Chapter 28 - The Boardroom on Mount Vernon
The penthouse boardroom of Sterling & Vance Holdings overlooked the misty expanse of Boston Common.
Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Julian Sterling sat at the head of a twenty-foot glass table, flanked by two corporate attorneys in tailored navy suits. A thick blue folder containing the quitclaim deeds lay open in front of an empty chair.
I walked in precisely at twelve o'clock.
Beneath the collar of my silk blouse, a micro-transmitter was taped flush against my collarbone. A surveillance van containing Henderson and four federal agents was parked two hundred feet down the street.
"Miss Vance," Sterling greeted me, standing with smooth patrician grace. "You are punctual. A rare virtue in the modern generation."
"Let’s finish this, Julian," I said, pulling out the chair opposite him and sitting down.
The attorney to his right slid the paperwork across the glass. "Standard quitclaim instrument, Miss Vance. You are transferring all corporate title and timber harvesting rights in Worcester County to the Trust. In exchange, the Trust executes a complete release of all prior indebtedness and surrenders all archival documentation in our custody."
I picked up the heavy gold pen lying beside the document. I held it over the signature line, letting my hand hover.
"Before I sign my family’s life away," I said, looking directly into Julian Sterling’s cold eyes, "I want an answer to one question."
Sterling waved his hand dismissively to his lawyers. "Humor her. What is your question, Hannah?"
"Harold Miller, John Kowalski, and Robert Evans," I said clearly.
Sterling’s eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter.
"You told me that six hundred thousand dollars a year was paying restitution to their families," I said, leaning forward. "Why did my father’s money go directly to your son’s Cayman entity, Aegis Holdings, when none of those three men died in that fire?"
The two attorneys stiffened, glancing nervously at their client.
Sterling didn't flinch. A slow, condescending smile spread across his thin face.
"Hannah, Hannah," he murmured softly. "Did you really think this was about three night watchmen? In 1968, your grandfather was a peasant with sawdust in his hair. My family built the commonwealth’s timber industry. We owned the banks, we owned the judges, and we owned the land. Your family was allowed to harvest our trees because we permitted it. The six hundred thousand dollars wasn't restitution. It was rent."
"You forged the arson photograph," I stated.
"My father was an artist," Sterling replied without hesitation, his voice dripping with casual disdain. "He understood that fear is far more reliable than a mortgage. A man will fight to keep his money, Miss Vance. But a man will give you everything he owns to keep his daughter from finding out he was a murderer."
"And when my father discovered the truth in 2012?" I pressed, my voice tightening. "When he refused to sign this exact deed?"
Sterling chuckled—a dark, chilling sound.
"Your father was a stubborn, foolish idealist. He sat in that exact chair, threw our contracts in my face, and told me he was taking his findings to the attorney general. He thought an honest man could walk away from fifty years of leverage."
Sterling leaned across the glass, his eyes cold and venomous.
"Your father learned that trucks have blind spots on Route 9, Miss Vance. It was an unfortunate mechanical mishap. One that doesn't need to repeat itself in your life."
I set the gold pen down on the glass table.
"Thank you, Mr. Sterling," I said, standing up. "That was everything the United States Attorney needed to hear."
Sterling’s smile vanished. "What are you talking about?"
May you like
Behind him, the heavy double oak doors of the boardroom swung open with a resounding crash.
***
