Chapter 5 - THE HUNT FOR WARREN PRESCOTT
The rain began to fall over Minneapolis just as twilight draped the city in gray shadows. The windshield wipers of Teresa’s unmarked cruiser beat a frantic, rhythmic tempo as she sped toward the upscale suburban neighborhood where the Prescott estate sat behind wrought-iron security gates.
Two squad cars were already parked on the manicured gravel driveway, their blue and red emergency lights painting the brick facade of the grand house in flashing crimson and indigo.
Teresa stepped out into the cold drizzle, pulling her trench coat tight around her neck as she walked briskly up the front steps. Officer Miller met her near the open mahogany front door.
"Detective, we cleared the house," Miller reported, shaking his head. "It's empty. But it looks like he left in a hurry."
Teresa walked inside. The interior of the Prescott home was immaculate, reflecting decades of wealth, refined taste, and quiet elegance. But in the master study, the signs of frantic scrambling were unmistakable. Desk drawers were pulled open, financial folders were scattered across the Persian rug, and the small wall safe behind a oil painting of the Minneapolis skyline stood wide open, its heavy steel door swinging slightly in the draft.
"Did he take the hard drives?" Teresa asked, stepping into the study.
"Security system hard drive is gone," Miller confirmed, pointing to the empty bay in the wiring closet. "He wiped the local server. But he made one critical mistake."
Teresa raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"
Miller handed her a heavy, gold-plated fountain pen resting on the desk, alongside a handwritten travel itinerary. "He left his desk diary open. It looks like he was planning a flight out of Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport tonight using a private charter service he booked under a corporate alias."
Teresa snatched the itinerary. Private Charter 404, departing for the Bahamas at 8:30 PM.
She looked at her wristwatch. It was 7:15 PM.
"Call airport security and federal aviation authorities immediately," Teresa commanded, turning sharply toward the door. "Ground that charter before it clears the tarmac. If Warren Prescott gets out of this country, we may never extradite him."
As Teresa rushed back out to her cruiser, her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She pulled it out, seeing Dr. Charles Fletcher’s name flashing on the screen.
"Charles? I'm on my way to the airport. Warren is trying to flee to the Bahamas."
"Teresa, listen to me," Charles’s voice was breathless, ragged with fear. "He’s not running to the airport. He’s coming back here."
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Teresa stopped dead by her car door. "Back where? To the hospital?"
"Yes," Charles said urgently. "Lillian just told me something she remembered before blacking out. Warren keeps a secondary medical kit—a portable emergency crash kit from his pharmaceutical inventory—hidden in a safe deposit box downtown. If he couldn't finish the job at home, he knows Lillian is still vulnerable in her hospital bed. He’s coming to finish what he started."
