Chapter 5 - The Viper’s Nest
The rain had barely cleared by midday, leaving Newport draped in a heavy, cold fog that clung to the cliffs like smoke.
Inside the private harbor suite of Harrington & Associates on Thames Street, Arthur Harrington paced behind his mahogany desk. He checked his solid-gold Patek Philippe watch for the tenth time in twenty minutes. It was 1:15 PM. Brooke’s personal cell phone was still going straight to encrypted voicemail.
The double doors of his corner office burst open.
Arthur turned, a reprimand on his tongue, but froze. Brooke stumbled into the room.
Her cream silk robe was damp and rumpled, her designer coat streaked with dark mud along the hem where Frank had dropped her onto the estate's exterior gravel drive. Her honey-blond hair was disheveled, her mascara smeared in black tracks down her cheeks.
“Brooke?” Arthur rushed around his desk, catching his daughter by her trembling shoulders. “What the hell happened to you? Where is your car? Where are your bags?”
“He came back, Dad,” Brooke whispered, her voice ragged and hoarse from hours of screaming behind the gate. “Dominic was in the house before sunrise.”
Arthur’s face went gray. “He was supposed to be in London until tomorrow morning.”
“He lied!” Brooke hissed, pulling away from him and pacing the room like a feral animal. “The entire trip was a setup! He knows about the debt. He knows about the Barclays default. He knows we tried to transfer Catherine’s trust assets to our Delaware holding account!”
Arthur sank into his leather chair, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp. “Did he call the authorities? Did he call the state district attorney?”
“Worse,” Brooke said, turning on him with eyes full of poisonous fury. “He threw me out onto the service road like a common thief. His security ape confiscated my phone, my tablet, and my house keycard. He destroyed the quitclaim deeds in the kitchen sink.”
Arthur wiped a hand down his sweaty face. “If Dominic calls Barclays or notifies the state bar examiners, they will freeze our accounts by tomorrow evening. We have twenty-two million in unsecured debt due on Monday, Brooke. We are finished.”
“We’re not finished,” Brooke snapped, slamming both hands down onto his desk so hard the silver desk clock rattled. “You have the Pier 19 manifests. The ones I pulled from his study safe last week.”
“Brooke, you don't understand—”
“No, you don't understand!” Brooke shouted, leaning into her father’s face. “Dominic Mercer is arrogant. He thinks he’s untouchable because his mother bought half the judges in this state thirty years ago. He claimed the files in the safe were decoys, but that was a bluff. He was trying to rattle me!”
Arthur looked at the black USB drive resting inside his locked center drawer. “Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m certain!” Brooke cried, her voice trembling with manic desperation. “The file contains bills of lading for unmanifested transatlantic container ships, cargo transfer logs signed by Dominic’s shell companies, and the offshore routing numbers. If we take this to Special Agent Morrison at the Boston DHS field office right now, they will raid the Mercer estate before nightfall. Dominic will be in federal custody, and under Rhode Island probate statutes, the emergency estate administrator takes control of all frozen assets until trial!”
She leaned down, her eyes burning with pure malice.
“We don't need his wedding, Dad. We just need him in a federal holding cell.”
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Arthur stared at his daughter, the panic in his chest slowly hardening into cold greed. He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out the sleek black flash drive, and picked up his landline receiver.
“Get me Special Agent Morrison at Homeland Security,” Arthur ordered his secretary. “Tell him Arthur Harrington is calling to deliver the Mercer family on a silver platter.”
