Chapter 5 - The Collapse of Richard
Richard backed slowly toward the French doors leading to the dark patio, his breathing ragged. “I didn't know about Julian’s offshore accounts! Arthur authorized those transfers! He was my business partner!”
“Arthur documented every single unauthorized withdrawal you made over the past seven years, Richard,” I said, walking slowly toward him. “He kept the original carbon slips. He even kept the security camera footage from the bank vault showing you accessing his safe-deposit box without his power of attorney.”
Richard stopped, his back pressing against the cold glass of the door. “He was dying anyway! He didn't care about the business anymore! I built that firm into a regional powerhouse!”
“You built it on stolen equity,” I said. “Arthur intended that firm to provide pensions for two hundred blue-collar workers across New England. You collateralized their retirement funds to finance your personal trading accounts.”
Agent Miller and his partner moved in smoothly, pinning Richard against the glass and securing his arms behind his back.
“Richard Vance,” Agent Miller read, “you are under arrest for grand larceny, securities fraud, and embezzlement.”
“Victoria!” Richard shouted as he was hauled toward the door. “Call William! Call the senator! Tell them this is a political witch hunt!”
Victoria didn't even lift her head. The aristocratic facade she had maintained for thirty years was completely shattered. Her makeup was smudged, her shoulders slumped, and the silence of the massive manor weighed down on her like lead.
When the agents had escorted Julian and Richard out to the waiting cruisers, only Major Cole, myself, and Victoria remained in the dining room.
The flashing red and blue lights outside danced across the oil paintings on the walls—paintings of ancestors who had built their reputations on honor, discipline, and hard work.
“Why?” Victoria whispered, staring at the scarred mahogany table. “Why did he leave everything to you? I gave him thirty years of my life. I gave him a son.”
“You gave him contempt, Victoria,” I answered honestly. “You married him for his balance sheet, and you spent thirty years trying to turn him into someone he wasn't. You hated that he loved his workshop more than your charity galas. You hated that he respected honest work more than social pedigree.”
“I gave this family an image!” she cried, tears finally breaking through her cold exterior. “Nobody in Greenwich would have looked twice at Arthur Sterling without my connections!”
“Dad never wanted anyone in Greenwich to look at him,” I said. “He wanted to build things that lasted. And he wanted a daughter who understood the value of duty.”
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I walked over to the leather folder lying on the table—the one she had ordered me to sign. I picked it up, tore it cleanly down the middle, and let the pieces drop to the floor.
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