiny digital recorder sewn into a makeup pouch.
My mother closed her eyes at the ring.
Vanessa had taken it while Mom was unconscious.
Again:
not romance.
Trophy.
The recorder contained five hours of audio.
Most unusable.
Fabric movement.
Cars.
Music.
Then a conversation in Adrian’s office.
Adrian:
“Evelyn found Harold’s second ledger.”
Vanessa:
“Then burn it.”
“No. If she notices it missing, she’ll know.”
“She already knows.”
“Not enough.”
Then Vanessa said:
“What about Evelyn?”
Adrian:
“Dr. Mercer will sign.”
“And Claire?”
Silence.
Vanessa:
“She owns twenty-five percent. You can’t take full control while she’s alive unless she signs.”
Adrian:
“She’ll sign.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
Long pause.
“Then she joins her mother.”
My skin crawled.
My mother stared at me.
There.
Direct.
Then another section.
Vanessa:
“And after?”
Adrian:
“We sell Whitmore.”
“To Fairhaven?”
“Yes.”
“Price?”
“Twenty-eight million.”
My mother laughed softly.
Not amused.
“Fairhaven offered me twelve.”
Ortiz looked up.
“Fairhaven what?”
“Fairhaven Memorial Group. National chain.”
That changed motive.
If Adrian could obtain full ownership of Whitmore Funeral Services, sell it for $28 million, and conceal the fraud before due diligence—
he could disappear rich.
But why would Fairhaven pay more than double the earlier offer?
We pulled corporate information.
No need internet; investigators within story.
Fairhaven had recently acquired land around Whitmore’s main facility.
All except our parcel.
The funeral home sat directly between two large redevelopment properties.
Its real estate value had jumped dramatically.
Adrian knew.
My mother did not.
At least, not until now.
“That explains the company,” I said.
“But not the body switching.”
Ortiz nodded.
“We’re working on that.”
Then forensic technicians finished imaging Harold Mays’s USB.
It contained spreadsheets.
Payments.
Dates.
Names of shell vendors.
And photographs.
One photograph showed Adrian standing in the preparation room beside a body bag.
Another man stood with him.
Dr. Mercer.
But Dr. Mercer was already cooperating.
He looked at the photograph and shook his head.
“I wasn’t there.”
Ortiz enlarged it.
Same height.
Same hair.
Same medical jacket.
Then the face became clearer.
Not Calvin Mercer.
His brother.
Dr. Daniel Mercer.
Calvin went white.
“I haven’t spoken to Daniel in nine years.”
“Why?”
“He disappeared.”
“Missing?”
“No.”
Calvin swallowed.
“He changed his name.”
“What name?”
Calvin stared at my mother.
“Daniel Cross.”
Mom’s face drained.
I knew that name.
May you like
Daniel Cross was the regional director of Fairhaven Memorial Group.
The company planning to buy Whitmore for twenty-eight million dollars.
