Chapter 7 - The Secret Compartment
Later that evening, after my mother had taken a taxi back to her house and Maisie was fast asleep upstairs with her favorite stuffed rabbit, Kevin and I sat on the back deck.
The fire pit—the very same steel drum where Courtney’s knockoff bag had met its fiery end—sat cold and dark in the center of the patio. Kevin held a bottle of cold beer, turning it around in his calloused hands.
"The police arrested her two hours ago, Dave," Kevin said quietly. "Detective Reynolds called me. They caught her at the Metro Vault facility. She was trying to empty the safety deposit box before the warrant came through."
I took a sip of my drink. "Did they get the box?"
"Yeah. Over eighty thousand in cashier's checks. Plus three bearer bonds and three passports." Kevin looked up at me, the moonlight catching the bewilderment in his eyes. "Dave... why did she have three different passports?"
I sighed, setting my beer bottle on the cedar armrest. I had known this conversation was coming.
"Because the ledger on that drive wasn't the only thing I recovered from the purse, Kevin."
Kevin froze. "What are you talking about? You showed everything in court."
"I showed what was legally necessary to win the small claims case and trigger an official DA referral without causing an immediate mistrial," I explained carefully. "Courtney had a secondary zippered slip behind the phone pocket. It was made of heat-shielded Nomex material—the kind high-end knockoff makers use to bypass customs x-rays."
I stood up, walked inside to my study, and returned with a sealed white envelope. I handed it to my brother.
Kevin looked at the envelope with hesitation, as if opening it might detonate a bomb. Slowly, he broke the seal and pulled out a stack of high-resolution glossy photographs and several folded sheets of hotel stationery.
The first photo was of Courtney, sitting at an outdoor café in Miami, laughing, her arm draped over the shoulders of a man with slicked-back gray hair and a tailored linen suit.
May you like
Kevin’s breath hitched. "Who is that?"
"His name is Julian Vance," I said. "He’s a commercial real estate developer from Chicago. Six months ago, while you were pulling fourteen-hour shifts framing suburban subdivisions to cover 'business losses,' Courtney was spending weekends in South Beach under the name 'Courtney Vance.'"
