Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Zurich
The sharp crack of crystal smashing against Italian marble turned dozens of heads in the foyer. The laughter near the grand piano died down to a cautious murmur. Matthias stood completely paralyzed, his eyes wide with an emotion I hadn't seen in him since the day we met: absolute, unadulterated terror.
“That’s... that’s impossible,” Matthias stammered, his fingers twitching at his sides. “David is dead. His body was identified.”
“Dental records can be forged when you have enough offshore capital, Matthias,” I whispered, taking a slow sip of sparkling water. “Especially when you’re fleeing an assassination attempt arranged by your own chief financial officer.”
David Ward stepped into the chandelier light. He was thinner than he had been thirty months ago, his hair streaked with silver and a faint scar running along his left jawline, but there was no mistaking the former co-founder of Dre-Ward Capital. Beside him stood Agent Vance, an imposing man in a tailored charcoal suit with a federal badge pinned discreetly to his inside lapel, along with two plainclothes investigators who immediately took up positions by the main exits.
Fiona Vale hurried over from the bar, her high heels clicking sharply. “Matthias, what is going on? Who are these people?”
She stopped dead in her tracks the moment she saw David. The color drained from her perfectly contoured cheeks so fast she looked like a ghost draped in ivory silk. Her manicured hand rose instinctively to clutch the diamond choker at her throat.
“David?” Fiona gasped, her voice trembling. “You... you survived the crash?”
“Disappointed, Fiona?” David’s voice was like gravel scraping on ice. “I imagine you thought that Swiss numbered account was entirely yours once the wreckage burned out. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t keep duplicates of the real ledger in a safety deposit box outside Geneva?”
Matthias stepped forward, recovering a sliver of his corporate composure, though a bead of sweat was already trickling down his temple. “David, whatever game you’re playing, this is private family property. You are trespassing. Agent Vance, if you don't have a warrant signed by a federal judge, I suggest you remove yourself from my parents’ home before I call the governor.”
Agent Vance didn't flinch. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crisp, folded document bearing the gold seal of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York.
“I have a warrant, Mr. Dre,” Vance said in a calm, authoritative baritone that carried across the hushed room. “In fact, I have three. One for the seizure of all digital servers on this property, one for the immediate freezing of the Hensley acquisition escrow accounts, and an emergency subpoena for every communication device currently in the possession of yourself and Ms. Vale.”
Matthias’s mother, Eleanor Dre, came sweeping down the grand staircase in emerald green satin, her diamond earrings trembling with fury. “What is the meaning of this vulgar display? Matthias, call security this instant! How dare you let these hooligans interrupt our Christmas gala!”
“Mother, be quiet,” Matthias hissed through clenched teeth—the first time I had ever heard him speak to his domineering mother with anything less than total subservience.
“I called them, Eleanor,” I announced clearly, stepping into the center of the hall so every guest, every board member, and every investor could hear me.
Eleanor turned on me, her eyes flashing with venom. “You ungrateful little hospital scrub! We welcomed you into this dynasty, gave you our name, paid for your lifestyle, and you stage a coup on Christmas Eve because my son sought companionship outside your pathetic, bloated presence?”
“Eleanor, shut up!” Matthias shouted, but it was too late.
The room erupted into gasps. Several high-society matrons covered their mouths in horror. The chairman of the board, Arthur Hensley himself, stepped forward, his bushy white eyebrows knit together in anger. “Matthias, what the hell is Eleanor talking about? What is the Department of Justice doing at our closing celebration?”
“Arthur, please, it’s a clerical misunderstanding,” Matthias pleaded, his hands raised in surrender. “My wife is hysterical due to the pregnancy. She’s fabricating stories because of an unfortunate marital dispute—”
“Is the arson plan a marital dispute too, Matthias?” I asked, pulling a laminated sheet from my evening clutch and holding it up for Hensley to see.
May you like
It was the architectural diagram of the basement wine cellar, showing the exact points where the natural gas line had been tampered with this afternoon, timed to ignite at midnight when the insurance policies switched to the offshore shell company.
The room went dead silent.
