Chapter 2 - The Soft Underbelly
The fluorescent lights of the Queens strip mall flickered, buzzing with a high-frequency whine that made my teeth ache. Jackson’s office smelled like damp cardboard, stale tobacco, and cheap laser printer toner. It was the kind of place where people came to find out who was cheating on their spouses or which mid-level accountant was skimming from the union pension fund.
Jackson himself didn't look like a private investigator out of a noir novel. He wore a faded Carhartt hoodie, a grease-stained baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, and combat boots with worn-out tread. He tapped his thick, calloused index finger against a dual-monitor setup.
"The Pierce Group isn't just a real estate firm, Captain," Jackson said, pulling up a complex web of corporate entities that looked like a plate of tangled spaghetti. "They're a front for high-yield private equity parking. Desmond uses shell companies in the Caymans to filter out capital gains tax. But look here—right at this junction."
He zoomed in on a subsidiary called Aegis Holdings.
"What about them?" I asked, leaning over the back of his squeaky office chair.
"That's Owen's personal playground," Jackson grinned, showing a chipped front tooth. "He’s been using corporate funds to finance his personal lifestyle—private jets, high-end art acquisitions, and a string of silent partnerships in boutique Manhattan restaurants. All written off as business development expenses."
"Embezzlement wrapped in a corporate tax loophole," Maeve’s voice crackled through the desktop speakers. She was patched in via a secure audio line from her cramped apartment in Brooklyn. Her keyboard clacked in the background like machine-gun fire. "I’ve got the ledger backups right here. Three million dollars shifted out of the employee pension fund last quarter alone to cover a margin call on Owen's private stock portfolio. If the board finds out, he’s not just getting fired—he’s looking at a federal grand jury."
I stared at the glowing numbers on the screen. Three million dollars. To Owen, that was chump change—the cost of a weekend in the Hamptons or a custom-tailored tuxedo. To the workers whose retirement was tied up in those funds, it was everything.
"We don't go to the board," I said softly.
Jackson looked up, raising an eyebrow. "You don't want to burn him legally?"
"Not yet," I said. "Legal proceedings take months. Courts give them time to hide assets, hire high-priced defense attorneys, and spin a PR narrative about a disgruntled former fiancée. We don't want a trial. We want an unconditional surrender."
"So what's the play?" Maeve asked over the speaker, her typing suddenly pausing.
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"We execute a liquidity squeeze," I said, my fingers tracing the edge of the desk. "Maeve, you coordinate with our shell corporation, Vanguard Holdings. I want you to quietly buy up twenty percent of their secondary debt tranche through a third-party broker by sundown. Jackson, get me dirt on the Frankfurt bank holding their bridge loan. I want to know every person on that credit committee."
"Copy that, Captain," Jackson said, his eyes narrowing with professional respect. "Consider it done."
