Chapter 7 - The Fallen Empire of Arthur Vandermark
By nine in the morning, the sun was bright and blinding against the fresh snow.
I sat behind the heavy mahogany desk in my study, a fresh cup of coffee in front of me. Sitting across from me, his hands zip-tied tightly behind his back, was Victor Vance. His beard was dusted with snow, his face red with anger, but he sat straight in the leather chair.
On the desk between us lay the oilskin-wrapped ledger, Celeste’s alligator briefcase, and three satellite phones taken from Victor’s men.
The door opened, and Thomas stepped in, carrying a tray with a fresh pot of coffee and two sandwiches. He set it on the corner of the desk, gave Victor a cold glance, and took his position by the window.
"Your driver hits hard," Victor grunted, nodding toward Thomas.
"He gets results," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Now, Victor, you're going to make a call."
I picked up one of the satellite phones and pushed it across the desk toward him.
"Arthur Vandermark is waiting at his estate in Lake Forest," I said. "He expects you to call him at nine sharp to confirm that my house has been cleared, that Celeste is in the car, and that the evidence from Pier 44 has been destroyed."
Victor stared at the phone, then looked up at me with a cold smirk. "And why would I tell him anything else? You think because you caught us in a spotlight trap you've won, Marcus? Arthur Vandermark controls the state police. He controls the federal prosecutors in the Northern District. By noon, there will be thirty state cruisers at your gate with a warrant for kidnapping."
I picked up Celeste’s alligator briefcase, popped the brass latches, and turned it upside down over the desk.
A thick stack of documents, blue-bound legal files, and several encrypted flash drives spilled across the mahogany surface. Among them was a red leather passport and a plane ticket to Zurich dated for three days from now—in Celeste’s name only.
"Your boss's daughter wasn't planning on sharing the spoils with you, Victor," I said, pushing one of the files toward him. "These are the liquidation orders for Vandermark Holdings. Arthur has been transferring assets out of Chicago for eighteen months. He's facing an indictment from the Department of Justice for tax evasion and racketeering. He didn't send you here to save his daughter. He sent you here to retrieve this briefcase so he could get on a private jet at Midway airport at two o'clock today."
Victor’s smirk faltered. He leaned forward, his eyes scanning the German text on the Swiss bank transfer slips spilling from the briefcase.
"He told you that if you cleared my house, you'd get a two-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus," I continued softly. "Look at the date on that transfer, Victor. Arthur drained the company's payroll account yesterday afternoon. Your men's checks for this month are going to bounce."
Victor stared at the paper. His face, previously flushed with anger, slowly drained of color.
"He left us," Victor whispered.
"He's leaving everyone," I corrected. "Celeste, his security team, his political partners. He used Celeste to handle the dirty work six years ago, used you to keep the bodies buried, and now he's flying to Switzerland with eighty million dollars while you sit in my carriage house waiting for state troopers to pick you up as an accomplice to murder."
Victor swallowed hard. He looked at the satellite phone on the desk.
"What do you want me to say to him?" Victor asked, his voice low and dangerous.
I slid the phone closer to his tied hands. Thomas stepped forward, produced a small pocketknife, and sliced through the zip-ties with a single swift motion.
"Tell him Celeste has the ledger," I said. "Tell him she’s waiting for him at Pier 44 with the briefcase, because she refuses to get on a plane without him signing the final release papers. Tell him if he wants the evidence that can put him in prison for life, he needs to come down to the river himself before he goes to Midway."
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Victor picked up the phone, his thumb hovering over the dial pad. "You're taking a huge risk, Vance. Arthur never travels without his personal bodyguard—a guy named Keller. Former special forces. He doesn't talk, he doesn't negotiate, and he doesn't miss."
"Neither do I," I said, grabbing my wool coat from the rack by the door. "Thomas, bring Delia from the hospital. Put her in the Lincoln. It's time she saw the place where her brother's life ended—and where her family's name gets cleared."
