Vandermein

VII

I stood suddenly and banged my knee against the desk. Pain shot through my leg, but I could hardly feel it. When did I buy a freighter!?

The database I retrieved the name from was secret, but not that secret. I traced the connections backwards. The ship was tied to me through my Balano holdings, owned by a shell company I used to invest in the conglomerate without a tax penalty or any easily made associations. A public figure like myself can't be seen investing so explicitly in vice.

But how did I purchase a ship? My shells contained only enough money for licensing dues and protection. They employed no one and retained no liquid assets. All the of the wealth was held in portfolios and the capital gains were funneled into dummy charitable trusts, with a minor percentage actually making it to the stakeholders of said trusts.

The rest came directly to me. I took a roughly 21% penalty when all was said and done, but all was accounted for.

Nevertheless, when the FBI started digging through their sources in earnest and pulling stings behind the scenes, it wouldn't take long for my name to pop up. And when it did, so too would my dummy holdings and clandestine investments. My house of cards was wobbling.

A gust of wind. A pluck of the string. A rogue pollen mote.

I needed to get ahead of this, but how? Even with the internet at my disposal, secure lines of communication moved most safely in the old-fashioned way. It would take weeks to talk to all the right people and retroactively move the title away from my name. Best case scenario, this was a ship I once owned, and that would still put me in jeopardy.

I began wondering for the first time if the prison they locked me in would allow conjugal visits or if Sophia would be stuck with a sad, sexually frustrated mom.

The police chatter was still in crisis mode, cleaning up bodies and managing PR. I had no surveillance of federal agencies; that would an entire weekend project, and I wasn't convinced I had that much time.

Did Boone know there was a connection to me or was he shooting in the dark, letting his emotions drive his investigation instead of the facts?

I shot off some emails to my brokers and agents, advising them that my holdings were compromised before I headed downstairs where Veronica and Kenzie were presumably painting away their feelings.

The sun was already rising by the time I came downstairs. Veronica was sleeping on the sofa and Kenzie was in our bedroom. On the table there were two abstract paintings, more brown smudges than colorful expressions of inner parts. Nonetheless, Veronica had named hers "anxiety," as was evidenced by the strip of paper beneath it written in my wife's scrawl.

I was tired, and Veronica's sleeping form reminded me of my own need for rest, but time was of the essence. There are few more unpleasant surprises than waking up to handcuffs. I needed to find Boone and figure out what he knew, if he knew anything.

I also needed to learn if Boone was who Veronica claimed him to be: a violent, narcissistic idealist hell-bent on taking me down. What happened to the boy scout I so enjoyed tormenting. Simpler days, I suppose.

I showered and took a nasal shot of Orexin-A to make up for missed sleep. Recharged and clean, I ventured out toward the Boone residence, searching for answers.