Chapter 6 - Unmasking the Syndicate
I couldn't breathe.
The room seemed to tilt. The tea mug in my hands shook violently, the liquid sloshing over the porcelain rim until Grandma reached out and took it from my hands, setting it down with a sharp clatter.
“Five hundred thousand dollars?” Grandma’s voice was dangerously low, a terrifying calm before an impending storm. “They stole my gift of $180,000, and they stole David’s life insurance from his widow?”
“It appears so,” Richard said grimly. “David was not an executive. He was a regional fleet coordinator. There was no legitimate business justification for Vance Logistics to carry a Key Person policy on him. The amendment was backdated, stamped by a notary public named Donald Higgins—who, coincidentally, has been on Robert Vance’s payroll for seven years.”
I pressed my hands against my face, sobbing uncontrollably.
David had worked so hard. He worked sixty-hour weeks at Robert’s trucking company, often coming home with grease-stained hands and aching joints, all so we could save for a down payment on a modest house. He had trusted his uncle. He had believed Robert was giving him a leg up in the industry.
And when David died—when his car was crushed by a runaway flatbed truck—they hadn't just mourned him; they had capitalized on his death. They had turned his fatal accident into a half-million-dollar windfall while his wife and newborn child were evicted from their apartment.
“They murdered his memory,” I choked out, looking up at Grandma. “They treated his death like a lottery ticket.”
Grandma rose from her chair. The frailty she had shown earlier evaporated, replaced by an iron resolve that had made her late husband one of the most formidable industrialists in the state.
“Richard,” she commanded.
“Yes, Eleanor?”
“Call the District Attorney. Not tomorrow morning. Not after business hours. Right now. I want Donald Higgins arrested. I want Robert Vance arrested. And I want Patricia handcuffed and dragged out of whatever hotel they try to check into tonight.”
“Eleanor, involving the District Attorney means this becomes public record,” Richard cautioned gently. “The press will get wind of it within hours. The Whitmore name—”
“Damn the Whitmore name!” she thundered, slamming her hand onto the table. “My name means nothing if it is used as a shield for thieves and sociopaths! If my own flesh and blood can commit such unspeakable evil against an innocent mother and child, let the whole world see them in orange jumpsuits!”
Clara’s phone suddenly buzzed against the table. She glanced at the screen, her eyebrows knitting together.
“Mr. Sterling,” Clara said, holding up her phone. “It’s the fraud department at First National. The Vance accounts.”
Richard took the phone, putting it on speaker. “This is Richard Sterling. Go ahead.”
May you like
“Mr. Sterling,” the voice on the other end spoke rapidly. “We executed the temporary asset freeze as requested by Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore. However, forty minutes ago, an emergency transfer request was routed through an offshore clearinghouse in Belize. Someone with administrative credentials is draining the Vance Logistics operational reserves right now.”
***
