Chapter 13 - The Auditor’s Ghost
The regional office of the Maritime Trade Commission occupied an unglamorous four-story brick building near the municipal customs house. Elena walked past the reception desk, disregarding the visitor passes, and walked straight into the corner office bearing the nameplate: CHIEF INSPECTOR DONOVAN KANE.
Kane looked up from a mountain of cargo manifests, his gray eyebrows knitting together in immediate shock. He reached instinctively for his desk phone. "Elena Vance. Do you realize every federal precinct in the state has a warrant out for your custody?"
"Don't touch that phone, Donovan," Elena said calmly, unzipping her canvas coat and placing Arthur Ross’s leather-bound ledger directly onto his blotter. "Unless you want to explain to the attorney general why your signature is on thirty falsified customs clearances for Julian Vance’s holding company."
Kane’s hand froze an inch above the telephone cradle. His face drained of color as he looked from the ledger to Elena’s steady, unforgiving eyes.
"Arthur gave you that?" Kane whispered, his voice trembling.
"My father gave me everything," Elena replied, leaning over the desk. "He didn't just document Julian’s tax evasion; he documented who helped him cover it up after the 2018 container fire on dock nine. You signed off on those bills of lading, Donovan. You thought Arthur had died without making backups. You were wrong."
Kane sank back into his leather armchair, sweating profusely despite the cool autumn air. "What do you want, Elena? Money? I can't give you money. Julian has an army of corporate attorneys—"
"I don't want your money," Elena cut in sharply. "I want a federal summons. I want you to issue an emergency investigatory preservation order for the central port vault, effective at nine o'clock tonight. And I want federal marshals waiting outside the Vance estate at eight-fifteen to witness the execution of a minor's testamentary safe-conduct."
"Julian will destroy me," Kane croaked.
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"Julian will be behind bars before midnight if you sign that order," Elena said, pulling out a fountain pen and sliding it across the desk. "Or you can call the state police right now, and this ledger goes directly to the Department of Justice press corps. Make your choice."
Kane stared at the pen for ten agonizing seconds. Slowly, with hands that shook violently, he pulled an official government warrant form from his side drawer, slotted it into his desk printer, and signed his name across the seal.
