Chapter 3 - THE MORETTI FAMILY TRUST
At eight the next morning, Harper nearly changed her mind.
Her roommate Camille watched from the sofa as Harper tried to decide whether her only decent black dress looked professional or funereal.
“So,” Camille said.
“No.”
“You’re attending a mafia meeting.”
“It’s a trust meeting.”
“Run by mafia people.”
“Allegedly.”
Camille stared.
“You are going to die because of grammar.”
“I’m interpreting.”
“Exactly.”
A black sedan arrived at nine.
The Moretti townhouse occupied nearly half a block of the Upper East Side.
Stone facade.
Iron gates.
Tall windows.
Beautiful in the way fortresses could be beautiful.
Roman met Harper near the entrance.
White shirt.
Dark waistcoat.
No tie.
“You came.”
“You keep sounding surprised.”
“I keep hoping you’ll develop self-preservation.”
“Restaurant work destroys that.”
Beatrice arrived moments later.
She hugged Harper.
Then immediately ordered Roman to demonstrate yesterday’s signs.
He looked offended.
Harper enjoyed every second.
Roman signed good morning.
Wrong hand shape.
Beatrice corrected him.
Again.
Better.
She patted his cheek.
Then signed to Harper.
Trainable.
Slowly.
Roman recognized slowly.
His eyes narrowed.
“I’m learning insults first.”
“Useful priority.”
They went upstairs.
Seven people waited inside the library.
Harper recognized Lorenzo Moretti from newspapers.
Early forties.
Elegant.
Expensive smile.
The type of man who looked polished enough to make danger seem respectable.
He kissed Beatrice’s cheek.
Then noticed Harper.
“Who is this?”
Roman answered.
“My mother’s interpreter.”
Lorenzo smiled.
“We have never needed one before.”
Beatrice watched his lips.
Then signed.
That was the problem.
Harper interpreted exactly.
The smile disappeared.
The meeting concerned the Moretti Family Trust.
Not the criminal organization Harper feared hearing about.
At least not directly.
The trust controlled voting interests in shipping companies, hotels, commercial buildings, and several charitable organizations.
Beatrice held the largest individual voting block because part of the fortune came through her family.
The largest charity was hers.
The Beatrice Moretti Foundation for Deaf Children.
Nearly thirty years old.
The foundation funded hearing technology when families chose it.
ASL programs.
Educational advocacy.
Counseling.
Summer programs.
Emergency assistance.
Beatrice had built it after spending much of her own childhood in schools where adults treated deafness like intellectual failure.
Lorenzo opened a presentation.
“The foundation’s financial position requires restructuring.”
Beatrice signed:
Show me.
A report appeared.
Sixty pages.
Dense English.
Tables.
Graphs.
No interpreted presentation.
Beatrice’s eyes sharpened.
Lorenzo continued.
“We recommend transferring three foundation-owned properties temporarily into Moretti Development.”
Beatrice:
Why?
“Operating costs.”
How much?
“Up thirty percent.”
Beatrice shook her head.
False.
Lorenzo stopped.
Roman leaned forward.
Beatrice signed numbers.
Harper interpreted.
“The Brooklyn education center’s actual electricity usage is less than one-quarter of what this report claims.”
Lorenzo glanced at an accountant.
Beatrice continued.
“The property has no mortgage. Why transfer ownership?”
“For efficiency.”
Beatrice:
That word means nothing.
One older trustee covered a smile.
Roman did not.
His gaze was on Lorenzo.
“Who prepared these figures?”
“Morrison Accounting.”
Beatrice shook her head again.
Someone changed them after Morrison.
Now everyone went quiet.
Roman looked toward his cousin.
“Did they?”
Lorenzo shrugged.
“I don’t know what Aunt Beatrice thinks she found.”
Beatrice’s hands snapped upward.
Do not speak about me like I am not sitting here.
Harper interpreted.
Lorenzo’s cheeks reddened.
The next discrepancy involved $680,000 in educational technology purchases.
Beatrice signed:
Where are the devices?
An accountant answered.
“Northstar Adaptive Technologies.”
Beatrice:
Address?
Nobody responded immediately.
Roman looked around the table.
“Answer my mother.”
The accountant gave an address in Brooklyn.
Beatrice smiled without humor.
Empty mailbox.
Harper turned toward Roman.
“She visited.”
Roman looked at his mother.
“You went there?”
Beatrice nodded.
Lorenzo laughed nervously.
“Aunt Bea, you shouldn’t be going around Brooklyn checking vendors personally.”
Beatrice signed.
Then perhaps people should stop lying to me.
The next hour became worse.
Fake maintenance contracts.
Consulting fees.
Inflated utilities.
Nonexistent equipment.
Payments to shell companies.
More than four million dollars over three years.
Then Beatrice opened another folder.
Her hands began trembling.
Harper touched her arm.
“You okay?”
Beatrice nodded.
Then signed.
They used beneficiary numbers.
Roman frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Harper translated.
“Some payments were issued under identities of children who received foundation grants.”
“Children?”
Beatrice produced a list.
Dozens of names.
Former beneficiaries.
Some adults now.
Some moved.
Some dead.
Harper scanned automatically.
Then stopped.
OWEN HAYES.
The room tilted.
Beside his name:
$43,500.
Payment issued two years after death.
Harper forgot how to breathe.
Roman stood.
“What?”
She pointed.
“My brother.”
Beatrice looked down.
Then covered her mouth.
She signed.
Owen?
Harper stared at her.
“You knew him?”
Beatrice nodded.
Roman looked between them.
Harper signed directly.
How?
Beatrice answered.
He received a technology grant at eight.
Harper’s eyes filled.
Their mother had always said a hospital program purchased Owen’s first advanced hearing devices.
Apparently Beatrice had.
Beatrice left the library.
Returned minutes later carrying a blue folder.
Inside were letters.
Three.
Childish handwriting.
Harper recognized it instantly.
Dear Mrs. Moretti,
Thank you for helping me hear better even though I like signing more because Harper makes stupid faces when she goes too fast.
Harper began laughing and crying simultaneously.
Roman looked away.
Then Harper saw the financial sheet again.
Owen’s name.
Her dead brother’s identity.
Used to steal from the charity that had helped him.
Grief became fury.
“Who did this?”
Silence.
Roman looked around the room.
His voice dropped.
“Nobody leaves.”
Lorenzo stood.
A security officer blocked the door.
“This is ridiculous,” Lorenzo snapped. “We’re talking about accounting errors.”
Beatrice slammed her hand against the table.
Everyone froze.
She signed.
Not errors.
Theft.
Lorenzo looked at Harper.
“Tell her she’s confused.”
Roman stood slowly.
“No.”
Lorenzo turned.
Roman’s voice became almost soft.
“You tell my mother yourself.”
Silence.
“And since you never bothered learning her language, choose your next words carefully.”
Harper saw Roman’s reputation then.
Not wild violence.
Controlled menace.
Used, for once, to demand that someone respect Beatrice.
A forensic audit was ordered.
Every property transfer stopped.
Every relevant account frozen.
Before Harper left, Beatrice gave her Owen’s letters.
“They belong to you,” Harper said.
Beatrice shook her head.
No.
They belong with his sister.
Harper held the folder against her chest.
Roman drove her home himself.
Halfway to Queens his phone rang.
Security.
“We located Northstar Adaptive.”
Roman glanced at Harper.
“Who owns it?”
A pause.
“A holding company controlled by Lorenzo Moretti.”
Roman’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
Then the officer continued.
“There’s another issue.”
“What?”
“Someone accessed the foundation archive twenty minutes after the meeting.”
Roman’s face hardened.
“What did they take?”
“The original beneficiary files.”
Harper looked down at Owen’s letters.
Then the officer added:
May you like
“And whoever accessed the system searched specifically for Owen Hayes.”
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