Chapter 5 - An Anatomy of Neglect
The rain had returned to the city, slicking the asphalt in dull gray sheets as Michael stepped into the private conference room at the 12th Precinct.
Detective Vance was leaning against a whiteboard covered with crime scene photographs, printouts of corporate filings, and the mugshots of two men with extensive records for aggravated assault and contract intimidation.
“Leon Briggs—no relation to the sergeant—and Hector Morales,” Detective Vance said, tapping a photograph with his pen. “Both on the payroll of Apex Demolition, which happens to be a subsidiary shell company owned by Marcus Reed’s holding group.”
Michael looked at the images of the two men. Their faces were heavy, callous, marked by the careless brutality of mercenaries who operated on the fringes of urban development.
“Where are they?” Michael asked coldly.
“Morales was picked up an hour ago trying to board a Greyhound bus to Atlanta,” Vance replied. “He broke under interrogation within twenty minutes. Confirmed everything the kid told you. Doyle ordered them to retrieve the ledgers and silence Clara. They didn't even check to see if she was dead before they dumped her and locked the lid. They assumed the city sanitation truck would arrive at 7:00 a.m., compress the bin, and transport the remains straight to the county incinerator.”
Michael felt a sickening jolt in his chest. *The sanitation truck.*
If he hadn’t returned to that alley at 5:58 a.m., if he hadn't forced the patrolmen to investigate before the route driver arrived, Clara would not have survived to see the sunrise. She would have been crushed in the mechanical jaws of a compactor before the city woke up.
“What about Doyle?” Michael demanded.
“Arthur Doyle, Chief Financial Officer of Apex Demolition,” Vance said, crossing over to a dry-erase board. “We executed a warrant on his suburban residence forty minutes ago. The place was empty. His passport was gone, his safe was cleared, and his car was found abandoned at the international airport terminal.”
“He didn't leave the country on a commercial flight,” Michael said flatly. “The FAA flag would have tripped immediately. If Doyle is running, Reed is moving him via private charter.”
Michael pulled his phone from his coat pocket, dialed a direct line to his corporate aviation director, and held the receiver to his ear.
“Gregory,” Michael said, without waiting for a greeting. “Run every private flight manifest filed out of Teterboro, Westchester, and the municipal airfield within the last six hours under Marcus Reed’s tail numbers. I want destinations, passenger manifests, and ground handlers. Now.”
Detective Vance raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Sterling, this is an official police investigation. You can’t go executing private corporate interdictions.”
“Detective,” Michael said, turning his cold gaze upon the investigator. “Marcus Reed tried to bury a woman alive behind a greasy food stall to hide the fact that he was constructing a municipal elementary school with brittle aggregate and substandard steel. If you want to wait for a judge to sign three layers of subpoenas while Doyle reaches a non-extradition country, be my guest. But I am not bound by municipal jurisdiction.”
Vance stared at Michael for three tense seconds, his jaw working slowly. Finally, the detective exhaled a long breath, threw his marker onto the table, and leaned back.
“Off the record,” Vance muttered. “If you happen to learn which private airfield Doyle is using before I get my warrant, my phone is always on.”
Michael’s phone chimed with an incoming data transfer. He glanced down at the screen: *Tail Number N842MR. Scheduled departure from Executive Airfield Hangar 4 at 11:15 a.m. Destination: Nassau, Bahamas.*
Michael checked his watch. It was 10:22 a.m.
May you like
“David,” Michael said, turning to his head of security who stood silently by the door. “Bring the car around. We have forty minutes to teach Marcus Reed’s financial officer what happens when you discard human beings like garbage.”
***
