Chapter 3 - The Interrogation of Arthur PendeltonThe holding cellar beneath the carriage house was subterranean, damp, and freezing, lit only by a single halogen work light swinging from an iron girder.
Arthur Pendelton sat zip-tied to a rusted steel chair in the center of the wet concrete floor.
His charcoal suit was soaked with rainwater, his gold watch chain ripped away and sitting on an oil drum nearby, his silver-rimmed glasses hanging askew on his broken nose where Frank had introduced him to the reality of the Vance syndicate.
The heavy iron vault door swung open.
Damon stepped onto the concrete, his charcoal coat unbuttoned, his hands in his pockets.
I walked half a pace behind him, wrapped in a plush black cashmere overcoat that Mrs. Gable had placed around my shoulders, my bandaged eye pulsing with a dull, manageable throb.
When Pendelton saw Damon, a strangled, high-pitched sob tore from his throat.
"Mr. Vance! Please! I am an officer of the court! I was retained under attorney-client privilege! Miss Sterling assured me you were incapacitated by post-traumatic stress from your sister's death!"
Damon didn't shout. He pulled an empty wooden packing crate over, sitting down directly in front of the trembling notary.
He rested his forearms on his knees, leaning forward until his face was six inches from Pendelton's.
"An officer of the court, Arthur?" Damon whispered.
Pendelton’s teeth chattered violently. "Yes, sir! I was only executing standard probate petitions—"
"You stood in my library while my fiancée dragged a twenty-seven-year-old girl by the throat," Damon murmured, his voice smooth as silk and cold as an open grave. "And then you raised your arm and hurled her into a bronze pedestal so hard her skull cracked against the molding."
Pendelton’s eyes widened in sheer, suffocating terror as he looked at the white bandage on my forehead.
"I... I was trying to prevent her from stealing the files! Miss Sterling told me the maid was an industrial spy!"
"She was carrying clean drafting paper, Arthur," Damon said softly.
He reached out with his left hand, his fingers closing around Pendelton's expensive silk tie, slowly twisting the fabric until the attorney's eyes bulged and his face turned the color of an overripe plum.
"Where are the transfer drafts for the Cayman shell account?"
"In the briefcase!" Pendelton gasped, choking against the silk. "Under the false bottom! The account numbers, the forged power of attorney, and the wire coordinates for the Detroit syndicate! Julian Sterling owes thirty million to the Motown Outfit! They were going to use your daughter's trust to clear the ledger before the weekend!"
Damon released the tie. Pendelton collapsed forward, coughing and sobbing onto the wet concrete.
Damon stood up, stepping back toward the doorway without a single glance of pity.
"Frank."
"Yes, boss."
"Deliver Mr. Pendelton and his briefcase directly to Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance at the federal building on Dearborn Street. Inform him that the Moretti and Vance families are filing joint federal racketeering charges against the Sterling estate for interstate child endangerment and grand larceny."
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He looked down at me, his large hand gently taking my elbow to steady my step.
"Come, Clara. We have a bride to wake up."
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