Chapter 3 - THE RAT IN THE MEDICAL CORPS
The silence in the penthouse was suffocating. On the monitor, Arthur Finch adjusted his earpiece, his scarred face shadowed under the hallway lighting. He reached into his coat, producing a master electronic keycard—the kind only issued to building maintenance and the executive owners of the Kincaid real estate portfolio.
“Samuel,” Catherine gasped, backing away toward the inner bedroom. “Arthur was the one who drove the van the night they ran my car off the bridge. He’s the one who locked me in Blackwood.”
“Take Penelope into the panic room behind the master closet,” I commanded in a low, level tone, never taking my eyes off the screen. “Lock the inner steel deadbolt. Do not come out until you hear my voice.”
Catherine didn’t hesitate. Survival instincts honed over two years of captivity took over; she slipped silently into the master bedroom, the door closing without a sound.
I walked over to the side console, discreetly pulling open a hidden drawer beneath the marble desk. Inside lay a compact SIG Sauer 9mm alongside a remote transmitter. I pocketed the transmitter and kept the firearm within arm's reach under a stack of board presentation folders.
The electronic lock on the front door beeped three times. The LED light turned green.
The heavy door swung open, and Arthur Finch stepped into the foyer, flanked by two towering men whose jacket cuts failed to hide the bulk of concealed firearms.
“Mr. Kincaid,” Finch said smoothly, offering a polite, practiced nod. “Apologies for the intrusion. Your mother grew concerned when you failed to answer your personal line. The board dinner at the Metropolitan Club is already underway, and Madam Daria requested that we escort you personally to ensure no... delays.”
I stood tall behind the desk, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt with deliberate nonchalance. “Since when does my mother send armed security into my private residence without calling the concierge first, Arthur?”
Finch’s cold eyes scanned the living room, lingering on the two empty glasses on the counter, the faint wet footprints near the entrance, and the discarded rain shawl on the chair. A micro-expression of suspicion flickered across his weathered features.
“The city has been unpredictable lately, sir,” Finch replied, taking a deliberate step forward. “Madam Daria simply wants her family protected. Especially tonight. It’s an emotional evening for all of us—the two-year memorial foundation launch for Mrs. Catherine Kincaid.”
“Is that so?” I replied, letting a cold edge seep into my tone. “Or is she worried that the foundation audit might reveal why three million dollars was transferred from the Kincaid Charity Fund to an unlisted medical facility in upstate New York?”
Finch went completely rigid. The two guards behind him shifted their stances, their hands subtly moving toward their lapels.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Mr. Kincaid,” Finch said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. “My orders are simple: bring you to the gala. Voluntarily or otherwise.”
“Let’s test that theory,” I said.
I pressed the remote transmitter inside my pocket.
Instantly, the heavy oak doors of the penthouse burst inward. Four heavily armed federal operatives wearing tactical gear and FBI insignias flooded the room, assault rifles raised with lethal precision.
“FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! ON THE GROUND, NOW!”
The two guards reached for their holsters, but before they could clear leather, the federal team moved with lightning speed, disarming both men, forcing them face-down onto the marble floor, and securing their wrists in heavy zip-ties. Finch stood frozen, his hands raised slowly into the air, his eyes darting between me and the tactical team leader who stepped through the doorway.
Special Agent Marcus Vance entered, holding a signed federal warrant.
“Arthur Finch,” Vance said coldly. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit kidnapping, obstruction of justice, and tampering with evidence in the presumed death of Catherine Kincaid.”
Finch let out a dry, rasping laugh. “You don’t have anything, Vance. Daria Kincaid owns every judge in this district. You’ll be off this case by morning.”
“Daria doesn’t own Dr. Jonathan Weston anymore,” Vance replied, holding up a transparent evidence bag containing a hard drive. “Twenty minutes ago, Dr. Weston signed a full confession under the federal witness protection program. He admitted to falsifying the dental records from the vehicle fire under direct orders from your employer, paid via an offshore account managed by you, Arthur.”
Finch’s face went completely pale. The arrogant smirk vanished, replaced by the hollow terror of a man who realized the ground had just crumbled beneath his feet.
I walked over to Finch, stopping inches from his face. “Where is my mother’s backup ledger? The one she kept on the board members she bribed?”
Finch gritted his teeth, refusing to answer.
“It doesn’t matter,” I murmured. “Dr. Weston already gave us the safe deposit box numbers. Take them away, Agent Vance. Put them in separate holding cells. No phone calls, no bail hearings until midnight.”
“Understood,” Vance nodded, signaling his team to drag Finch and his men out of the suite.
As the hallway cleared, the bedroom door opened a crack. Catherine peered out, her face pale as she held Penelope securely against her chest. She looked at the zip-tie wrappers on the floor and then at me, her eyes wide with shock.
“You... you caught them,” she whispered.
May you like
“That was just the perimeter,” I said, walking toward her and wrapping my coat around her shoulders. “The head of the snake is still at the Metropolitan Club, giving speeches in your memory. It’s time we go introduce our daughter to her grandmother.”
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