Chapter 6 - THE SETTLEMENT OFFER
At four o'clock on Sunday afternoon, Valerie sent a formal electronic communication to Mason Vance's criminal defense attorney.
The message was simple, professional, and entirely calculated:
Dear Mr. Sterling, In light of the recent familial complications following the passing of Liam Vance, my client, Vera Vance, is willing to host a private settlement conference at our law offices on Monday at 11:00 AM. Mrs. Vance is prepared to discuss a potential waiver of the mortgage clawback against Gertrude Vance, as well as a non-prosecution agreement regarding the corporate card improprieties committed by Mason Vance, in exchange for a complete surrender of all claims to the estate and a formal release of liability.
Within twelve minutes, Mason's attorney replied accepting the meeting.
"He bit," Ray said from across the conference room. "His attorney thinks you're terrified of a prolonged court battle and trying to buy your peace before the funeral publicity gets worse."
"Mason is arrogant," I said, looking out the window at the city lights beginning to flicker on in the gathering dusk. "He's spent his whole life believing he was smarter than Liam. He thought Liam was just a quiet nerd who got lucky with software. He can't conceive of the possibility that Liam was ten moves ahead of him."
"That arrogance will be his downfall," Valerie agreed. "Now, Vera, go back to your apartment. Rest. Sleep if you can. Tomorrow morning, we retrieve the drives from the Federal Reserve at eight AM, deliver the evidence to the Assistant US Attorney at nine-thirty, and at eleven AM, we sit down across from Mason and Gertrude one last time."
"Will the police be there at eleven?" I asked.
Valerie looked at her watch. "The federal arrest warrants will be signed by a magistrate at ten-fifteen. The FBI arrest team will be standing outside our conference room doors at eleven-fifteen. You will get to watch Mason sign his own confession, thinking it's a settlement agreement, right before the handcuffs go on."
I drove back to the Baltimore apartment through a light evening drizzle.
The building was quiet. The new digital keypad chimed softly as I tapped in my code, and the heavy oak door unlocked with a reassuring click. Inside, the apartment smelled clean—Tom had arranged for a professional cleaning service to scrub the foyer marble and clean up the remnants of the invasion while I was at Valerie's office.
I walked over to the entry table.
Liam's temporary urn sat there, quiet and still, beside the white lilies that were just beginning to lose their petals.
I reached out, resting my fingers against the cool bronze surface of the urn.
"We're almost there, Liam," I whispered into the empty room. "They think they won. They think they scared me. But tomorrow, everyone is going to know what they did to you."
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For the first time since he had drawn his last breath in that hospice room, I felt a deep, profound sense of peace settle over me. I wasn't just a grieving widow defending a house. I was the executioner of my husband's final, brilliant plan.
I went into the master bedroom, lay down on top of the covers, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
