Chapter 6 - Blue Sirens and Black Money
By the time Frank escorted the two Vance brothers back to the entrance of St. Jude Memorial Hospital, the storm was beginning to break. But the hospital lobby was not quiet.
Four marked state trooper cruisers sat parked outside the emergency entrance, their red and blue lights spinning lazily against the glass facade. Standing in the center of the lobby, flanked by two armed state troopers and an attorney clutching an ostrich-skin briefcase, was Victor Vance.
Victor was sixty-two years old, impeccably tailored in a charcoal bespoke suit with a camel-hair overcoat draped over his shoulders. His hair was slicked back, his jaw tight, his silver cufflinks gleaming under the hospital chandeliers. He looked every bit the master of the city.
Until the automatic glass sliding doors slid open.
Frank walked in. He was soaking wet, his jacket dripping rainwater onto the pristine linoleum. Behind him staggered Axel, clutching his weeping, bloody brother Brock, who could barely keep his eyes open.
The hospital security guards reached for their holsters, but Detective Sarah Jenkins, who had been waiting near the triage desk, immediately stepped between them with her badge held high.
"Stand down! All of you, stand down!" Jenkins ordered.
Victor Vance’s eyes locked onto Frank. For a fleeting second, the polished mask of political invulnerability slipped, revealing the terrified, cornered private he had been in 1991.
"Frank," Victor said, his voice measured, trying to reassert command of the room. "You have crossed a line that no citizen can cross. You assaulted my nephews. You broke into a private establishment. If I give the word, these troopers will put you in federal holding before the sun comes up."
Frank didn't stop until he was standing three feet from the commissioner. The two state troopers shifted nervously, their hands resting on their tasers, but something in Frank’s cold, absolute stillness made them hesitate to intervene.
"Your boy didn't just beat Clara, Victor," Frank said, his voice deceptively calm. "Why did he do it? Why would a rising middleweight prospect risk everything to beat a twenty-three-year-old nurse within an inch of her life?"
Victor’s attorney stepped forward. "My client does not have to answer questions from a vigilante. Commissioner Vance is here to ensure his nephew receives proper medical care and to press charges for—"
"Shut up," Frank said without looking at the lawyer.
Frank pulled a small, water-resistant USB flash drive from his jacket pocket. It was encased in rugged military-grade rubber. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger.
"Clara wasn't just Brock's girlfriend," Frank explained, turning his gaze back to Victor. "She’s an angel. But she’s also *my* daughter. She was taught to observe. When she was cleaning Brock’s apartment three days ago, she found the hidden safe behind his trophy case. She thought it was engagement rings or steroids."
Victor’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek.
"It wasn't steroids, was it, Victor?" Frank continued. "It was the routing slips for the offshore laundering accounts. The ones funneling cash from the underground fight circuits in Atlantic City straight into your mayoral campaign fund. Clara was going to bring it to the Federal Bureau of Investigation this morning."
Detective Jenkins gasped, her eyes snapping toward Victor. "The missing port authority audits..."
Frank took another step forward. Victor involuntarily took half a step back.
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"Brock beat her because he panicked," Frank whispered, the words hitting like hammer blows. "He tried to silence her. He thought an old man from the country would just sit by his daughter's bed and cry. You forgot what I do, Victor. You forgot what happens when someone threatens what I love."
***
