Chapter 8 - The Interrogation Room
The air inside the LAPD Central Division interrogation room was cold and smelled of stale coffee.
I sat behind a two-way mirror alongside Assistant United States Attorney Federal Prosecutor Evelyn Reed, watching through the glass as two federal agents questioned Vanessa Vance across a metal table.
Vanessa sat with her hands cuffed to an iron ring anchored to the desk. Her pristine blonde hair was matted, her designer trench coat removed, leaving her in a wrinkled grey sweater. The polished, aristocratic persona she had maintained for eighteen months had completely evaporated.
"Miss Vance," Agent Miller said, laying a thick manila folder on the table. "We have traced thirty-two separate wire transfers between Aegis Holdings and your private accounts in Nassau. We also have full forensic evidence recovered from your West Hollywood art gallery, including fake invoices used to launder twelve million dollars of Whitmore funds."
Vanessa stared at the table, her teeth clamped shut, refusing to speak.
"Your attorney is in traffic, Miss Vance," Federal Prosecutor Reed's voice echoed through the speaker on our side of the mirror. "But you should know that your co-conspirator, Andrew Whitmore, is currently giving a full confession in the adjacent room."
Vanessa’s head snapped up. "What?"
"Andrew has admitted to faking his death in six years ago," Agent Miller stated calmly. "He has detailed how you established the shell corporations, how you managed the offshore funds, and how you orchestrated your introduction to Daniel Whitmore eighteen months ago at the San Francisco art gala."
"He’s lying!" Vanessa suddenly burst out, her voice screeching against the bare walls. "It was all his idea! He was the one who was scared of the offshore creditors! He begged me to help him! I was just executing his instructions!"
"Is that why you assaulted Maria Santos last night?" Agent Miller pressed, leaning forward. "Is that why you dragged her unconscious body across Mr. Whitmore’s gallery, causing severe concussive injuries and lacerations?"
"She fell!" Vanessa shouted, her eyes wide and wild. "She was snooping through my things! She found the banking documents! I didn't mean for her to hit the mirror!"
"And the break-in at East Los Angeles this morning?" Miller asked. "Two men arrested three blocks from the scene have identified you as the party who hired them to retrieve backup hard drives from Rosa Santos's residence."
Vanessa’s lips trembled. She realized the wall of evidence had completely collapsed around her. Every lie, every forgery, every calculated move she had made over six years had been dismantled in less than twelve hours.
In the adjacent room, I watched through a separate monitor as my brother Andrew sat with his head buried in his hands. He was crying quietly, his shoulders shaking as he detailed his own cowardice to two state detectives.
"He ruined everything," Vanessa spat through her teeth, staring directly at her reflection in the two-way glass—unaware I was standing inches away on the other side. "Daniel was soft. He was weak. He believed every single word I said to him. If Maria hadn't shown up with that bastard child, I would have had full control of the Whitmore trust by spring."
Hearing her call my nephew a "bastard child" sent a surge of cold fury through my veins.
I turned to Prosecutor Reed. "I want her prosecuted to the absolute limit of federal law. No plea bargains. No reduced sentencing."
"Mr. Whitmore," Reed said respectfully, "with the bank fraud, wire fraud, identity theft, interstate conspiracy, and attempted kidnapping charges, Miss Vance is looking at twenty-five to thirty years in federal prison. Your brother Andrew will face federal tax evasion, fraud, and faking a federal vessel disaster charges. He will serve significant time as well."
"Good," I said, adjusting my cuffs. "Make sure they both get exactly what they deserve."
I walked out of the viewing room into the bustling precinct corridor. Marcus was waiting for me near the front desk, holding a cup of hot coffee.
"Where is Maria now?" I asked him.
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"She’s been transferred to the recovery suite at St. Vincent’s," Marcus replied. "Her sister Rosa and young Noah are with her. The doctors say she can be discharged in forty-eight hours."
"Let’s go see them," I said. "It’s time to start fixing what my family broke."
