Chapter 6 - A Web of False Gold
The interrogation rooms at the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building on Foley Square had no windows. The walls were painted a dull, sickly beige, illuminated by humming fluorescent tubes that flickered with a faint, maddening vibration.
It was 11:30 PM. Twelve hours had passed since the bells of St. Jude’s were supposed to ring for my processional.
I sat on the observation side of the two-way mirror, wrapped in a clean woolen sweater and dark jeans that Uncle Arthur’s driver had fetched from my apartment. In my hands, I held a cardboard cup of bitter, lukewarm coffee.
Beside me, Uncle Arthur stood with his arms folded behind his back, watching the drama unfold on the other side of the glass.
Inside the interrogation room, Vanessa was sitting at the bolted metal table. Her hair was a tangled nest, her mascara had run into hideous dark rivers down her hollow cheeks, and her designer turtleneck was soaked with sweat and tears.
Opposite her sat Special Agent Martinez and an Assistant District Attorney named Sarah Vance-Kowalski—another one of Arthur’s brilliant legal protégés.
“Let’s go through it again, Miss Cross,” ADA Kowalski said, tapping a pen against a thick manila folder. “At 11:45 AM, you entered the bridal suite at St. Jude’s carrying an altered power-of-attorney rider disguised within the floral invoice folder. Who provided you with that document?”
Vanessa flinched. She kept twisting her bruised wrists, where the red indentations of the handcuffs were still fresh.
“Julian,” she rasped, her voice cracked and raw. “Julian got it from a disbarred notary in Queens. He paid five thousand dollars in cash to have the state seal pre-stamped.”
“And the plan regarding Elizabeth Vance?” Agent Martinez leaned forward, her dark eyes unblinking. “What was supposed to happen once the document was executed?”
Vanessa began to shake uncontrollably. She wrapped her arms around her ribs, rocking back and forth in the metal chair.
“Julian said… he said Betty had an irregular heartbeat,” Vanessa whispered, her voice barely audible through the audio monitor. “He said if she suffered a sudden emotional shock or a physical fall, the doctors wouldn't investigate too deeply. They’d assume it was a syncopal episode caused by her age.”
Through the glass, I felt the coffee cup in my hands crumple under my grip. The lukewarm liquid spilled over my fingers, burning my skin, but I didn't care.
They hadn't just planned to steal the money.
They had planned for Nana to die on the church steps.
The fall wasn't an accident born of frustration over an old yellow dress. The dress was merely Vanessa’s excuse—a manufactured conflict designed to put Nana in a state of agitation so that the violent shove could be explained away as an elderly woman fainting from high blood pressure.
“And the offshore routing?” ADA Kowalski pressed. “Who held the decryption keys for the Belize accounts?”
“Julian!” Vanessa shrieked, slamming her bound hands against the steel table. “He held everything! He gave me fifty thousand dollars as a retainer, and he swore that once the four million cleared in Geneva, he’d wire me another million! I was just the middleman! He was the one who bought the one-way tickets to Zurich! He was the one who hired the private jet!”
“That's interesting,” Agent Martinez said, pulling a tablet from her briefcase and tapping the screen. “Because thirty minutes ago, in Interrogation Room C, Julian Vance stated under oath that you approached him with the scheme six months ago, threatening to reveal his Macau gambling debts to the Vance family trust board unless he cooperated.”
Vanessa’s head snapped up. Her bloodshot eyes widened with pure, demonic fury.
“He said *what*?!”
“He claims you were the mastermind,” Martinez said, her voice dripping with clinical boredom. “He claims he was acting under extreme duress and was planning to notify the police at the reception.”
The keening shriek that tore from Vanessa’s lungs vibrated through the two-way glass.
“That lying, degenerate piece of garbage!” she screamed, throwing herself against the table, spitting at the glass as if she knew Julian was somewhere on the other side. “I have recordings! I recorded our phone calls on my laptop! I kept every single encrypted email he sent me since October! I’ll show you where the offshore routing keys are hidden! I’ll testify against him! I’ll put him in a cage for fifty years!”
“We’d be happy to discuss a cooperation agreement,” ADA Kowalski said smoothly, sliding a fresh legal pad across the table. “Start writing, Miss Cross. Don't leave out a single comma.”
Behind me, Uncle Arthur let out a soft, dry chuckle.
“Rats in a bucket, Chloe,” he murmured, taking the crushed coffee cup from my trembling hand and tossing it into the wastebasket. “When the water starts rising, they don't help each other climb out. They stand on each other’s heads until they both drown.”
“Is it enough?” I asked, turning to face him. “To put them both away?”
Arthur reached out, his weathered hand resting gently on my shoulder. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, softened with genuine paternal warmth.
“Between Leo’s 4K video, the micro-SD card from Betty’s locket, and Vanessa’s confession… Julian will be fifty-five years old before he ever sees the sun without an iron grating in front of it. And Vanessa will serve at least fifteen for attempted manslaughter and conspiracy.”
He paused, looking toward the heavy steel exit doors of the viewing room.
May you like
“Come, darling. The police work is done for the night. Let’s go back to St. Vincent’s. Your grandmother is waiting.”
***
