Chapter 16 - The Ash Beneath the Foundation
The sirens on Peachtree Street did not wail with fury
they hummed with the cold
impersonal certainty of an ending.
Through the glass wall of the elevator descending thirty-four floors
Midtown Atlanta looked like a motherboard of neon and wet black asphalt
indifferent to the fall of the man who had bought its judges for thirty years.
Megan did not look at the city.
Her hand stayed where it had rested in the dining room
fingers curled lightly over my right shoulder
her thumb pressing through the cashmere of my suit jacket as if reminding me that the floor beneath my titanium wheels was solid.
Frank stood facing the doors
his hands clasped over his duster
the heavy Remington resting upright in a canvas golf bag slung over his shoulder.
He had not smiled when Detective Harris clicked the double-locking cuffs over Raymond’s liver-spotted wrists.
He had not spat on the floor.
Men like Frank understood that when an old king fell
the vacuum did not remain empty for longer than a single breath.
“Marcus had three phone calls logged before he left the gates,” Frank said
his voice flat
barely louder than the hydraulic hiss of the cable car.
I did not turn my head.
“Who received them?”
“First went to Vance’s burner
which we already took off the rug,” Frank replied
counting on his gnarled knuckles.
“Second went to an unlisted line at the Port of Savannah.
Third went to a private terminal out of Fulton County Airport.”
Megan’s grip on my shoulder tightened.
“The airport?” she asked.
“A Gulfstream G450 fueled up at nine tonight,” I answered
watching the red floor numbers tick down on the digital display above the door.
“Flight plan filed for Nassau.
Registered to an LLC named Oakhaven Logistics.”
“Oakhaven was your mother’s maiden name,” Megan murmured.
I looked at her sideways.
In forty-eight hours
the woman who had scrubbed the grout in my secondary bath had learned the pedigree of my family better than the district attorney.
“My mother died twenty-two years ago
two weeks before the fire,” I said.
“Her brother
Preston Vance
never forgave Arthur for locking her out of the trust when her kidneys failed.”
Megan’s breath hitched in her throat
a sharp
audible gasp that cut through the silence of the steel box.
“Preston Vance?” she choked out.
“Tyler’s father?”
“Tyler’s uncle,” I corrected.
“The one who funded Tyler’s defense fund in Macon.
The one who bought the lease on your apartment on Moreland through three layers of shell corporations.
Raymond wasn't the architect of this war
Megan.
Raymond was merely the greed that Preston used to light the fuse.”
The elevator chimed once
a bright
cheerful sound that felt like an insult.
The doors slid open onto the private basement garage.
Three black cruisers with flashing blue lights were parked in a diagonal blockade around Raymond’s silver sedan.
Detective Harris stood near the rear bumper
smoking an unfiltered cigarette beneath a concrete pillar
holding a yellow evidence envelope containing the micro-cassette and the check.
When he saw my chair roll across the wet concrete
Harris tossed the butt into a puddle and touched the brim of his fedora.
“He’s not talking
Dominic,” Harris said
his voice scratchy from cheap tobacco.
“His attorney is already at the precinct claiming dementia and elder abuse.
Says the cassette was manufactured with synthetic audio software.”
“Tell the magistrate to run the magnetic tape through the state crime lab in Forest Park,” I said
halting my chair two feet from the detective’s muddy shoes.
“It’s a 1998 Maxell micro-cassette with cobalt oxide coating.
They haven't manufactured that emulsion since 2004.
If Arthur’s signature on that bank check is a forgery
explain why the ink contains traces of iron gall from the fountain pen Arthur kept locked in his desk until the night he burned.”
Harris sighed
a long
weary exhale that smelled of rain and coffee.
He looked at Megan
his eyes lingering on the neat navy coat that hid the powder burns on her inner wrist.
“The DA is going to want a deposition from the young lady by nine tomorrow morning
Mr. Mason.”
“The young lady will provide a written statement through my corporate counsel
Detective,” I replied.
“And until the grand jury returns a true bill on Raymond for first-degree arson and attempted murder
any officer who approaches Ms. Foster without my written consent will be named in an emergency federal injunction for witness intimidation.”
Harris held my gaze for three seconds
then shook his head with a faint
cynical grimace.
“You haven't changed in twenty years
Dominic.
Still running this county from a seat four feet off the floor.”
“I don't run the county
Harris,” I said
May you like
signaling Frank toward our Sprinter.
“I merely pay for the concrete you’re standing on.”
