Chapter 9
The library smelled of old Moroccan leather, cedar smoke, and chilled scotch.
District Attorney Marcus Vance sat in a high-backed leather wing chair, his silver hair disheveled, his dinner jacket unbuttoned. He held a crystal tumbler in hands that would not stop shaking. On the mahogany desk before him lay Clara’s micro-disc, beside an open folder detailing twelve shell corporations and twenty-four offshore bank transfers.
Lachlan stood by the tall bay window, his overcoat draped over his broad shoulders, watching the harbor through a pair of high-powered night-vision binoculars.
"Lachlan," Vance croaked, his refined New England accent cracking into raw panic. "This... this is treason within your own household. If I present this recording to the grand jury, Ashcombe will face life imprisonment for aggravated homicide and conspiracy. There is no plea bargain for this. None."
"I didn't ask for a plea bargain, Marcus," Lachlan replied without lowering the glass. "I asked for a warrant."
"A warrant for whom?"
"Ottoline Vane-Castiglione," Lachlan said. "And the four captains currently sitting on those two speedboats off my pier."
Vance swallowed hard, looking at the door where two armed enforcers stood like statues. "You want me to authorize a federal maritime interdiction? Right now? It will cause a war on the waterfront that won't end for ten years!"
"The war started three years ago when my wife was murdered in her bed," Lachlan said, turning around to face the prosecutor. "You sign the emergency interdiction order, Marcus. You dispatch the Coast Guard cutters from the naval station at the mouth of the bay. Or I open the cellar doors right now, give Ashcombe a weapon, and let the press find out that your wife’s charity received two million dollars from O.A. Holdings last November."
Vance’s face turned the color of lead. He picked up the heavy gold fountain pen on the desk, his hand trembling so violently that the ink splattered across the signature line of the affidavit.
"Done," Vance whispered, shoving the document across the mahogany.
Lachlan picked up the paper, handed it to Thorne, and walked out of the library without another word.
He returned to the grand ballroom.
The light had died completely now. The vast room was illuminated only by the pale, cold blue of the security lights outside and the faint, rhythmic sweep of the harbor lighthouse three miles away.
Beside the staircase, Nola was stirring, rubbing her eyes with her small fist.
"Grandpa?" she mumbled, sitting up, her party dress wrinkled. "Is it time for cake?"
May you like
Lachlan walked over, scooped her up into his left arm with effortless grace, and settled her against his chest. Nola wrapped her little arms around his neck, burying her face into the wool of his lapel, the handmade rabbit clutched tightly in her hand.
"Not yet, little bird," Lachlan murmured, his hand gently patting her back. "First, we have to put the house in order."
