Her hazel eyes were calm, deep, resting on me with that un-shakeable, eighty-year peace that filled the quiet afternoon.
Beside her sat Eleanor Vance-Sterling.
The seventy-four-year-old matriarch was sitting in my grandfather’s leather wing chair, which the federal marshals had carried out onto the shaded cedar deck, a fresh wool throw across her knees, her hickory stick resting easily against the armrest.
Marcus Vance stepped onto the porch, holding an unsealed, four-hundred-page morocco-bound legal ledger stamped with the gold crest of the UNITED STATES MARITIME FIDUCIARY ADMINISTRATION:
“The forensic accounting audit is concluded, Sebastian,” Marcus said softly, his gravelly voice rich with professional awe:
“The offshore accounts in Zurich and Vaduz have been fully attached by the Treasury Department. Total liquid assets recovered exceed two hundred and forty million dollars.”
Marcus turned to Eleanor:
“The board of directors of Vanguard Creative Group and Apex Health Logistics has just concluded an emergency shareholder vote by satellite.”
