Chapter 7 - THE BAIT
Forging a federal document is a felony. But when your husband has framed your mother for embezzlement and murdered his partner, the law becomes a secondary concern.
Inside the dark, silent offices of Mom’s former firm, we used their commercial printers and legal templates to draft a flawless Notice of Asset Seizure. We targeted Box 814 at First Coastal Bank.
“Daniel has alerts set up with the bank manager,” Mom whispered, adjusting her reading glasses in the dim light. “The moment this fax goes through, the manager will call him to warn him.”
“Exactly,” I said. “The freeze order states the FBI will open the box at 3:00 p.m. It’s 1:00 p.m. now. Daniel will panic. He’ll rush to the bank to clear out the evidence before the feds arrive.”
“And how do we get the evidence?” she asked.
I smiled, though there was no joy in it. “We don’t. We let the police catch him holding it.”
I sent the fax.
Ten minutes later, I was parked down the street from First Coastal Bank, watching through binoculars. Beside me, Detective Miller sat in the passenger seat of his unmarked car, sipping black coffee.
I had given him the metadata proving Clara Vance’s account forged the notary stamps. I told him Daniel was making a run for physical evidence tied to Richard Vance’s death. Miller was skeptical, but a dead man’s money clip in my mother’s pocket had bought me his curiosity.
At 1:42 p.m., Daniel’s black Range Rover screeched into the bank parking lot.
He practically sprinted inside, wearing a baseball cap pulled low.
“He’s spooked,” Miller muttered, lifting his radio. “Units, hold your perimeter. Do not engage until he exits the building with the assets.”
We waited. The minutes dragged like broken glass. I clutched my father’s gold watch in my pocket, rolling the metal between my fingers.
Finally, the glass doors slid open.
Daniel emerged, clutching a thick, leather-bound portfolio against his chest. He looked frantic, his eyes darting left and right.
“Move in,” Miller ordered into the radio.
Three cruisers swarmed the parking lot, lights flashing silently. Officers stepped out, hands on their holsters.
“Daniel Carter!” Miller shouted, stepping out of my car. “Drop the portfolio and put your hands on the vehicle.”
Daniel froze. He looked at the cops. He looked at me sitting in the passenger seat. His charming mask melted into pure, venomous hatred.
He slowly lowered the portfolio to the asphalt.
Miller approached, kicked the portfolio away, and handcuffed my husband against the hood of the Range Rover.
“Let’s see what you were so desperate to hide,” Miller said. He knelt and unzipped the leather portfolio.
He pulled out the stacks of paper.
Miller frowned. He flipped through the pages, then looked up at me, his face red with sudden anger.
“Mrs. Carter,” Miller growled. “These are blank.”
My heart stopped.
Daniel turned his head against the hood, a sickening smirk spreading across his face.
“I told you she was delusional, Detective,” Daniel said loudly. “She’s been harassing me all day.”
He had known. He had sniffed out the trap.
May you like
And as I sat frozen in terror, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A text message from Daniel’s number, scheduled to send the moment he was arrested.
Check your trunk, Emily. I told you I always protect the family.
