Chapter 12
Z
The glass-and-steel skyscraper at 55 Wall Street towered into the gray, snow-dusted Manhattan sky.
I stood across the street, wrapped in a long dark wool coat, watching the steady stream of high-powered executives flowing through the revolving doors. Beside me stood Captain Miller, holding a thick leather briefcase packed with corporate filings and financial audits.
"Julian Vance’s firm occupies the entire 38th floor," Miller said, turning up his collar against the biting wind. "Our Delaware co-counsel managed to delay the emergency receivership hearing by seventy-two hours, but the judge demand proof that the personal guarantee was forged before he’ll throw out Apex’s petition."
"And the only person who can prove the signature on the Apex cross-indemnity deed was forged is the notary who stamped it," I said, looking down at the file in my hand.
"Arthur Pendelton," Miller nodded. "The same crooked notary Vivian used for the VA loan documents in Quincy. But Pendelton vanished three days ago. He shut down his office, deleted his email accounts, and cleared out his apartment."
"He didn't vanish," I said, a faint, cold smile touching my lips. "A man like Pendelton—low-level, terrified of prison, used to easy money—doesn't flee the country. He goes into hiding where his benefactor pays for his stay. Julian Vance is keeping him on a leash until the receivership goes through."
"How do you know that?" Miller asked, looking at me with surprise.
I pulled out my phone and pulled up a private signal transcript provided by a friend in military intelligence who owed me a favor from my time in Bagram.
"Pendelton’s personal cell phone pinged off a tower three blocks from here two hours ago," I explained. "A boutique corporate apartment building on 58th Street, owned by a subsidiary of Apex Crest Holdings. Vance isn't just hiding him; he’s keeping him under guard."
Miller blew out a breath of cold air, a cloud of vapor rising in front of his face. "If we get Pendelton’s signed confession that Julian Vance paid him to notarize a forged signature on the Apex deed, the entire receivership claim dies on the spot. Julian could face federal witness tampering and conspiracy charges."
"Then let's go get Mr. Pendelton," I said.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up outside the discreet, high-end residential building on 58th Street. The lobby was guarded by a tall, heavily built security guard in a dark suit who looked more like an ex-convict than a doorman.
I walked straight past the desk, my hands tucked into my coat pockets.
"Hold on, ma'am," the guard grunted, stepping out from behind the counter, his massive frame blocking the entrance to the elevators. "Private residence. Residents and invited guests only."
I didn't stop. I stepped directly into his personal space, stopping less than three inches from his chest. I looked up into his eyes with an expression so cold, so devoid of hesitation, that the guard instinctively froze.
"I am Staff Sergeant Elena Bennett," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, carrying the unmistakable edge of someone who had faced far worse than a private security guard. "I am executing a federal subpoena for Arthur Pendelton in connection with an active grand jury investigation into wire fraud and corporate extortion. You can either step aside and let me take him down to the courthouse, or you can be cited for obstruction of justice and aiding a federal fugitive."
The guard looked at my eyes, then looked at Captain Miller, who calmly pulled an official legal summons with a red court seal from his briefcase and held it up.
The guard’s jaw twitched. He evaluated the situation, weighed his paycheck against the cold authority in my eyes, and slowly stepped back, reaching for his keys to unlock the elevator bank.
"Apartment 6B," the guard muttered, looking away. "Keycard is in the slot."
"Wise choice," I said.
We rode the elevator to the 6th floor in silence. The hallway was quiet, carpeted in plush crimson, smelling of expensive air freshener and stale tobacco.
We stopped outside Apartment 6B. I didn't knock. I inserted the keycard into the lock. The digital light flashed green, and the heavy oak door clicked open.
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Inside, sitting at a glass dining table littered with takeout containers and empty beer bottles, was a small, balding man in his late fifties. Arthur Pendelton looked up, a half-eaten sandwich frozen halfway to his mouth.
Behind him, sitting on a leather sofa, two men in dark tactical suits immediately stood up, their hands reaching inside their jackets.
