Chapter 6 - THE RAT TRAP
While Emily was beginning her painful descent back into reality, Derek was desperately trying to escape his.
Having stolen the remaining $1,200 from his joint account with Emily, Derek had checked into a high-end airport hotel, attempting to orchestrate a escape plan.
He was a man built entirely on illusions. He truly believed that if he could just get to Florida, open a new shell company, and find another wealthy investor, he could rebuild his fake empire.
What Derek didn't know was that I had already anticipated his next move.
On Thursday evening, Derek received an anonymous email sent to his private inbox. The email contained a high-value proposal from a potential offshore investor looking to inject $500,000 into a domestic asset-management firm.
The meeting was set for 8:00 PM in the private lounge of an upscale steakhouse in downtown Chicago.
Desperate, greedy, and foolish as ever, Derek took the bait.
He spent his remaining cash buying a cheap suit from a department store, slicked his hair back, and strutted into the steakhouse lounge at 7:55 PM, pretending to be the high-flying executive he never was.
He approached the private booth in the back, expecting to see a wealthy foreign investor.
Instead, he found me.
I was sitting in the corner booth, sipping a glass of vintage Cabernet, with Arthur sitting calmly beside me. Across from us sat two men in dark gray suits with gold badges pinned to their lapels.
Derek froze. His eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal. "Maggie? What is this?"
"Sit down, Derek," I said, pointing to the empty chair across from me.
"I'm not sitting down with you," Derek spat, trying to turn around. "This is a setup. You sent that email!"
"If you walk out that door, Mr. Vance," one of the men in gray suits spoke up, his voice gravelly and authoritative, "we will have federal marshals arrest you in the lobby. Sit down."
Derek stopped dead in his tracks. "Who are you?"
"Special Agent Miller, IRS Criminal Investigation Division," the man replied, pulling out a leather credential binder. "And this is Agent Thomas, Financial Crimes Enforcement Network."
Derek’s knees visibly buckled. He pulled out the chair and collapsed into it, sweat breaking out across his forehead.
"Maggie... what did you do?" Derek whimpered, looking at me with pure terror.
"I didn't do anything, Derek," I said calmly, setting my wine glass down. "I simply provided the IRS with the complete accounting records of Vanguard Wealth Management for the last six tax years. You remember those files, don't you? The ones you kept in the locked safe in my basement?"
"Those were private documents!" Derek shouted, his voice squeaking.
"Those documents," Agent Miller interjected, opening a thick folder on the table, "detail a systematic offshore tax evasion scheme totaling $1.4 million. You were taking money from clients, routing it through shell accounts in the Cayman Islands, and using Margaret Miller’s personal credit lines to write off your personal expenses as business losses."
Derek looked like he was about to vomit. "No... no, that was a mistake! My accountant—"
"Your accountant was Maggie," Arthur interjected smoothly. "And she kept flawless records proving that every single fraudulent transaction was executed personally by your IP address, using your digital signature."
"You set me up!" Derek screamed, leaning across the table at me. "You vicious old viper! You ruined my life!"
"You ruined your own life, Derek, the moment you confused my generosity for weakness," I said, my voice cold as liquid nitrogen. "You wore the watch I bought you. You drove the car I paid for. You lived in the house I funded. And then you stood at O'Hare airport, laughed in my face, and told me I was useless."
I leaned in close, looking him dead in the eyes.
"You wanted to know what it felt like to not be slowed down by me, Derek?" I whispered. "This is it. You're completely on your own now."
Agent Miller stood up and pulled out a pair of steel handcuffs.
"Derek Vance, you are under arrest for tax evasion, wire fraud, and grand money laundering. You have the right to remain silent."
CLICK.
The steel cuffs snapped around Derek's wrists right in the middle of the crowded steakhouse. Patrons turned and stared, whispering as the once-smug businessman was dragged out by federal agents, sobbing and hyperventilating.
I picked up my glass of Cabernet, took a gentle sip, and looked at Arthur.
"How much time is he looking at, Arthur?"
May you like
"With the tax evasion and money laundering combined?" Arthur smiled grimly. "Minimum eight to twelve years in federal prison."
"Good," I said, rising from the table and adjusting my leather planner strap over my shoulder. "Now, let's go finish Vanessa."
