Chapter 2 - The Whispers of Bellevue AvenueWhile Nathan and Nero walked the echoing halls of the Ostrander estate, Detective Whitaker Doyle sat in his unmarked Ford Crown Victoria parked half a mile down Bellevue Avenue, staring at a photocopy of a property tax receipt from six years ago.
The rain had turned the windshield into a blur of red and white streaks from passing taillights.
Doyle rubbed his tired eyes, the stubble on his jaw scratching against his palm. He was thirty-three, a homicide detective relegated to a sleepy seaside town that preferred its secrets buried under layers of old money and tourist brochures.
His cell phone buzzed on the passenger seat.
He picked it up. “Doyle.”
“Detective, it’s me,” whispered the voice of Sarah Lin, the night archivist at the Newport Historical Society. “You told me to call if anyone accessed the restricted archives on the Ostrander file.”
Doyle sat up straight, his fatigue vanishing instantly. “Who?”
“Not a who. A terminal. A secure terminal originating from the Providence port authority network. Someone just pulled up the original architectural blueprints of the Ostrander manor—specifically the eastern wing additions built between 2012 and 2018.”
Doyle’s eyes narrowed. “Vance Harbor Logistics. Nathan Vance.”
“I don't know whose login it was, Detective, but whoever it is, they’re looking at the structural alterations made right before Julian Ostrander’s death. The permits show an annex was added. But when the state assessors went in after the fire in 2019, they reported that room didn't match the exterior dimensions.”
“What do you mean?” Doyle asked, his heart rate climbing.
“I mean,” Sarah whispered over the line, “the blueprints show a basement sub-level that was never inspected by the city. And according to the tax logs, Julian Ostrander paid for three hundred tons of reinforced concrete and lead-lined drywall delivered to the estate just two weeks before the guesthouse burned down.”
Doyle stared out through the rain-slicked windshield toward the distant silhouette of the Ostrander mansion looming against the foggy cliffside.
“He’s not just buying a haunted house,” Doyle muttered. “He’s looking for a vault.”
“Detective... what are you going to do?”
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Doyle turned the key in the ignition, the V8 engine roaring to life with a low, aggressive growl.
“I’m going to go welcome our new neighbor before he finds what’s buried under the floorboards.”
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