Chapter 29 - The Chief’s Ultimatum
Chief Higgins didn't knock; he used the heavy brass knocker on the front door, the loud, booming sound echoing through the high-ceilinged foyer like a warning shot. Frank opened the door before the second strike could land, standing tall in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, blocking the entryway completely. "Afternoon, Chief," Frank said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. "To what do we owe the pleasure of a county-funded house call?" Chief Higgins, a thick-set man in his late fifties with a neat gray mustache and a permanent look of weary annoyance, adjusted his duty belt and glared at Frank from beneath the brim of his campaign hat. "Cut the crap, Frank," Higgins said, stepping up onto the threshold without an invitation. "We got an anonymous tip called into the station about an hour ago alleging that you’re harboring a fugitive and illegal financial documents related to the Vance estate embezzlement probe." Frank didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He simply stared down the chief of police with a terrifying, absolute calm that made the older man shift uncomfortably on his feet. "An anonymous tip, Chief? Or did Arthur write the script for you before you left the station house?" "Watch your mouth, Frank," Higgins warned, pointing a thick finger at his face. "I have a duty to investigate any report of illegal activity in this jurisdiction. Step aside and let me search the premises." "You don't have a warrant, Higgins," I said, stepping into the hallway beside Frank, my voice steady and clear. "You’re standing on private property owned by Francis Vance under a registered probate deed filed with the county clerk on Monday morning. If you step one foot inside this house without a signed judicial warrant from a judge outside this county, I will personally call the state attorney general’s office and report you for official misconduct and harassment." Higgins froze. He looked from me to Frank, then back to the open front door where our modest car sat in the driveway. He knew the law, and more importantly, he knew that the old days of the Vance family running Mason like their own private fiefdom were officially over. He lowered his hand, his face darkening with suppressed fury. "You’re playing a very dangerous game, Frank," Higgins muttered, backing down the steps. "Arthur is going to eat you alive." "Tell Arthur," Frank said, his voice dropping into a quiet, bone-chilling register, "that I’m done being dessert." The cruisers backed out of the driveway in a spray of gravel, their red and blue lights dark, leaving us standing in the blistering afternoon heat with the realization that the war had finally gone public.
