Chapter 8: Franklin Crest Makes His Move
Crest called at nine forty.
Daniel was ten minutes from Carlyle Street, Margaret Hartwell in the passenger seat, when his phone connected through the car speakers before he could stop it.
"Daniel." The voice was warm.
Measured.
The voice of a man who had been the most relaxed person in every difficult room for thirty years.
"I heard your wedding had some excitement yesterday.
I hope everything is alright."
"Mr.
Crest," Daniel said.
His voice stayed even.
"I'm actually in the car right now."
"Of course.
I'll be brief." A small pause — the kind that wasn't actually unplanned.
"I've been thinking about our partnership offer.
I know you've had reservations, but I'd like the chance to address them directly.
I think if we sit down together this week, we'll find that our goals are much more aligned than they might appear."
"I don't think this week works for me."
"I understand.
Though I'd encourage you not to wait too long.
There are other parties who've expressed strong interest, and I'd hate for you to miss an opportunity that I think could be genuinely transformative for your firm." Another pause.
"I also want you to know that I'm aware of some of the conversations that happened at your reception yesterday.
It concerns me.
There are people who like to create confusion around old situations that have already been resolved.
I wouldn't want misunderstandings to affect a relationship I genuinely value."
Margaret Hartwell's hands were flat on her knees.
"I appreciate that," Daniel said.
"Let me look at my schedule and get back to you."
"Please do," Crest said.
"And Daniel — congratulations on your marriage.
Gloria is a lovely young woman.
I hope the two of you have a very long and stable future together."
The call ended.
Margaret said, "He knows you spoke to Arthur."
"Yes."
"He's warning you."
"He's warning both of us," Daniel said.
She looked straight ahead through the windshield.
"He'll move fast now," she said.
"Whatever he has, he'll try to use it before you get inside that building."
Daniel's phone rang again.
Different number.
He answered.
"It's Jessica." Her voice was tight.
"Crest just sent two men to Arthur Brennan's house.
I'm outside right now.
Arthur's inside but he's not answering."
Daniel pulled to the curb.
"How do you know about Arthur?" he said.
"I told you, I've been watching longer than you know.
Daniel — these men are not there to talk.
You need to call someone right now."
He looked at Margaret.
She was already dialing her own phone.
"I know who to call," she said.
Her voice had shifted completely — no softness left in it, no apology.
"I've been living next to Franklin Crest for six years.
I know exactly who he uses." She put the phone to her ear.
"I have their names, their plates, and their employer's direct line."
He heard it connect.
She spoke for forty-five seconds.
Then she lowered the phone.
"Local police will be there in four minutes," she said.
"And I just burned the last bridge I had with Franklin Crest."
Daniel looked at her.
"Good," he said.
He pulled back onto the road.
They reached Carlyle Street with one minute to spare.
He parked.
He picked up the folder.
He looked through the windshield at the side entrance.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Margaret Hartwell straightened in her seat.
She picked up her folio.
"I have been ready for six years," she said.
May you like
"I was just afraid."
They walked in together.
