Chapter 14 - The Federal Safehouse
Two days later, I was no longer on a Coast Guard cutter. I was sitting in the formal, sunlit living room of a federal safehouse located on a quiet, tree-lined street in the Queen Anne neighborhood of Seattle.
The house was a fortress disguised as a craftsman bungalow. Two plainclothes Deputy United States Marshals sat in a discreet sedan parked across the street, while an FBI special agent from the Financial Crimes and Maritime Fraud division sat across from me at the mahogany dining table, organizing a mountain of legal documents, bank routing transcripts, and wiretap transcripts.
I was dressed in clean civilian clothes—a simple white oxford shirt, dark denim jeans, and leather boots—my physical injuries fading into manageable aches thanks to military-grade anti-inflammatories and forty-eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.
“We’ve executed the asset-freeze warrants, Captain Vance,” Special Agent Miller said, handing me a thick manila folder. He was a sharp-eyed veteran in his late forties who treated my former military rank with unquestioned professional respect. “As of 8:00 a.m. this morning, every bank account, investment portfolio, and commercial real estate holding registered to Vance Commercial Developments in the United States has been frozen by federal court order under the RICO statutes.”
I opened the folder, scanning the financial spreadsheets. “What about Julian and Captain Briggs?”
“The Royal Canadian Mounted Police intercepted the motorized Zodiac when it attempted to make landfall at an isolated marina near Sooke on Vancouver Island,” Agent Miller smiled grimly. “Briggs had hypothermia and a broken nose; your husband was sitting in the bow holding a waterproof duffel bag containing two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in untraceable hundred-dollar bills and a forged Bahamian passport. They’re currently sitting in a maximum-security holding facility in Victoria, awaiting formal extradition proceedings back to the Western District of Washington to face federal charges of attempted murder and international flight to avoid prosecution.”
“And Marcus?” I asked, closing the folder and leaning back in my chair.
“Marcus is cooperating fully with the United States Attorney’s office,” Miller replied, tapping a stack of signed legal depositions on the corner of the table. “Once he realized his brother had abandoned him to burn on that yacht, his corporate loyalty evaporated completely. He waived his right to an attorney during his first interrogation at the hospital. He’s handed over five years of internal firm ledgers proving that Vance Commercial Developments has been operating as a fraudulent Ponzi scheme since your father passed away.”
Agent Miller paused, looking at me with a curious, analytical expression. “He also made a rather unusual request during his proffer session yesterday, Captain. He asked if he could speak to you in person before the Marshals transfer him to the federal detention center at SeaTac. You are under no legal obligation to see him, of course. We can deny the request immediately.”
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I looked out the sunlit window of the safehouse, watching the rain begin to fall over the Seattle skyline. I thought of the man holding a crowbar outside my stateroom door, and then I thought of the freezing, shivering wreck of a human being clinging to my chest in fifty-two-degree water, matching my breathing to keep his heart beating.
“Set it up, Agent Miller,” I said firmly, turning back to the table. “I’ll see him this afternoon.”
