Chapter 166

Chapter 166
Finn's POV

I stood in the shadows of the interrogation room, observing our guest. Big Bear, as he was known in the underground casino world, sat strapped to a metal chair bolted to the floor.

His massive frame seemed diminished under the single harsh light that hung above him, casting dramatic shadows across his face. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the room's deliberate chill.

"Mr. Bear," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "I appreciate you joining us on such short notice."

His eyes darted around the windowless room, searching for an exit that didn't exist. Sterling Tower's basement security level wasn't on any official blueprint. "I didn't have much choice," he grunted, testing the restraints on his wrists.

"No," I agreed, "you didn't."

Jack stood by the door, his presence a silent threat. The room was sparse—concrete walls, metal table, and the chair to which Big Bear was secured. Nothing else except the single light and a small camera in the corner, its red recording light deliberately disabled.

"Let's not waste time," I continued, stepping forward into the light. "I want to know about Peter Johnson and the stolen phonograph."

Big Bear's laugh was forced. "Just a business transaction. Guy owed me money, I offered him a way to pay it back. Nothing personal."

"A business transaction," I repeated, circling his chair slowly. "That's why one of your debtors is currently in a hospital bed, fighting for his life after being poisoned?"

His eyes widened slightly—a tell. "I don't know anything about that. My business is money, not murder."

I stopped directly behind him, feeling his body tense as he lost sight of me. "Your business," I said, my mouth close to his ear, "is whatever I say it is tonight."

I moved back into his field of vision, letting him see my eyes. Cold. Calculating.

"Here's how this works," I said, picking up a manila folder from the table. "This contains everything my security team has gathered on your operation. Tax evasion. Money laundering. At least three counts of assault with a deadly weapon that never made it to the police."

I opened the folder and began reading casually. "Particularly interesting is your arrangement with Senator Carlyle's son. I imagine the ethics committee would find that quite enlightening."

Big Bear's breathing quickened, but he maintained his composure. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" I selected a photo from the folder and placed it in front of him—his daughter's kindergarten, timestamped that morning. "I know where your family lives. Where your money is hidden. Which judges you've paid off." I leaned closer. "The question is not what I know, but what I'll do with that knowledge."

His face paled, and a visible tremor ran through his massive shoulders. "What do you want?"

"The truth. Who paid you to involve Peter Johnson in stealing the phonograph from the Hawkins party?"

Big Bear swallowed hard, his collar suddenly too tight. "It was just business. A client wanted something stolen, I had a desperate debtor. Simple transaction."

I turned away, giving Jack a slight nod. He stepped forward and placed a small digital recorder on the table, pressing play. Big Bear's voice filled the room: "The Sterling kid wants it done clean. No traces back to him."

I switched off the recording. "Which Sterling kid?"

Big Bear's resistance crumbled visibly, his shoulders slumping. "Richard Sterling," he admitted. "He approached me about three weeks ago. Said he needed a specific item acquired from the Hawkins charity event."

"Why that specific item?" I pressed.

"I don't ask those questions." Big Bear shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "But he said something like, 'I only need that phonograph. This will make her notice me.' I assumed it was for a woman."

I processed this information, connecting it to the timing of Richard's sudden interest in Hannah. "The plan was for Peter to steal it during the party?"

"Yeah. Simple job. Grab it during dinner when everyone's distracted."

"But something changed," I prompted.

Big Bear nodded, relief flooding his features as he began to cooperate. "The music competition wasn't planned. When they announced it, Peter panicked. Then your brother got up to play, and Peter thought the job was blown." He laughed nervously. "Then that woman—your wife—she got up and played too. Won the damn thing fair and square."

I frowned, considering the implications. Richard couldn't have known Hannah would win the phonograph. Unless...

"Richard never expected Hannah to be there at all, did he?" I said, more to myself than Big Bear. "He planned to win it himself, then have it stolen, so he could heroically recover it for her later."

Big Bear shrugged. "Above my pay grade, man. I just arrange the work."

"And Peter's poisoning? Was that part of the arrangement too?"

"No!" Big Bear's response was immediate, fear flashing in his eyes. "I run a business, not a hit squad. I'd never—"

I moved faster than he expected, grabbing a pitcher of ice water from the table and dousing him. He gasped, the shock jolting him fully upright.

"Don't lie to me," I said calmly, setting the empty pitcher down. "People who lie to me tend to regret it. Extensively."

Big Bear's entire body shook, water dripping from his face onto his expensive suit. His eyes, wide with genuine terror, locked with mine.

"I swear on my daughter's life," he rasped, "I had nothing to do with the poisoning. Check my alibi, check my calls—I was in Atlantic City when it happened. I run games and collect debts. That's it."

I studied his face intently, looking for the micro-expressions that betrayed deception. There were none. Years of interrogating liars had given me an instinct for truth, and despite my desire to find him guilty, I knew he was telling me the truth. The fear in his eyes was too raw, too primal to be manufactured.

"If not you, then who?" I demanded, leaning closer.

"I don't know," he pleaded. "Maybe whoever sent those messages? I told you, it was all burner phones and dead drops."

I straightened, mind racing. If Big Bear didn't arrange the poisoning, then who did? I mentally reviewed everyone present at the abandoned resort that day: Hannah, Edward, my security team, and Richard. The security team was thoroughly vetted and loyal. Edward had no motive to harm Peter—quite the opposite. Hannah would never...

I suddenly stood up, a cold realization washing over me. Richard. My brother. The one person I'd categorized as running a childish, harmless scheme.

"Leave us," I ordered Jack, my voice cutting through the room's tension.

When the door closed, I circled Big Bear's chair slowly, processing this new possibility. Richard had been there, arriving suspiciously at the perfect moment to "save" Hannah. Richard, who had always been the "good" brother, the controlled one, the one who never got his hands dirty.

Until now.

What if Richard hadn't hired someone else to poison Peter? What if he'd done it himself?

The thought sent an unexpected chill through me. Wealthy people hiring others to kill wasn't unusual in my experience—I'd encountered plenty of silver-spoon criminals in my darker years. But they didn't just outsource murder to avoid suspicion.

Most wealthy heirs, raised in privilege and comfort, understood the theory of violence but lacked the stomach for its reality. They might know intellectually how things worked, might even fantasize about taking matters into their own hands, but when faced with the actual moment—the messy, visceral act of watching life drain from another human being—most would falter.

Richard, with his polished exterior, had always seemed the epitome of this sheltered upbringing. The perfect Sterling son who followed rules and maintained appearances. But if he had poisoned Peter himself... if he had calculated the dosage, watched the man convulse, and remained calm enough to play the hero afterward...

I'd underestimated him. Severely.