Chapter 7 - The Interrogation at the Hangar
The private security office at Westchester County Airport was small, sterile, and illuminated by harsh fluorescent tubes. Grant sat handcuffed to a metal table, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, his face pale and sunken. A local sheriff's deputy stood watch by the reinforced door.
When I walked in, followed by Elena and Daniel, Grant snapped his head up. His eyes held a wild, manic gleam.
"Claire! Tell them to take these cuffs off!" he barked, pulling against the chain. "I have a right to access my personal files on that aircraft! Sabrina stole my private ledger! She took the offshore access codes!"
"Quiet, Mr. Whitmore," Elena said sharply, placing her hands on the table. "You are in protective custody pending federal arraignment tomorrow morning. You should be thanking your wife for not having you locked in a standard holding cell in White Plains."
"Protective custody?" Grant scoffed, laughing bitterly. "From what? From her?"
"From Sabrina Kowalski," I said calmly, dropping the file containing Sabrina’s Florida mugshots and prior alias records directly in front of him.
Grant glanced down. He blinked.
"What... what is this?"
"Look at the dates, Grant," I said. "Look at the names."
With trembling fingers, he flipped open the cardstock cover. As he read the Florida Department of Corrections intake reports, the color completely drained from his face until his skin looked like parchment.
"No... no, this is fake. You manufactured this to turn me against her."
"She cleaned out her Midtown safety deposit box at 4:30 PM," Daniel said, leaning over the table. "She withdrew two million in bearer bonds that she siphoned from Whitmore Dynamics petty cash reserves over the last eight months. She dumped your calls. She left you standing on a wet sidewalk in Manhattan with nothing but your wet clothes. Does that sound like a woman in love with your executive brilliance?"
Grant stared at the photograph of Sabrina from four years ago, her blonde hair dyed dark, standing against a height chart in Palm Beach County.
"She told me... she told me she loved me," he whispered, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic pitch. "She said you were cold. She said you never appreciated how hard I worked to make Whitmore Dynamics successful. She said we could start over in Switzerland... with our own capital."
"Our capital?" I asked, stepping closer. "It was Hawthorne capital, Grant. My father earned every cent of it. You were an employee with a wedding ring. Nothing more."
"Claire..." Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over his cheeks. "She took everything. The Swiss bank access... the secondary codes... I don't have the master key. I gave it to her. She told me she needed it to register the trust in Zurich!"
Elena cursed under her breath. "Damn it. If she has the master cryptographic key, the Swiss authorities can't hold the funds past forty-eight hours without a formal indictment naming her specific alias."
"Where is she going, Grant?" I demanded, leaning down until my face was inches from his. "Tell me now, or I swear to God I will call the federal prosecutor and tell them to seek the maximum twenty-five-year sentence for aggravated grand larceny."
"I don't know!" he sobbed, burying his face in his cuffed hands. "She said... she said her brother had a boat. In Fort Lauderdale. The Sea Mist. Pier 44."
I straightened up and looked at Daniel.
"Call Captain Monroe," I ordered. "Prep the Gulfstream. We’re flying to Florida."
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Grant looked up, horror flashing across his features. "Claire! What about me? Don't leave me here!"
"You wanted to fly to Florida this morning, Grant," I said coldly, walking toward the door. "Too bad you won't be on the plane."
