Chapter 7 - Sirens in the Canyon
Four black-and-white cruisers from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department screeched to a halt in the circular driveway.
Right behind them came an unmarked black Chevrolet Suburban with federal government plates.
Doors slammed in rapid succession.
The heavy, rhythmic crunch of tactical boots on gravel echoed through the courtyard before the officers even came into view.
A tall, silver-haired detective in a charcoal suit walked through the main archway, accompanied by two uniformed deputies with tasers drawn at the low-ready position.
Special Agent David Harris, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Financial Crimes Division.
Harris took in the scene with a single, sweeping glance: the shattered cake, the pool of champagne, the woman kneeling in icing, and the terrified broker pressed against the rose bushes.
"Captain Miller," Harris said, nodding politely toward Jack.
"Agent Harris," Jack replied, leaning calmly on his forearm crutches.
"It looks like your party got a little out of hand," Harris said, a faint, dry smirk playing at the edge of his mouth.
"Just taking out the trash, Agent," Maya said, stepping back so the officers had a clear line of sight.
Harris turned his attention to Marcus Vance.
"Marcus Vance?" Harris asked, pulling a folded set of documents from his jacket pocket.
Marcus didn't answer. He just dropped his head and closed his eyes.
"We have an active federal warrant for your arrest on three counts of wire fraud, two counts of identity theft, and conspiracy to commit grand larceny," Harris stated.
One of the uniformed deputies stepped forward, grabbed Marcus by the collar of his linen jacket, and spun him roughly against the stone wall.
Click-clack.
The cold steel of the handcuffs snapped tight around Marcus’s wrists.
"You have the right to remain silent," the deputy began, his voice flat and robotic.
Marcus didn't say a word as he was pushed down the stone stairs toward the cruisers.
Harris then walked slowly across the terrace, his polished oxford shoes crunching lightly over the fragments of crystal champagne flutes.
He stopped two feet in front of Vanessa.
Vanessa looked up, her face completely ruined by tears, smeared red cake, and mascara that had run down to her chin.
"Agent, please," she whimpered, raising her sticky, frosting-covered hands. "This is a civil matter between my husband and me! It's just a divorce dispute!"
"Ma'am," Agent Harris said, looking down at her with professional indifference.
"A divorce dispute happens in family court."
"A forged deed filed with the county recorder for an interstate wire transfer of two point five million dollars happens in the United States District Court for the Central District of California."
He nodded to a female deputy standing nearby.
"Take her into custody."
The female deputy stepped forward, grabbing Vanessa by the upper arms and hauling her to her feet.
Vanessa shrieked as the sticky, ruined fabric of her crimson gown pulled away from the stone patio tiles.
"Jack!" she screamed, her head twisting wildly over her shoulder as the deputy pulled her toward the archway.
"Jack, look at me! You can't let them do this to me! I'm your wife! Jack!"
Jack Miller didn't look back.
May you like
He stood with his back to her, facing the dark expanse of the Pacific Ocean beneath the stars.
"Jack!" her voice echoed one last time, shrinking into a pathetic wail as the front doors of the mansion clicked shut behind her.
