Chapter 8
The air inside the Elm Street study was thick with the scent of old paper, leather, and burnt ozone. Arthur stood hunched over the mahogany desk, the beam of a small tactical flashlight held between his teeth cutting through the pitch-black room. His fingers flew across the keyboard of an encrypted external hard drive, the blue progress bar crawling agonizingly slowly across the screen as gigabytes of scanned legal documents, offshore account transfers, and falsified medical histories downloaded from the encrypted vault.
Behind him, the red emergency light from the police cruiser parked at the end of the driveway bled through the slatted wooden blinds, casting rhythmic, bloody stripes across the book-lined walls. Arthur’s gray suit jacket lay discarded over the back of the leather armchair, his blue dress shirt soaked with sweat at the spine. Every nerve ending in his body screamed that he was out of time. The sound of gravel crunching under heavy tires outside the front window made his breath catch in his throat.
He slammed his hand down on the eject button of the laptop just as the status bar hit one hundred percent. The external drive clicked softly, and Arthur yanked the cord free, stuffing the small metal device deep into his trouser pocket. He turned toward the French doors leading out to the overgrown side garden, but the sharp beam of a high-powered flashlight pierced the glass from the outside, illuminating the shattered shards on the floor like scattered diamonds.
“Arthur Vance! Freeze! Police!” Officer Miller’s voice boomed through the shattered frame, amplified by the night air and raw authority.
Arthur didn't run. Running was an admission of guilt that would trigger an immediate pursuit and seal his fate. Instead, he raised his hands slowly to shoulder height, stepping out from behind the heavy mahogany desk into the harsh cone of the flashlight beam. His face was pale, his breathing controlled and steady through his nose as he faced the two officers standing outside the broken door.
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Miller stepped carefully over the glass, his service pistol drawn but held safely at a low ready position. Behind him stood Officer Davies, her hand resting firmly on her holster. Miller swept his light up and down Arthur’s frame, noting the empty hands, the damp shirt, and the unnaturally calm expression on the man’s face.
“You just love violating direct orders, don’t you, Arthur?” Miller said, stepping closer until he was standing just inches away. He didn't bother waiting for an answer; he reached out, grabbed Arthur’s right arm, and twisted it behind his back with practiced efficiency. The cold, steel rings of the handcuffs clicked shut around Arthur’s wrists with a definitive, chilling sound. “You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice and tampering with evidence. Turn around.”
