Chapter 10 - The Edge of the Board
The private terminal at Centennial Airport was quiet at eight o'clock that evening.
A twin-engine Bombardier Challenger sat on the tarmac, its engines whistling in low, idling preparation, the orange glow of the taxiway lights shimmering against the polished black paint of its fuselage.
Evelyn Vance sat in one of the leather swivel chairs in the executive lounge, reviewing a stack of fresh filings that her courier had delivered twenty minutes earlier.
“Richard was transferred to the state psychiatric evaluation center in Pueblo an hour ago,” she said without looking up as I walked in from the tarmac corridor. “Arthur Vance filed an emergency petition claiming Richard is suffering from acute dissociative trauma resulting from his military service.”
I set my coffee cup on the low glass table. “Is he?”
“He’s suffering from the fact that his commissary account has ninety dollars in it and the inmates in Pod C discovered he’s an ex-cop and an ex-colonel,” she said dryly. “Arthur is attempting to lay the groundwork for an insanity plea or a finding of incompetence to stand trial. It won't work. Judge Sterling has already appointed an independent forensic psychiatrist from the University of Colorado to conduct the competency evaluation.”
She looked up at me, taking off her reading glasses.
“Brad’s office was padlocked at five-fifteen. His franchise license was suspended by State Farm’s corporate compliance division thirty minutes later, following an anonymous report regarding his involvement in the criminal domestic violence proceeding on Aspen Crest Lane.”
“Did you make that report?” I asked.
Evelyn offered a thin, wintery smile. “I am an officer of the court, Hannah. I merely directed their regional vice president to the publicly available docket on the state judicial website. Brad’s career as an insurance broker is over. He is currently meeting with a bankruptcy attorney in Englewood.”
I looked out through the reinforced plate glass at the jet waiting in the dark.
“And me?” I asked. “Where am I going?”
“The jet is chartered to Santa Fe,” Evelyn said, rising and smoothing her coat. “There is an estate in the foothills above the city—sixteen acres behind private security, owned by a retired federal judge who is currently wintering in Lisbon. You will spend the next three weeks there, resting your concussion, working with our wealth advisory team, and learning how to exist in a world where no one can ever tell you to sit down again.”
She picked up her briefcase, clicking the brass locks shut.
“On December fifteenth, we return for Richard’s preliminary hearing. Marcus Hayes has indicated he will seek an indictment on two counts of felony assault, one count of witness tampering, and one count of wire fraud related to the insurance proceeds. Richard is facing six to twelve years in the Department of Corrections.”
It sounded like a clean, mathematical ending.
The balance sheet balanced. The debt collected. The tyrant brought low by the sheer, overwhelming mass of thirty-two million dollars deployed with surgical malice.
I picked up my purse, feeling the weight of the new phone, the black American Express card that Croft had handed me at the private bank, the deed to the Sedalia property that Evelyn had insisted I keep in my own name.
We walked down the carpeted jet bridge toward the open cabin door of the Challenger. The wind here was sharp, smelling of high-octane fuel and the vast, empty plains stretching east toward Kansas.
Marcus was already standing near the boarding stair, his heavy frame silhouetted against the bright interior light of the plane.
As I reached the bottom step, his phone buzzed.
He didn't pull it from his pocket immediately; he glanced at Evelyn first, receiving her nod before checking the display.
His face—usually as immobile as granite—shifted. Just a fraction. A tightening at the corners of his mouth that made my chest tighten in response.
“What is it, Marcus?” Evelyn asked, stopping on the stair above him.
Marcus looked up from the screen, his eyes moving past Evelyn to fix directly on me.
“It’s the detention center in Pueblo,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, flat register that always meant the perimeter had failed.
The wind howled across the tarmac, whipping the tails of Evelyn’s coat.
“What happened?” I asked, my fingers digging into the strap of my bag. “Did he post the bond?”
“No,” Marcus said slowly, holding the phone so Evelyn could see the incoming dispatch from the state patrol secure channel. “There was a transport collision on Highway 85 north of Fountain forty minutes ago. The state van carrying Colonel Whitmore was struck by a private tow truck running without lights.”
The runway lights flickered once in the distance as a regional cargo prop lifted into the black sky over Englewood.
“The driver of the tow truck is dead,” Marcus continued, his eyes cold and unblinking in the freezing darkness. “The two transport deputies are in critical condition at Memorial Central.”
Evelyn’s hand found my shoulder, her fingers clamping down with the sudden, fierce intensity of a hawk’s talon.
“And Richard?” she demanded.
May you like
Marcus looked at the runway, then out toward the black, empty expanse of the Colorado foothills rising like a wall against the western stars.
“The van’s rear doors were forced from the outside using a hydraulic rescue spreader,” Marcus said softly. “The leg irons were cut with a torch. Colonel Whitmore is gone.”
