Chapter 3 - Flashing Red and Blue
The wail of sirens cut through the quiet country club valley before the lights even appeared over the crest of the hill.
Two cruisers from the county sheriff’s department turned into the winding driveway of Grandview Manor, their red and blue strobe lights reflecting violently off the manicured hedges and white marble fountains. Right behind them, a sleek black Audi sedan pulled up—Marcus Vance had arrived.
The cruisers didn't park quietly. They pulled directly up to the grand entrance, their tires crunching over the crushed gravel, emergency lights bathing the front of the venue in an ominous, pulsating glow.
The valet attendants scattered. Inside the ballroom, the music abruptly stopped. Heads turned toward the towering glass windows.
Two uniformed deputies stepped out of the patrol cars, followed by a senior sergeant with a thick gray mustache and a notepad in hand. Marcus stepped out of his Audi, impeccably dressed in a charcoal wool overcoat, holding a thick leather portfolio.
“Claire,” Marcus said, walking briskly toward me. He looked at my face, noting the faint red scratch along my jawline and the disheveled state of my hair. “You look like you’ve been through a war.”
“Just an average Hastings family dinner,” I replied dryly.
The sergeant approached us, tipping his hat slightly. “Ms. Claire Hastings?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“I’m Sergeant Miller. We received a call from Mr. Vance regarding an alleged physical battery and the unauthorized possession of a luxury motor vehicle valued over fifty thousand dollars. Are you the reporting party?”
“I am,” I said. “The vehicle is that black Mercedes-AMG parked in the VIP circle. It is owned by Apex Capital Partners, LLC, of which I am the managing director. The suspect who physically assaulted me and currently holds the vehicle key is Madison Hastings, currently seated inside at the head table. The co-conspirator is Arthur Hastings.”
Sergeant Miller looked at the pristine, ribbon-tied Mercedes, then back at me. “And you are willing to press full criminal charges tonight?”
“I am.”
“No hesitation?” Miller asked, eyeing my torn dress. “This is a high-profile venue, ma'am. Once we walk through those doors, there’s no walking it back.”
“Sergeant,” I said, looking him dead in the eye, “I have spent twenty-eight years walking things back for this family. Tonight, I walk forward.”
Miller nodded once. “Understood. Let’s go inside.”
We entered the ballroom through the massive double doors. The heavy brass handles clicked open, and the silence in the room was absolute.
Every single guest turned around. The caterers stopped serving the prime rib; the wedding planner froze near the audio booth with a clipboard clutched to her chest.
At the head table, Arthur’s face went entirely white. He slowly lowered his fork.
Mom gasped loudly, her hand flying to her chest. “Arthur... what are the police doing here?”
Madison didn’t look scared; she looked indignant. She stood up from her gilded chair, her diamond-encrusted veil shaking with outrage. “What is the meaning of this? This is a private reception!”
Sergeant Miller and his two deputies walked down the center aisle, their boots thudding with heavy, authoritative weight against the marble. Marcus and I walked two paces behind them.
Trevor, Madison’s new husband, looked between his bride and the approaching officers with growing alarm. His parents, Richard and Evelyn Montgomery—old-money socialites who had only agreed to this marriage because Arthur had boasted of his vast commercial empire—exchanged horrified glances.
“Arthur Hastings?” Sergeant Miller asked, stopping at the foot of the elevated dais.
Arthur cleared his throat, trying desperately to muster his usual booming, authoritative charm. He stood up, adjusting his cummerbund. “Yes, Officer. I’m Arthur Hastings. I’m the father of the bride. Look, whatever noise complaint someone filed, I assure you we have the permits for music until midnight—”
“We’re not here for a noise complaint, Mr. Hastings,” Miller interrupted coldly. “We are here regarding a report of physical assault and grand theft auto.”
A collective gasp echoed across the room. Several guests pulled out their smartphones, the recording lenses catching the light.
Madison shrieked. “Grand theft auto?! Are you insane? That car was a wedding present from my father!”
“That car,” Marcus Vance stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension like a surgeon’s scalpel, “is the registered property of Apex Capital Partners. Your father does not hold title, registration, or power of attorney over that vehicle. In fact, your father is currently in catastrophic default to Apex Capital on three separate commercial facilities totaling 1.4 million dollars.”
Arthur’s knees visibly wobbled. His hands gripped the edge of the head table. “V-Vance? What are you doing here? You represent the Delaware group!”
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“I represent Apex Capital,” Marcus said, opening his leather portfolio with ruthless precision. “And allow me to introduce you to the sole managing partner and majority shareholder of Apex Capital: your daughter, Claire Hastings.”
***
