Chapter 5 - The Deeper Malice
By noon, the quiet hum of the executive boardroom on the top floor of Carter Holdings had been replaced by the frantic energy of a war room.
Four forensic accountants from Ernst & Young were seated around the thirty-foot mahogany table, laptops surrounded by towering stacks of bank statements, corporate resolutions, and tax filings dating back five years. At the head of the table, Detective Miller of the Savannah Police Department sat across from me, a paper cup of black coffee cooling in his hand.
"Mrs. Carter," Detective Miller said, pulling out a tablet and sliding it across the polished wood. "We found the Ford F-150."
My breath caught. "Where?"
"Submerged in a drainage canal off Ogeechee Road. Stolen plates, VIN number partially ground off, but not thoroughly enough. We traced the vehicle to a salvage yard in Pooler."
"And the driver?" Marcus Vance asked, leaning forward over his legal pad.
"A freelance repo man and convicted felon named Thomas Vance—no relation to you, counselor," Miller said. "He was arrested two hours ago trying to board a Greyhound bus to Atlanta. We found five thousand dollars in banded hundred-dollar bills in his duffel bag."
"Where did the cash come from?" I demanded, the memory of that blinding headlight and the terrifying crunch of metal flashing violently in my mind.
Detective Miller leaned back, his jaw tight. "The serial numbers match a cash withdrawal made on Monday afternoon from a branch of First Georgia Bank in Garden City. The withdrawal slip was signed by Ryan Carter."
A dead silence descended upon the boardroom.
Even Arthur Bennett, who had witnessed every high and low of my family's history, lowered his head in disbelief. An affair was common. Embezzlement was greedy. But attempted murder—contracted against the woman whose only crime was loving him—was an abyss of malice I could barely comprehend.
"He tried to kill me," I whispered, the words sounding hollow in the vast room. "For five thousand dollars and a four-million-dollar mortgage."
"Thomas Vance has already started talking," Detective Miller explained. "He claims he was hired by a third party to 'run Mrs. Carter off the road and keep her in intensive care for at least forty-eight hours.' He insists he wasn't trying to cause a fatality, but under Georgia law, that's aggravated assault with a deadly weapon and conspiracy to commit murder. We are preparing the arrest warrants for Ryan Carter and Serena Hayes right now."
"Wait," Marcus Vance said, holding up a hand.
Detective Miller frowned. "Wait? Counselor, your client was almost killed last night. We have the paper trail. We have the shooter—or in this case, the driver."
"If you arrest Ryan right now on assault charges, his defense attorney will immediately seek bail," Marcus countered, his eyes sharp and calculating. "He still has access to that offshore shell company in the Caymans. With four point two million dollars liquid, he can post a cash bond, hire a private charter out of a private airstrip in South Carolina, and disappear to a non-extradition country before the grand jury even convenes."
"Marcus is right," I said, lifting my head. The shock was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating fury. "I don't just want him in a county jail cell for twenty-four hours before he skips bail. I want him stripped down to the bone. I want every cent clawed back, every lie exposed, and every door slammed in his face before the handcuffs touch his wrists."
"What do you propose, Mrs. Carter?" Miller asked.
May you like
"Ryan believes he still has leverage," I said. "He thinks the four point two million is safely hidden in the Caymans under Serena's shell company. He thinks I'm desperate to avoid a public scandal. Let's give him a reason to walk right into our parlor."
***
