Chapter 4 - The Pawn in the Game
Three days later, the rain had turned into a thick, clinging fog that hung low over the city harbor.
I sat in the back of a black armored Sedan parked outside a converted warehouse on Pier 14. Beside me sat Miriam Cole and Detective Hayes.
At seven in the evening, a gray van pulled into the alleyway.
Two men pulled Evan out of the side door. He looked unrecognizable. His velvet jacket was torn at the shoulder, his left eye was swollen shut beneath a dark purple bruise, and he was missing one shoe. He walked with a heavy limp—a cruel mirror image of the limp he had given me four days earlier.
Marcus “The Hammer” Vance stepped out of the warehouse doorway, smoking a thin cigar. He was sixty, broad-shouldered, wearing an expensive wool coat that didn't hide the military tattoos creeping up his neck.
“Mrs. Halstead,” Marcus said, his deep voice carrying over the sound of lapping harbor water as he approached the car window.
I rolled down the reinforced glass two inches.
“Mr. Vance,” I said smoothly.
Marcus leaned against the car frame, puffing his cigar, glancing at Detective Hayes sitting in the front seat. He didn't look worried about the police presence; men like Marcus understood the delicate balance between law and business in the harbor districts.
“Your boy owes me two hundred thousand from the tables,” Marcus said, pointing his cigar at Evan, who was shivering against the wet brick wall. “Plus fifty thousand in interest for the inconvenience he’s caused my people.”
“He doesn't have it,” I said.
Marcus smiled, showing a gold-capped tooth. “I know he doesn't. That’s why he’s here. He told me you’d bring the cashier’s check yourself if I kept him in one piece.”
“He lied to you,” I replied calmly. “Just as he lied to his father, his board of directors, and his banks. Evan Halstead has no money, no trust, and no claim to the Halstead estate.”
Marcus’s smile faded slightly. He looked down at Evan, then back at me.
“So you’re letting him drown?” Marcus asked, a faint note of professional curiosity in his voice. “A mother with forty million in the bank?”
“I’m giving you a business proposal, Mr. Vance,” I said, sliding an envelope through the cracked window.
Marcus didn't open it immediately. He held it in his gloved hand, weighing it.
“What’s this?”
“That is a complete dossier on the six illegal offshore accounts Evan used to hide four point two million dollars he embezzled from my company,” I explained. “Two of those accounts—containing approximately eight hundred thousand dollars—were set up using fraudulent credentials provided by your third-party money launders in Jersey City.”
Marcus froze. His eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits.
“Are you threatening me, lady?”
“I’m offering you an exchange,” I corrected softly. “You surrender Evan to Detective Hayes right now without another scratch on his face. You sign a full release of all claims against the Halstead estate. In return, my legal team will omit your Jersey City partners from the federal wire fraud indictment we are handing to the District Attorney at nine tomorrow morning.”
Marcus stared at me through the fog. The silence stretched for ten long seconds, broken only by the sound of Evan groaning in the alley.
Marcus slowly opened the envelope, scanned the first page—showing his partner’s signature on a Cayman bank draft—and let out a low, appreciative whistle.
“Richard Halstead was a lucky man,” Marcus muttered, tossing his cigar butt into the dirty harbor water. “He died before he had to see his wife become tougher than him.”
Marcus turned to his men and barked one word: “Drop him.”
May you like
The two thugs released Evan’s arms. Evan crumpled onto the wet asphalt like a sack of damp laundry, crying out as his knee hit the stones.
“He’s yours, Detective,” Marcus said, stepping back into the shadow of the warehouse. “Do us all a favor and keep him locked up. He’s bad for business.”
