Chapter 5 - The Inventory of Deceit
When the double doors clicked shut behind the Boston investors, the forty-foot boardroom seemed to shrink until the oxygen was thin enough to make Luca’s chest heave.
He stood behind the podium, his three-piece suit suddenly looking two sizes too large for his frame. His fingers were clawing at the polished walnut edge, his breathing coming in ragged, audible snatches through his teeth.
"You ruined it," he whispered, his voice rising into a cracked, hysterical pitch. "You ruined it, Jessi. That deal was worth eight million dollars in private equity placement. Eight million! Do you have any idea what you've done to me?"
"I haven't done anything to you, Luca," I said, remaining standing near the glass, my hands folded loosely over the blue leather binder. "You built a house out of forged checks, unpaid taxes, and stolen jewelry, and you're angry that the wind blew it down."
Chloe was on her feet now, her hands trembling as she grabbed her designer tote bag from the credenza, trying to shove her laptop into the compartment without looking at anyone. "I'm leaving. Luca, handle your wife. I have nothing to do with this lease."
"Don't move, Ms. Ruiz," Rachel Vance said.
Two private investigators from Vance’s firm—men who looked like retired federal agents with thick necks and quiet eyes—stepped through the side entrance of the suite. One of them carried a portable high-speed scanner and several yellow evidence envelopes.
"You can't search my personal bag!" Chloe shrieked, clutching the leather against her chest. "That's an illegal search! I’ll sue this entire building! I’ll sue you personally, Jessica!"
"Under the commercial lease terms of Suite 3400, Section 18.2," Rachel said, not even looking up from her legal pad, "the lessor retains a priority security interest in all physical assets, digital records, and proprietary work product situated within the premises to satisfy outstanding rent arrearages. Furthermore, Detective Gallagher from the Manhattan Financial Crimes Task Force is currently in the lobby with a grand jury subpoena for all electronic devices used to transmit the forged promissory note."
Chloe’s hands lost their grip. The tote bag dropped onto the Calacatta marble with a dull, heavy clatter. A makeup compact popped open, dusting the white stone with a pale circle of bronze powder.
Luca looked at the investigators, then at Rachel, then finally at me. The arrogant, dismissive husband who had told me twelve hours ago that I was a leech had vanished. In his place was a small, frightened thirty-five-year-old boy whose mother wasn't there to pay his parking tickets.
"Jessi," he said, taking two steps toward me, his hands raised in a posture of surrender that looked sickeningly familiar. "Jessi, please. Think about Fiona. Think about Leo. If I go to prison, what does that do to their names? What does that do to our family?"
"Our family?" I asked. The word tasted like vinegar. "Where was our family when you left Leo’s inhaler prescription unfilled for three weeks because you needed to pay the slip fees for your boat in Greenport? Where was our family when you told Fiona that Mommy was crazy because I asked why the utility company had put a shut-off notice on our front door?"
"I was trying to keep us afloat!" he yelled, tears of self-pity finally leaking from his red-rimmed eyes. "I did everything for you! I gave you eleven years of my life!"
"You gave me eleven years of your debts, Luca," I said. "And today, the bill is due."
Thomas Kelly stepped forward with two junior building engineers carrying heavy metal toolboxes. "Mrs. Sterling. Should we begin the lockout procedure?"
"Change the electronic cylinders on every door on thirty-four, Thomas," I said. "Box the personal clothing and toiletries left in Mr. Vance’s private office and have them delivered to his mother’s cottage in Montauk. Everything else—every server, every filing cabinet, every scrap of correspondence—remains under the seal of the receiver."
"Understood, ma'am."
Luca lunged forward, his face contorted in a mask of pure rage. "You can't do this! I am a tenant! I have rights! I have—"
The larger of the two private investigators stepped smoothly into his path, placing one massive, palm-down hand against Luca’s breastbone. The impact stopped Luca dead in his tracks, knocking the wind out of him with a soft oof.
"Step toward the elevator, Mr. Vance," the investigator said in a voice that sounded like gravel grinding in a cement mixer. "Or we will let Detective Gallagher execute the warrant in the hallway."
Luca looked at the investigator’s shoulder, then looked at Chloe, who was already sobbing quietly as she handed her phone to the second investigator. He knew. For the first time in his pampered, fraudulent existence, he knew that there was no uncle to call, no mother to write a check, no wife to stay up until three in the morning typing his excuses into a legible format.
He turned toward the elevator, his shoes dragging against the marble, his shoulders hunched like an old man’s.
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As the bronze doors slid open to take him down to the street, I walked over to the corner of the boardroom, where a bottle of Dom Pérignon sat in a silver ice bucket that had melted down to lukewarm water.
I picked up the bottle, walked to the executive kitchenette, and poured the twenty-four-million-dollar champagne down the stainless steel drain until the sink ran clear.
