Chapter 12 - The Dead Man's Ledger
The rain had stopped, leaving the Chicago streets slick and glistening under the cold autumn moonlight as Detective Voss’s unmarked car pulled up outside an imposing, monolithic glass-and-steel skyscraper in the financial district. The sleek bronze lettering beside the revolving doors read: *Sterling, Vance & Associates: Corporate Law & Strategic Asset Management.*
'If your uncle really died in a plane crash two decades ago, why is his name still on the firm's door?' Voss asked, killing the engine and checking her service weapon before stepping out into the cold night air.
'Because in the corporate world, dead men make the best trustees,' I replied, pulling my coat tighter around my shoulders as we hurried toward the entrance.
The building lobby was dead silent, illuminated only by recessed security lights reflecting off polished marble floors. A lone security guard sat behind a curved mahogany reception desk, nodding off over a paperback novel.
Voss flashed her police badge with practiced smoothness. 'Police Department. We need access to the executive records archive on the forty-second floor.'
The guard blinked sleepily, staring at the badge before looking up at Voss’s stern, unyielding face. He didn't ask questions; he simply reached under the desk and pressed the master elevator release button.
'Top floor, Detective. Have a good evening,' the guard mumbled, turning back to his book.
The private high-speed elevator shot upward with a soft, effortless hum, our ears popping as the digital floor numbers climbed past thirty, thirty-five, forty... forty-two.
When the doors slid open, we stepped out onto a private penthouse floor dominated by dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering Chicago river, and rows of locked mahogany filing cabinets.
I walked straight toward a sleek glass-walled corner office at the end of the hall—the managing partner's suite.
The door was unlocked.
I pushed it open and clicked on my pen-light. The office was immaculate. A massive mahogany desk sat in the center of the room, upon which sat a single, old-fashioned leather-bound ledger book.
Not a digital terminal. Not a encrypted server tower. A physical, handwritten accounting ledger.
I walked across the plush carpet, picked up the heavy leather book, and opened it to the first page.
Written in precise, elegant fountain-pen cursive was a detailed accounting of every single illicit real estate acquisition, municipal bribe, and offshore wire transfer executed over the past twenty years.
And at the bottom of the very first page, signed in familiar, sharp handwriting, was a signature I hadn't seen since I was a little girl:
*Victor Vance.*
'He didn't die in a plane crash,' I whispered, tracing the ink with my gloved finger. 'He faked his own death to escape federal racketeering charges back in the nineties, set up this entire corporate empire behind the scenes, and used my father and Julian Sterling as his public puppets.'
Suddenly, the automatic overhead lights in the penthouse office flickered on with a sharp snap.
A low, calm voice echoed from the doorway behind us.
May you like
'I always wondered which one of you would figure it out first,' the voice said smoothly. 'Though I honestly expected your father to be smart enough to keep you under control, Claire.'
We spun around. Standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe with a silver-barreled revolver resting loosely in his right hand, was an elderly man with immaculate white hair, piercing gray eyes, and a terrifyingly familiar smile.
