The ledger? O'Connor choked out. Yes, sir. And they're freezing accounts. I have to go, Mr.
Diaz. I can't be caught talking to you. The line went dead. Panic, raw and suffocating, seized the district attorney. He knew exactly what the blue moleskin ledger contained.
It wasn't just a record of the illegal street seizures. It was a meticulously detailed accounting of where the money flowed. And 30% of every dollar stolen by the Oakridge Police Department flowed directly into offshore shell corporations controlled by Michael O'Connor. It was the price Hayes paid to ensure that any civilian complaints of police brutality or illegal searches mysteriously vanished from the docket. O'Connor sprinted inside his mansion, abandoning his calm demeanor.
He tore through his sprawling master bedroom, pulling a hidden safe from behind a velvet portrait. He punched in the code with shaking fingers, grabbed a stack of banded hundred-dollar bills, and a second passport under the name of Arthur Pendleton. He needed to get to the private airstrip in the next county. If he could reach his chartered jet, he could be in Belize by mid-afternoon. He threw a designer duffel bag onto the bed and began blindly stuffing clothes into it.
His heart pounded relentlessly against his ribs. "Hayes gave me up. " He thought frantically. "That spineless greedy cop gave me up to save his own skin. " Zipping the bag shut, O'Connor bolted down the grand spiral staircase, his breath ragged. He reached the front foyer, grabbed the keys to his Range Rover, and threw open the heavy double mahogany front doors. He froze.
Sitting idly in his circular cobblestone driveway was a matte black Chevrolet Suburban. Leaning against the hood, holding a steaming paper cup of coffee, was Deputy Director David Caldwell. Standing beside him was Special Agent Richard Lawson, along with four heavily armed federal agents in tactical gear. The morning air was dead silent, save for the gentle hum of the Suburban's engine. "Going somewhere, Michael? " David called out, his voice smooth, echoing slightly across the pristine driveway.
O'Connor stood paralyzed in the doorway, his hand gripping the strap of his duffel bag so tightly his knuckles were white. He tried to summon the legal bluster that had won him countless courtroom battles. "Director Caldwell, to what do I owe this unprecedented and highly illegal intrusion onto my private property? I am the District Attorney. You are trespassing, and you are a flight risk. " David countered, pushing off the hood of the vehicle and walking slowly up the front steps.
He didn't look angry. He looked entirely in control, a predator who had finally cornered his prey. "Belize, I presume? Or perhaps the Cayman Islands. We've been tracking the wire transfers from the Pendleton Holdings account since 4:00 a.m.
Your banker in Geneva was remarkably cooperative once we threatened to revoke his firm's US trading license. O'Connor's jaw tightened. I have no idea what you're talking about. I want my lawyer. You are a lawyer, Michael.