Chapter 8 - The Notary in the Empty Warehouse
We found the notary alive.
Barely.
His name was Tomás Becerra, and police discovered him locked in an office at the back of the warehouse after Vanguardia’s attorneys forced the property issue into the open.
He was dehydrated, terrified, and furious.
I saw him the next afternoon under police supervision at a private clinic.
“I didn’t forge your signature,” he said before I sat down.
“Then why is your seal on it?”
“Because I certified a woman who presented your passport.”
“That is called failing at your job.”
He flinched.
“I know.”
“Who was she?”
“I never learned her real name.”
“Camila?”
“No.”
“Beatriz?”
“No.”
He reached for a paper cup with shaking hands.
“She wore a scarf. Large sunglasses. She knew your mother’s full legal history. She knew the trust. She knew the private amendment.”
My father leaned forward. “Who sent her?”
Tomás looked at him and went visibly more frightened.
“I received the instructions from Vanguardia.”
Dad went still.
“What department?”
“Risk.”
Ignacio.
My heart pounded.
“Did Ignacio Salcedo contact you?”
“Not directly. An assistant.”
“Name.”
“Mateo Rivas.”
Dad stood.
Mariana was already dialing.
Mateo had worked for Ignacio for fourteen years.
He had not shown up that morning.
I was beginning to hate empty offices.
Tomás spoke again.
“There is something else.”
I looked at him.
“The woman who impersonated you brought an original trust page.”
“Stolen from where?”
“I assumed from the file.”
“What page?”
“The original signature schedule.”
Rafael, who had come with us, frowned. “That schedule is sealed.”
Tomás nodded. “Then someone opened it.”
He described the page.
My mother’s signature.
Beatriz’s acknowledgment.
Federico’s corporate guarantee.
And one additional witness.
Dad said, “Who?”
Tomás looked at him.
“You.”
The room went silent.
My father’s expression did not change.
“I never witnessed Lucía’s trust agreement.”
Tomás shook his head. “Your signature was there.”
Dad turned to Rafael.
Rafael looked sick.
“What?” I asked.
He whispered, “The sealed original has never been opened since Lucía died.”
“Then we open it now.”
We went directly to Monteluz.
Two attorneys witnessed the vault access.
Rafael removed the sealed envelope.
The wax stamp was intact.
He broke it in front of us.
The original signature schedule slid onto the table.
My mother.
Beatriz.
Federico.
And the witness line.
My father’s name was printed beneath it.
But the signature did not belong to Arturo Mendoza.
I knew that immediately.
Dad knew it too.
Someone had been forging my family’s signatures long before anyone forged mine.
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