Chapter 5 - The Frozen Kingdom
By late afternoon, the rain had started over Manhattan, washing the soot from the limestone facades of the Upper East Side. I stood in the library of our 72nd Street townhouse, watching the drops race down the tall French windows.
Daniel Reeves sat at my father's antique mahogany desk, typing rapidly on an encrypted laptop.
"The Swiss authorities acted faster than expected," Daniel said, not looking up. "Once Elena filed the certified criminal affidavit with the Southern District of New York, SDNY issued an emergency mutual legal assistance treaty request to Bern. The forty-two million in the Zurich escrow account has been frozen."
"Can Grant access any secondary accounts?" I asked.
"Not a cent," Daniel chuckled grimly. "His personal checking accounts at Chase and Morgan Stanley were tied to Hawthorne commercial guarantees. The compliance officers locked them by 2:00 PM. As of right now, Grant Sterling Whitmore has approximately four hundred dollars in cash and a wallet full of plastic cards that will decline at an automated car wash."
A loud banging began at the wrought-iron front gates downstairs, followed by the muffled shouting of an enraged man.
I walked onto the second-floor balcony and looked down through the rain.
Grant was standing on the wet sidewalk, soaking wet, his luxury suit clinging to his frame like a drowned rag. His luggage—three monogrammed Louis Vuitton duffel bags—had been dumped unceremoniously onto the front stoop by my security guards.
"Claire!" he screamed up at the house, oblivious to the wealthy neighbors peering through their silk curtains. "Open the damn door! My passport is in the safe! My mother's jewelry is inside!"
"Your mother's jewelry was bought with my father’s money!" I called down, my voice slicing cleanly through the rain. "And your passport is currently being couriered to the Manhattan District Attorney's office as a flight risk precaution!"
"Claire, please!" His anger suddenly collapsed into pathetic desperation. He fell against the iron bars of the gate, gripping them with white knuckles. "I don't have anywhere to go! Sabrina left! The minute we left the building, she took a cab to Queens and blocked my number! She took the company car!"
"Sabrina is smart enough to realize when a ship has sunk," I said. "You should take notes."
"We can fix this!" Grant sobbed, rain mixing with real tears streaming down his cheeks. "We can go to counseling! I'll sign whatever you want! I’ll step down permanently! Just don't destroy me, Claire. Don't leave me with nothing!"
"You destroyed yourself, Grant. You sat in my airplane, beside your mistress, and told me to remember my place. Well, I remembered it. I am a Hawthorne. And you were only ever a guest in my home."
I turned my back, stepped inside, and closed the French doors. The heavy sound of double-paned glass sealed out his shouting forever.
Daniel looked up from his screen. "Claire, you need to see this."
I walked over to the desk. "What is it?"
"Sabrina Cole didn't just run," Daniel said, turning the laptop toward me. "An hour ago, someone accessed a safety deposit box at a private vault company in Midtown registered under her name. The facility manager reported an individual matching her description withdrawing two heavy canvas bags. And thirty minutes ago, an anonymous tip was emailed to the District Attorney's white-collar crime division."
"What kind of tip?"
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"It’s an offshore ledger detailing five other unauthorized transfers over the past three years," Daniel said, his eyes wide with shock. "Totaling nearly fifteen million dollars. All signed by Grant. But here’s the kicker... every single one of those transfers routed through accounts controlled exclusively by Sabrina’s brother in Miami."
I stared at the screen. The betrayal went far deeper than a forty-two million dollar gamble. Grant hadn't just been stealing from me—Sabrina had been stealing from him.
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