Chapter 8 - The Midnight CitationThe interior of the mansion was dead silent.
Maya joined us in the foyer a moment later, her tablet tucked securely under her arm. She pointed toward the sweeping grand staircase leading to the second-floor gallery.
“Master bedroom is at the end of the east hallway,” she whispered. “Judge Thorne keeps his private safe behind the mahogany liquor cabinet in his study.”
“Barrett, secure the perimeter and watch the service stairs,” I ordered. “Maya, stay with me.”
We ascended the curved staircase without a sound, our footsteps muffled by the thick Persian runners. The house was freezing; someone had turned off the central heating to conserve energy, or perhaps the judge simply preferred the chill of a tomb.
When we reached the double doors of the master study, I didn't bother knocking.
I raised my boot and drove my heel directly into the center panel, shattering the antique brass latch with a resounding CRACK that echoed through the silent halls.
The heavy mahogany doors swung wide open.
Inside, seated behind a massive mahogany desk littered with legal briefs and whiskey decanters, Judge Arthur Thorne scrambled upright in his leather armchair. His silver hair was disheveled, his silk bathrobe half-open over a protruding belly, and his face instantly turned a mottled, furious red.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?!” Thorne bellowed, his voice shaking with righteous judicial indignation. “Who authorized this break-in?! I’ll have every badge in Atlantic City stripped by dawn—!”
He stopped dead.
His rheumy, bloodshot eyes moved past my shoulders, locking onto Maya Lin standing calmly in the doorway, and then dropping down to the black calfskin ledger I held loosely in my left hand.
The color drained from his face as if he had been struck with a cattle prod.
“Dante,” Thorne choked out, his arrogance evaporating into a thin, whimpering breath. “You... you shouldn't be here. This is a private residence—”
I walked slowly across the Persian rug, stopping three feet from his desk. I didn't sit down. I tossed the black calfskin ledger onto the papers before him. It landed with a heavy, ominous thud.
“Good evening, Judge,” I said, my voice dangerously soft. “I believe you were looking for this.”
Thorne’s hands trembled violently as he reached out, his manicured fingers brushing against the leather spine of my father’s offshore ledger.
“I don't... I don't know what this is,” he lied, though his eyes darted frantically toward the window as if calculating the distance to his parked cruiser.
“It’s the unredacted financial record of every bribe, payoff, and judicial nomination you’ve traded since 1995,” I replied, leaning my palms flat on the edge of his desk. “Including the wire transfers from the Cartier syndicate that funded the exhumation of my father’s crypt.”
Thorne swallowed hard, a bead of cold sweat rolling down his wrinkled temple.
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“You can’t use that in court,” he whispered desperately. “It’s illegally obtained evidence. It’s fruit of the poisonous tree—!”
“Court?” I let out a low, humorless laugh. “Judge Thorne, who said anything about a court?”
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