Chapter 8 - The Ghost in the System
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Richard Sterling grabbed Evan by the arm and forcibly yanked him backward toward the door.
“We are leaving. Now!” Sterling snapped, his voice tight with sudden, overwhelming panic. He knew precisely what had just happened. His client had just committed felony witness extortion on tape inside an active hospital room.
“Have a wonderful day, gentlemen,” I called out as the heavy door slammed shut behind them.
The moment they were gone, I pulled out my primary phone and dialed a number I had held in my speed dial for eight years.
“Marcus,” I said when the line connected.
“Daniel,” replied the deep, gravelly voice of Marcus Vance, my former business partner and a retired deputy chief of the Justice Department’s Financial Crimes Division. “I read your encrypted message this morning. Tell me that document you sent over isn't real.”
“It’s real, Marcus,” I said, walking over to the window looking out over the hospital parking lot. Below, I watched Evan and his lawyer arguing frantically beside a black Mercedes. “They backdated a thirty-four million dollar corporate debt guarantee, forged a notary stamp, and tried to torture my daughter into endorsing it to cover their development losses.”
Marcus let out a long, low whistle. “First Capital Trust is the primary lender on that development project. If Whitmore used a forged guarantee to maintain their revolving credit facility, that’s not just civil fraud, Daniel. That’s federal banking fraud, wire fraud, and institutional conspiracy.”
“I need the firm’s forensic team,” I said cleanly. “I want a complete audit of every public filing, mortgage assignment, and corporate shell company tied to Whitmore Development Holdings over the last five years.”
“You got it,” Marcus answered without a second of hesitation. “I’ll put six senior auditors on it within the hour. What’s your timeline?”
“They gave my daughter eight months of hell, Marcus,” I replied, staring down at Evan’s black Mercedes as it tore out of the parking lot. “I’m giving them eleven days.”
I hung up the phone and turned back to Emily. She was watching me, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and dawning realization.
“Dad…” she whispered softly. “Who are you really?”
May you like
I walked back to her bed, pulled up the plastic chair, and sat down beside her.
“I’m just your dad, sweetheart,” I said softly, smoothing a soft strand of hair away from her bandaged cheek. “But before I was your dad, I was the man who showed bad people that everything they built was made of paper.”
