Chapter 7 - The Chase Across the Lake
By noon the following day, the financial crimes division was in a state of absolute chaos. Harold Sterling’s downtown law office had been completely gutted; filing cabinets were emptied, hard drives were smashed with sledgehammers, and a burner phone was left ringing incessantly on his mahogany desk.
"He’s heading for the private airstrip in Waukegan," Detective Vance announced, slamming a tracking report onto my temporary desk. "We have a federal warrant out for his arrest, but if he crosses state lines into Wisconsin or boards an international charter flight, we might lose him."
"He’s not running to Wisconsin," I said, studying the flight manifests and bank withdrawal logs I had managed to decrypt from Sterling’s abandoned server.
"How can you be so sure?" Vance demanded, grabbing his holster.
"Because Sterling isn't the kind of man to flee with empty hands," I replied, standing up and grabbing my coat. "He embezzled an additional four million dollars from the subsidiary accounts yesterday afternoon. You can't board a commercial or private charter with physical bearer bonds and gold bullion without a maritime transport broker. He’s heading for the Port of Chicago."
Vance didn't hesitate. "Get in the unmarked cruiser. We're cutting through Lake Shore Drive."
The siren wailed as our cruiser tore through the slush-covered Chicago streets, dodging holiday traffic and speeding toward Lake Michigan’s freezing shoreline. The sky above was a menacing slate gray, threatening another blizzard before nightfall.
As we pulled up to the private yacht slips near Navy Pier, a sleek, black-hulled motor yacht was already cutting its moorings, its twin diesel engines roaring to life against the icy wind.
Standing on the aft deck, clutching a heavy leather duffel bag in one hand, was Harold Sterling.
"Federal Police! Cut the engines!" Vance shouted, drawing his service weapon as we sprinted down the frozen wooden dock.
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Sterling turned around, his expression twisting into a manic snarl. He pulled a silver-plated pistol from his coat pocket, aimed it squarely at the dock, and fired a warning shot into the frozen pilings before shouting back over the roar of the engines.
"You're too late, Detective! The money is already in Zurich!"
