Chapter 9 - The Bloodied Paper Trail
The barrel of the small silver pistol remained steady, pointed directly between my eyes.
Vanessa's hand was steady, her manic eyes wide with the chilling calm of a psychopath who had already accepted the horror of what she was about to do.
"You won't get away with this, Vanessa," I said, keeping my voice low and measured, calculating the distance between us.
Eight feet.
Too far to lunge before she pulled the trigger.
"I already have gotten away with it, darling," she purred, stepping slowly to her left, keeping her back to the massive bay windows.
"Arthur owns the district magistrate. Marcus owns the board of directors."
"And after I put two bullets in your skull and one in that little brat behind you, I’ll claim you broke in here to steal the trust funds and attacked me when I tried to stop you."
"Self-defense, Daniel. Just like on the terrace."
From behind my shoulder, Emily spoke up, her voice surprisingly steady, almost curious.
"You really think you're smart, don't you, Mrs. Whitmore?"
Vanessa’s eyes flickered toward Emily, annoyance flaring across her sharp features.
"Shut your mouth, you pathetic little tray-carrier. You should have minded your own business and let that old hag drop."
"I recorded everything," Emily said simply.
Vanessa froze, her finger lingering on the trigger.
"What did you say?"
"I'm an hourly waitress at a high-end luxury venue," Emily explained, stepping out from behind my back, her chin held high.
"The management requires all banquet staff to wear body-worn microphone badges for service quality audits."
"When I ran to the terrace railing, my audio badge was recording live to the hotel's cloud server."
"It caught every single word you said to Eleanor."
"It caught you saying: 'You're never coming back up!'"
"It caught the sound of your hands pushing her, and the sound of you swinging that silver platter at my head."
Vanessa's pale skin turned an unnatural, sickly shade of gray.
The triumphant sneer began to crack at the edges, revealing the raw, suffocating panic beneath.
"You're lying!" Vanessa shrieked, her voice pitching into hysteria.
"Catering staff don't wear live audio badges! That's a bluff!"
"Call the hotel general manager, Vanessa," I said, capitalizing instantly on her hesitation.
"His name is Robert Sterling. Any relation to your corrupt judge?"
"He already handed the master cloud recording over to Detective Hayes two hours ago."
"The audio has already been authenticated by the FBI's regional forensics lab in Lower Manhattan."
Vanessa’s eyes darted wildly between me and Emily, her grip on the gun trembling for the very first time.
In that fraction of a second of utter psychological collapse, her concentration shattered.
She looked down at the thumb drive in her left hand, realizing that destroying it would not save her from the federal wiretap evidence.
I didn't wait another millisecond.
I hurled the heavy steel flashlight with all the strength in my uninjured left arm.
The heavy metal cylinder sailed through the air and struck Vanessa's right wrist with a sickening crack.
The silver derringer fired wildly into the ornate ceiling plaster as it was knocked from her fingers.
BANG!
Plaster rained down in white sheets as the gunshot echoed like thunder in the enclosed library.
Vanessa screamed in agony, clutching her fractured wrist as the gun skittered across the polished hardwood floor.
I lunged forward like a striking predator, wrapping my arms around her waist and driving her hard into the Persian rug.
The brushed-aluminum thumb drive flew from her hand, sliding across the floorboards directly toward Emily's feet.
Emily dropped to her knees, trapping the drive beneath her bandaged palms.
"I've got it!" Emily shouted, clutching the drive to her chest.
Beneath me, Vanessa thrashed like a rabid animal, her nails raking across my face, leaving bloody gouges on my cheek.
"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL BOTH OF YOU!" she screamed, her voice completely unrecognizable, foam gathering at the corners of her mouth.
"I gave you seven years of my life! I deserved that money! It belonged to me!"
I pinned her shoulders to the floor with my full weight, grabbing both of her wrists and twisting them behind her back until she shrieked in pain.
"You never loved anyone in your entire miserable life, Vanessa," I hissed into her ear, my chest heaving.
"You loved a bank account. And now that account is closed."
The shrill sound of multiple police sirens suddenly tore through the rain outside, tires screeching onto the gravel driveway below.
Heavy boots pounded up the grand marble staircase within seconds.
Four New York State Troopers burst through the library doors with assault rifles raised, followed closely by Detective Hayes, his service weapon drawn.
"Nobody move! State Police!"
"She's disarmed!" I shouted, holding Vanessa pinned to the floor.
"Get these cuffs on her!"
Detective Hayes dropped down, forcefully pinning Vanessa's head against the rug as he wrenched her arms back and snapped heavy steel restraints onto her wrists.
"Vanessa Whitmore, you are under arrest for attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon, and felony witness intimidation," Hayes recited with deep, personal satisfaction.
"Your uncle’s writ was vacated twenty minutes ago by the State Supreme Court Chief Justice."
"You are not going to a holding cell this time, Vanessa. You are going straight to Rikers Island."
Vanessa screamed incoherently, spitting blood onto the rug as two state troopers hauled her to her feet and dragged her backward out of the library.
Her designer dress was shredded, her face covered in dirt, tears, and smeared mascara—a creature entirely stripped of her glamorous veneer.
I stood up, breathing heavily, wiping the blood from the scratches on my face with the back of my hand.
Emily stepped forward, opening her trembling, bandaged hands to reveal the small aluminum drive.
"Is this it, Mr. Whitmore?" she asked, her voice soft in the sudden quiet of the room.
"That's it, Emily," I breathed, taking the drive into my palm.
I checked my watch.
8:20 AM.
The emergency board meeting at Whitmore Global headquarters on Wall Street was scheduled to convene in exactly forty minutes.
"Detective Hayes," I said, turning to the investigator.
"Do you have a police escort with sirens ready outside?"
Hayes grinned, adjusting his fedora.
May you like
"We have three cruisers and a motorcycle escort, Mr. Whitmore."
"Let's go crash a board meeting."
