Chapter 4 - The Weakest Link
David Vance lived in a high-rise penthouse that overlooked the skyline, a testament to the money he was making alongside Beckett. But when he opened the door to my relentless knocking at 11:00 p.m., he didn't look like a rich man. He looked like a cornered rat. He was sweating, his eyes darting frantically down the hallway before landing on me.
"Mrs. Miller?" he stammered, gripping the edge of the heavy mahogany door. "What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here."
"Invite me in, David," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Unless you want to have this conversation in the hallway where the security cameras can record us."
He hesitated, then stepped aside. The penthouse was pristine, but it smelled faintly of stale whiskey and panic. I didn't sit down. I threw a thick manila folder onto his glass coffee table.
"I know about the Cayman accounts, David," I said, watching the color drain from his face. "I know about the inflated appraisals. And I know about the money being siphoned from the At-Risk Youth Foundation. The Attorney General's office is going to have a field day with this."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he choked out, backing away. "Beckett handles the finances. I just do the acquisitions."
"Stop lying!" I snapped, my authoritative tone snapping him to attention like a recruit at boot camp. "Beckett forged my daughter's signature to make her the scapegoat. But you and I both know Beckett doesn't trust anyone enough to not leave a paper trail. He has a ledger. A real one. Or a hard drive. Something that proves he's the one pulling the strings."
David collapsed onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands. "He'll kill me, Evelyn. You don't understand. Beckett isn't just a white-collar criminal. The money he's laundering? It belongs to the Bratva. The Russian syndicate. If I talk, I'm a dead man."
The revelation hit me like a physical blow. The Russians. That explained the rapid influx of capital, the absolute arrogance, the utter lack of fear. Beckett had gotten into bed with monsters, and he was using his charity as a washing machine for their blood money.
"If you stay silent, you're a dead man anyway," I countered, stepping closer. "When the FBI raids Hale Holdings—and they will, David, because I am going to hand them the map—the Bratva will assume you talked. They will eliminate you just to tie up loose ends. Your only way out is Witness Protection. I can get you immunity, but you have to give me the real ledger. Tonight."
David looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "He keeps a hidden server. It's not at the office. It's at his private hunting cabin upstate. It has everything. The real signatures, the original wire transfers, the audio files he uses to blackmail politicians. Everything."
"Give me the address," I demanded.
May you like
Before he could speak, the penthouse door burst open. Two men in heavy winter coats stepped in. They didn't look like police. They looked like professional violence. Beckett had been watching David after all.
"Well, well," a voice drawled from behind the thugs. Beckett strolled into the room, impeccably dressed in a tailored cashmere coat, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Evelyn. I thought you'd be home, nursing my crazy wife. I see you're sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."
