Chapter 7 - THE CELL AT TWIN TOWERS
The Beverly Hills police substation held an air of stale bleach, cold concrete, and institutional misery that money could not soften.
In the corner of Interview Room C, Christopher Albright sat on a bolted metal stool, his Tom Ford tuxedo jacket discarded onto the filthy floor.
His white pleated shirt was torn at the collar, stained with sweat, red wine, and grease from the metal processing bench.
His $40,000 Patek Philippe watch had been confiscated, replaced by an abrasive yellow plastic property band around his right wrist.
Across the stainless-steel table sat Detective Raymond Cruz, an investigator with twenty-five years of homicide and financial crimes experience.
Cruz flipped through a thick red manila folder, his expression impassive as he chewed slowly on the end of an unlit wooden toothpick.
"Mr. Albright, your high-priced corporate attorneys haven't picked up the phone for the last forty-five minutes," Cruz said flatly.
"It appears the general counsel of Grand Horizon has formally notified this department that the company is not representing you."
Christopher lunged forward, slamming his cuffed hands against the steel table with a sharp, violent metallic clatter.
"That company is mine! My father-in-law gave me the executive mandate! Vivian is an invalid who doesn't know what she's doing!"
"My wife is suffering from early-stage neurodegenerative dementia, Detective! Brenda Vance was only trying to protect our family dignity!"
Detective Cruz didn't flinch; he simply turned a glossy color photograph around and slid it across the cold metal surface.
The image was a high-resolution microscopic analysis of the broth recovered from the porcelain bowl on my bedside nightstand.
"The toxicology report from the county lab came back expedited twenty minutes ago, Mr. Albright," Cruz said, tapping the photo.
"The broth contained three hundred milligrams of liquid lorazepam mixed with concentrated scopolamine."
"That isn't a sleep aid, Christopher; that is a chemical cocktail used to induce profound amnesia and total executive paralysis."
"If your housekeeper hadn't poured half of it down the disposal before your mistress arrived, your wife would be in an irreversible coma right now."
Christopher’s face twitched uncontrollably, a bead of cold sweat running down his temple and dripping onto his soiled collar.
"I didn't prepare the soup! Brenda brought the tray up! I was downstairs in the library going over the annual keynote speech!"
"Brenda did everything! She manages the household staff, she ordered the catering, she handled Vivian’s personal appointments!"
Detective Cruz leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes filled with an icy, professional amusement.
"That’s funny, because Miss Vance is currently sitting in Interview Room A singing like a wounded canary in a coal mine."
Cruz pressed a button on a small handheld voice recorder resting on the table, and Brenda’s frantic, weeping voice filled the room.
"Christopher told me she was already dying! He showed me the fake medical reports he had manufactured in Mexico!"
"He told me that if I helped him slip the drops into her herbal tea, he would marry me in Monaco by the end of the month!"
"He set up the Delaware LLC! He transferred the sixty-eight million! I was just a secretary doing what my boss ordered!"
Christopher’s hands shook so violently that the steel links of the handcuffs rattled like dry bones against the table.
"She’s lying! That woman is a manipulative psychopath who targeted my family from the moment she walked into our home!"
"She seduced me! She threatened to tell Vivian about our personal relationship if I didn't give her an executive title and corporate credit cards!"
"Save the performance for the federal magistrate tomorrow morning, Albright," Cruz said, shutting the folder with a sharp, heavy slap.
"The state prosecutor is charging you with attempted second-degree murder, conspiracy to commit grand larceny, and felony elder financial abuse."
"And because your son already handed over the server logs from your private Delaware accounts, the IRS criminal division just filed a detainer."
Christopher’s breath hitched in his throat, his eyes bulging as the reality of his total, catastrophic ruin began to pierce his arrogance.
"My son? Luke gave you those records?"
"Your son brought us an investigation so clean, so detailed, and so thoroughly documented that my detectives barely had to write a warrant," Cruz said.
"That eighteen-year-old kid dismantled your entire international laundering operation in three days flat."
The door to the interview room clicked open, and an armed deputy stepped inside, holding a set of leg irons and an orange jumpsuit.
"Transport is here, Detective; time to move Albright to the county facility downtown."
Christopher shrank back against the concrete wall, looking at the coarse orange fabric as if it were dipped in acid.
"No... no, wait! I need to call my wife! Vivian will stop this! She still loves me! We've been married for twenty-two years!"
"She wouldn't let me go to Twin Towers! Let me speak to Vivian! Put her on the phone!"
Detective Cruz stood up, gathering his files and slipping the recorder into his jacket pocket without looking back.
"Mrs. Albright signed the emergency protective order thirty minutes ago, Christopher."
"If you even breathe her name within five hundred feet of a telephone, they will add felony witness tampering to your indictment."
The deputy grabbed Christopher by his cuffed wrists, hauling him off the stool with rough, mechanical efficiency.
Christopher stumbled, his knees buckling as the heavy iron chains were wrapped around his ankles, securing him like a common felon.
As he was dragged down the narrow, fluorescent-lit concrete hallway, he passed Interview Room A.
Through the reinforced wire glass of the door, he caught a brief glimpse of Brenda Vance sitting in a puddle of her own tears.
Her expensive makeup was smeared across her cheeks in hideous black streaks; her custom-made hair extensions were tangled and matted.
She looked up through the glass, her eyes locking onto Christopher with pure, unadulterated venom.
She didn't look like the glamorous, sophisticated woman who had walked the Peninsula red carpet in my custom gown three hours ago.
She looked like a trapped scavenger who had been caught with her jaws buried in another creature’s kill.
Christopher opened his mouth to scream an obscenity through the glass, but the deputy shoved him forward into the dark, rain-slicked sally port.
A heavy diesel transport bus sat idling in the courtyard, its iron-barred windows reflecting the grim, gray light of the coming dawn.
May you like
Christopher Albright, the golden boy of the California real estate elite, was pushed up the metal steps into the dark belly of the bus.
The steel door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the last sliver of the city he had spent twenty years trying to conquer.
