Chapter 6 - The Arrival
The executive boardroom of the Kemp & Sterling law offices occupied the thirty-fourth floor of the tallest glass spire in the county seat.
At ten o’clock that night, Wallace Kemp sat in his high-backed leather chair, his collar unbuttoned, his tie dangling like a dead snake around his neck. Opposite him, Conrad Voss was pacing the floor, sweat glistening on his forehead.
“We issue a denial,” Conrad insisted, gesturing wildly with his right hand. “We say the teacher was disgruntled over performance evaluations! We say she fabricated the North Vale documents to cover her own embezzlement!”
“Conrad,” Wallace said, his voice hollowed out. “Shut up.”
“We have the prestige! We have the parents! The Vanderbilts, the Hastingers, the—”
The double mahogany doors swung inward without a sound.
Two men in dark suits entered first, standing on either side of the doorway like statues. Then came Silas Crowe, carrying a heavy banker’s box.
And finally, Roman Vance Mercer.
He did not introduce himself. He walked directly to the head of the conference table, where Wallace Kemp sat, and looked at the older lawyer.
Wallace stood up instantly, his knees bumping the mahogany. He did not say a word; he simply stepped aside, offering Roman his chair.
Roman sat down. He unbuttoned his coat, leaned back, and placed his hands flat on the polished table.
“Conrad,” Roman said.
Conrad Voss drew himself up, attempting to summon the haughty indignation that had intimidated hundreds of Hawthorne parents. “I don't know who you think you are, breaking into a private legal consult, but I will have you arrested for—”
“You have nineteen minutes,” Roman said.
Conrad stopped. “What?”
“At ten-twenty, the United States Marshals Service will execute an arrest warrant for wire fraud, interstate money laundering, and grand larceny,” Roman said, checking a gold Patek Philippe watch on his wrist. “The warrant has already been signed by Federal Judge Alvarez. You know Alvarez, don't you, Wallace? You went to Yale together.”
Wallace swallowed, his voice barely audible. “Yes.”
“Alvarez doesn't like men who steal from children,” Roman continued. “He likes men who hit pregnant women even less. But the wire fraud is boring. It’s white-collar theater. You’ll get six years at Allenwood, spend your days playing tennis, and write a memoir about educational reform.”
Roman leaned forward. The cold intensity radiating from him made Conrad take an involuntary step back.
“That isn't why I’m here,” Roman said.
Silas stepped forward, opened the banker’s box, and placed a single, clear plastic evidence bag on the table.
Inside the bag was a rusted ignition key attached to a cheap plastic rabbit’s-foot keychain.
Conrad’s breath hitched in his throat.
All the blood drained from his face, leaving his skin the color of a curdled cream sauce.
“You remember that key, Conrad?” Roman asked softly. “It belonged to a 2011 Ford F-250. The truck that hit Nathan Mercer’s car on Route 17 eleven months ago.”
“I… I don't know what you're talking about,” Conrad stammered, his voice climbing an octave. “That was an accident! A drunk driver! The police—”
“The driver was your nephew, Conrad,” Roman said. “Julian Voss. A twenty-two-year-old heroin addict you were hiding at the North Vale cabin in the Adirondacks. You sent him to run Nathan off the road to scare him off the audits. Julian was high. He didn't scare him. He crushed Nathan’s skull against the steering column.”
The silence in the room was absolute. Even the rain outside seemed to have stopped.
Conrad looked at Wallace Kemp, begging with his eyes. Wallace looked down at his own manicured nails, utterly unwilling to meet his friend's gaze.
“Julian broke three hours ago,” Silas added calmly from the corner. “He’s currently in protective custody at the Southern District. He gave up the wire transfers, the phone logs, and the five hundred thousand dollars you promised him to relocate to Costa Rica.”
Conrad fell into a chair. His legs simply stopped working.
“What… what do you want?” Conrad whispered.
Roman looked at him with the cool detachment of an entomologist studying an insect before the pin went through its thorax.
May you like
“I wanted to see the hand that touched my sister,” Roman said.
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