Chapter 3 - THE INTERROGATION ROOM
The fluorescent lights of the 18th District police precinct hummed with a maddening, relentless buzz. I sat in a hard plastic chair in the observation room, the bitter taste of stale precinct coffee lingering on my tongue. Through the one-way mirror, I watched the man I had once sworn to love and cherish sitting at a metal table, looking like a cornered rat.
Ethan had shed his bespoke Tom Ford suit jacket—bought with my money, of course—and his tie was loosened. His hair, usually styled to perfection, was matted with sweat. Sitting next to him was his mother, Victoria. She had somehow convinced the desk sergeant to let her into the interrogation room, claiming she was a victim of emotional distress. She was currently dabbing her dry eyes with a silk handkerchief, playing the role of the frail, abused matriarch to perfection.
My new head of private security, a towering former Navy SEAL named Marcus, stood silently behind me, his arms crossed over his massive chest. I had hired him exactly twenty minutes after speaking with Sarah.
"He's sticking to the script," Detective Russo said, walking into the observation room and handing me a file. "Your ex-husband claims you've been exhibiting severe signs of paranoia and mental instability since the divorce proceedings began. He says you threatened to harm yourself last night, and that he only broke the door down because you weren't answering your phone and he feared for your life."
I let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "I was on a live video conference with eight senior executives at a Fortune 500 investment firm. Does that sound like a woman in the middle of a psychiatric breakdown, Detective?"
Russo smirked, leaning against the wall. "No, Ms. Sterling, it doesn't. We have the footage your firm provided. It clearly shows you calm, composed, and working. It also shows him screaming like a lunatic and attempting to lunge for your computer before my officers tackled him. The breaking and entering charge is a lock. We can hold him for another few hours, but his lawyer is already upstairs filing a motion for bail. Because it's a non-violent property crime, a judge is going to grant it."
"I know," I said, my eyes never leaving Ethan’s face through the glass. "I don't care about the broken door, Detective. I care about what he was trying to hide."
Before Russo could ask what I meant, the door to the observation room opened again. David Vance stepped inside. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, carrying a heavy metallic briefcase. He looked less like an IT guy and more like a federal agent.
"Ms. Sterling," Vance said, offering a crisp nod. "Sarah sent me. I have the preliminary results from the clone of your hard drive."
I stood up, my heart hammering against my ribs. "What did you find?"
Vance placed his briefcase on the small table and opened it, revealing a high-powered tablet. He tapped a few keys, and a complex web of financial routing numbers and IP addresses appeared on the screen.
"Your ex-husband is incredibly arrogant, but he's not very smart," Vance said, his voice flat and analytical. "He used a VPN to mask his activity, but he didn't realize that your firm's enterprise-level security software logs physical keystrokes and biometric login times on a hidden partition for compliance reasons. I cross-referenced the times the illicit transfers were made with the biometric logs."
"And?" I demanded.
"And," Vance continued, pulling up a side-by-side comparison. "Every single time millions of dollars were moved to the Cayman shell accounts, the laptop was unlocked using Ethan's specific passcode, not yours. Furthermore, the keystroke cadence—the unique rhythm of how a person types—matches Ethan's profile entirely. We have absolute, irrefutable digital proof that he was the one sitting at the keyboard, operating under your credentials."
A massive wave of relief washed over me. I wasn't going to federal prison. The evidence was clear. But the relief was instantly replaced by a burning desire for absolute vengeance.
"How much did he move, David?" I asked softly.
Vance looked up, his expression grim. "Over the past three years? Just shy of forty-two million dollars. And based on the origin accounts... this isn't just tax evasion. This is organized crime. He's washing money for the Volkov syndicate."
Detective Russo cursed loudly, running a hand over his face. "The Volkovs? Are you kidding me? If Ethan is tied up with the Russian syndicate, this just went from a domestic dispute to a federal racketeering case."
"The FBI will need to be involved," Vance agreed. "But if we hand this over now, Ethan will lawyer up, and the Volkovs will realize their pipeline is compromised. They will either kill Ethan to tie up loose ends, or they will come after you, assuming you have their money."
I looked through the glass again. Victoria was leaning over, whispering something furiously into Ethan’s ear. Ethan looked terrified, his eyes darting around the room. He knew the money was stuck. He knew he had failed to destroy the laptop. He was a dead man walking, and he was desperately trying to figure out how to drag me down into the grave with him.
"We don't go to the FBI yet," I said, my voice eerily calm.
Russo frowned. "Ms. Sterling, you can't withhold evidence in a federal crime."
"I'm not withholding it," I replied, turning to the detective. "I'm building a stronger case. If the FBI arrests him now for breaking and entering, he gets out on bail and disappears, or the Volkovs silence him. I want to trap him. I want to strip him of every single asset he thinks he has hidden, and I want him to confess on tape."
"And how exactly do you plan to do that?" Russo asked, crossing his arms.
"By doing what I do best," I smiled, a cold, predatory expression that made even Marcus, the former Navy SEAL, stand a little straighter. "I'm going to manage his portfolio."
I turned to Vance. "David, you have access to the shell companies he set up in the Caymans, correct?"
"I have the routing information, yes. I don't have the master decryption key to move the funds, but I can monitor the accounts."
"Find a way to freeze them," I ordered. "Trigger a false compliance flag with the Cayman banks. Make it look like a standard international audit. Lock the money down so he can't touch a single dime of it."
"Done," Vance nodded.
"When he makes bail today, he is going to be desperate," I continued, pacing the small room. "He is going to realize the money is frozen, and he is going to know the Volkovs are coming for their payment. He is going to try to blackmail me, or threaten me, to get me to use my credentials to unfreeze the accounts."
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I looked back at the pathetic man through the glass. Five years of emotional abuse. Five years of watching Victoria sneer at me while drinking champagne I paid for. They had tried to destroy my life, frame me for federal crimes, and lock me away.
"Let him make bail," I told Detective Russo. "Let him think he still has a chance. Because when he steps out of this precinct, he is stepping into my world. And I am going to make him bleed."
