Chapter 13 - Whispers in the Harbor Basin
The black sedan idled at the foot of our stone stairs, its engine purring with the deep, mechanical hum of an armored luxury vehicle. Hayes didn't reach for an ordinary weapon; he walked to the gun safe concealed behind the pantry paneling, pulled out a tactical 12-gauge, and racked a shell with a metallic snap that reverberated through the hall.
"Hayes, wait," I whispered, gripping his forearm. "There are security cameras covering every square inch of this driveway. If Arthur Vance is behind this, he wants us to commit a violent infraction on camera to freeze the maritime trust under a civil endangerment clause."
Hayes stopped, his breathing steady, his jaw rigid. "I don't care about their lawsuits, Lenora. I care about the perimeter."
"Let me speak to whoever is in that car from the reinforced security intercom," I insisted. "We fight them with the law first. That’s how we buried my mother, and that’s how we will bury Vance."
I stepped over to the wall-mounted console and keyed the microphone, projecting my voice through the outdoor high-decibel speakers. "You are trespassing on private property under the jurisdiction of the Ozaukee County Sheriff’s Department. State your name and business, or the automated dispatch system will have three squad cars here in four minutes."
The sedan's driver door opened slowly. A man stepped out into the swirling lake mist. He was tall, gaunt, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal overcoat with a cashmere scarf wrapped tight against the chill. His silver hair was slicked back, and his face was carved with cold, sharp angles that made him look like a bird of prey. He held no weapon—only a black leather document folio.
It was Arthur Vance in the flesh.
He didn't speak into the driveway gate camera. Instead, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a slim, gold cellular phone, and dialed. A second later, my private landline in the study began to ring.
I pressed the speaker button. "Speak."
"Good evening, Mrs. Sterling-Hayes," Vance's voice purred through the line—smooth, cultured, and devoid of any human warmth. "I must compliment you on the harbor pavilion. The architectural work is breathtaking. My late father would have loved knowing that forty million dollars in public and trust funds were poured into land that has technically belonged to the Vance family since 1974."
"Your father was an extortionist who bled dockworkers dry," I said coldly. "And my grandfather's probate cleared every acre of that shoreline. You have no legal standing, Vance. My mother fed you lies from a prison cell because she’s desperate and broke."
A soft, mocking chuckle drifted through the receiver. "Your mother is indeed a vulgar, desperate woman, Lenora. Her greed is pedestrian. She wanted pocket money for manicures and silk robes in a retirement villa. But she did have one thing of immense value: your grandfather’s original harbor lease from 1952, bearing an un-probated reversionary clause."
Vance stepped closer to the porch, holding up the black folio toward our front-facing floodlight.
May you like
"At midnight tonight, Lenora, the Federal District Court in Milwaukee will issue a temporary restraining order freezing all operations at the Sterling Creek Maritime Academy. Every bank account associated with the grandfather's trust will be sequestered pending a trial of title. And unless you sign a quitclaim deed surrendering fifty-one percent of the port authority board to my group by noon tomorrow... we will demolish the docks you just dedicated."
***
