Chapter 7 - The Downfall
At 6:00 AM, the gates of the Mercer estate did not open to admit limousines or caterers.
They were forced open by three armored federal vehicles and four unmarked cruisers carrying agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Internal Revenue Service Criminal Investigation Division, and the New York State Police.
Victor Mercer was sitting in his leather armchair in the formal study, still dressed in his evening clothes from the gala, an empty crystal tumbler of Scotch on the desk beside him. He looked as if he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.
When the heavy oak double doors of his study swung open, it wasn't his private security detail standing there.
It was Lead Special Agent Sarah Chen, flanked by two armed federal officers.
“Victor Mercer?” Agent Chen announced, holding up an official red-sealed document. “We have an active federal warrant for your arrest, charging you with wire fraud, securities fraud, witness tampering, and conspiracy to commit aggravated kidnapping.”
Victor didn't jump up this time. The terrifying, god-like authority he had projected three days earlier in the dining room had evaporated. He looked old. The lines around his mouth were deep trenches of exhaustion and uncontained rage.
“Do you know who I am?” he croaked, his voice raw.
“Yes, sir,” Agent Chen replied evenly. “You’re an inmate entering federal holding at the Metropolitan Detention Center. Hands behind your back, please.”
Downstairs in the grand foyer, Adrian was already in handcuffs.
He was weeping openly, his face blotchy and red, pleading with a junior agent who was methodically cataloging his personal watch, his wallet, and his cell phone into evidence bags.
“It was my father!” Adrian sobbed, his voice echoing shrilly against the two-story marble walls where his family’s portraits hung. “He made all the financial decisions! I was just an officer on paper! You have to talk to Claire—she knows I didn’t do this! Claire knows I loved her!”
Marcus Vance stepped through the front entrance, carrying his trademark worn leather briefcase. Beside him stood two forensic accountants carrying secure evidence containers.
Marcus paused beside Adrian, looking down at the trembling heir with a look of mild, clinical disgust.
“Ms. Bennett left a message for you, Mr. Mercer,” Marcus said quietly.
Adrian looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks, a pathetic flicker of hope in his eyes. “What? What did she say?”
Marcus pulled a document from his coat pocket and slid it into the evidence tray alongside Adrian’s cuffs.
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“She said: *Once you start this, I decide how it ends.*”
***
