Chapter 6 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room at the central precinct smelled of stale coffee, old paper, and cheap disinfectant. Under the harsh glare of a single overhead fluorescent bulb, Julian Vance sat handcuffed to a metal table. The expensive designer suit he had worn to his wedding was now wrinkled, stained with lime dust from the tunnels, and thoroughly ruined.
The heavy metal door swung open, and Detective Miller walked in, dropping a thick manila folder onto the table with a sharp slap.
"Well, Julian," Miller said, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite him. "Your bride sends her regards. Along with the state prosecutor, who is currently drawing up charges for attempted premeditated murder, wire fraud, and falsification of corporate documents."
Julian sneered, leaning back in his chair with feigned nonchalance. "It was a practical joke gone wrong. A prank. The tile was loose, and the church maintenance crew is liable. You can't prove intent."
Miller chuckled, opening the folder and sliding a glossy photograph across the table.
"Funny thing about modern engineering, Julian. When you hire an outside contractor to custom-fabricate a spring-loaded trapdoor mechanism, you leave a paper trail. We pulled the purchase orders from your business credit card for the hydraulic hinges, the steel cable, and the release latch."
Julian’s eyes flicked down to the photo. The color drained from his face. It was an invoice from a specialty machine shop in industrial west LA, signed in his own handwriting just four days prior.
"And that's just the civil side," Miller continued, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "We also decrypted the hard drive from your laptop found in your getaway car. Turns out you've been liquidating your bride's family trust accounts for the last six months, funneling the cash into offshore accounts in the Caymans. You weren't just trying to collect insurance; you were cleaning her out completely before skipping the country."
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Julian’s jaw tightened. The smug confidence vanished, replaced by the ugly desperation of a trapped rat. "I want a lawyer. I'm not saying another word."
"Smartest thing you've said all day," Miller said, standing up and gathering his files. "Because by the time your lawyer gets you to arraignment, the district attorney will have enough evidence to lock you away long enough for that dog of hers to die of old age—and trust me, that dog's got a lot of miles left."
