Chapter 8 - Cold Coffee and Bloodlines
Arthur answered on the fourth ring. His voice was thick with sleep, the comfortable, relaxed voice of a man who believed his thirty-million-dollar trap was snapping shut without a hitch.
"Alex?" Arthur mumbled. "Jesus, man, do you know what time it is? It’s five-thirty on Christmas morning."
"Pack an overnight bag, Arthur," I said, infusing my tone with precise measures of panic, exhaustion, and broken despair. "I need you in Tahoe right now."
A pause on the other end. I could hear the rustle of high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets as Arthur sat up in bed. "What happened? Did the Texas contract fall through?"
"I wish it were the contract," I choked out, performing the role of a shattered husband to perfection. "I got home unannounced last night. Vanessa... she’s completely out of control. She had an illegal party here. There was a private investigator in the house, some criminal named Julian Croft. There was an altercation. The sheriff was called."
"What?" Arthur’s voice jumped an octave, electric with sudden opportunism. "Is everyone alright? The girls—where are Claire’s girls?"
"They’re... Arthur, it’s bad," I whispered, dragging a hand down my face. "Social services might get involved. Marcus Vance told me that if County Commissioner Sterling gets wind of what was going on under this roof, the state will initiate an immediate emergency protective order. Vanessa has been spending money like water. I don't know who to trust. You’re Claire’s brother. You’re my CFO. I need family here."
"My god, Alex," Arthur said, though I could hear the predatory thrill vibrating beneath his feigned shock. "Don't sign anything. Don't speak to any state agents until I arrive. I have Sterling’s direct office line—we play golf at the Seattle Yacht Club every Tuesday. I can manage him. I’ll charter an emergency jet out of Boeing Field within the hour. Keep the girls isolated in their room. Don't let anyone photograph them."
"Thank you, Arthur," I said quietly. "Hurry. I don't know how much longer I can keep this quiet."
"Hang in there, brother," Arthur said soothingly. "Family protects family. I’ll be on the tarmac in Truckee by eight-thirty."
The line went dead.
I looked up at Liam, who was standing beside my desk, a pair of tactical tablets propped on the dark cherry wood.
"Is the Truckee private hangar secured?" I asked.
"Completely," Liam replied. "We notified the FAA regional inspector and the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s financial crimes division out of Sacramento. Special Agent Reynolds is already on site. When Arthur’s Gulfstream touches down, he won't be met by an executive car. He’ll be met by us."
"No," I corrected, standing up and sliding my father’s heavy gold watch over my wrist. "Don't arrest him at the airfield. Let him take the limousine all the way up the mountain. Let him walk through my front door thinking he’s coming to claim his prize."
"Why take the risk, Alex?"
May you like
"Because," I said, staring at the cracked plastic plate of moldy bread sitting in the center of my desk, "I want him to look me in the eye when the world he built on my children’s agony burns to the ground."
***
