Chapter 9 - THE KING RETURNS
Downstairs in the grand dining room, Sterling Kane was sitting at the head of a twenty-foot mahogany table, drinking thirty-year-old cognac from a crystal tumbler.
Spread across the polished wood were probate transfer documents, corporate deeds, and bank release forms authorizing the liquidation of Kane Enterprises’ river terminals.
A lawyer sat opposite him, stamping each page with a red wax seal.
"And the final signature?" the lawyer asked, dipping his pen into fresh ink.
"My cousin will be officially declared deceased by eleven-thirty tonight," Sterling said smoothly, swirling the dark amber liquor in his glass. "The medical certificate will be signed by Dr. Whitfield. You can file the conservatorship transfer with the court first thing tomorrow morning."
"Exemplary work, Sterling," the lawyer said, smiling. "A very clean transition."
"Yes," Sterling murmured, raising his glass to the high chandelier. "Clean."
The grand double doors of the dining room blew open with a violent bang.
The heavy mahogany panels slammed against the stone walls, shattering the glass in the antique display cases on either side of the entrance.
Sterling jumped out of his chair, spilling his cognac across the legal documents.
"What the hell is going on out there?!" Sterling roared. "Crowley! Get in here!"
A man walked through the doorway.
He was wearing a dark charcoal suit—the same suit he had been dressed in for his wedding—though the lapels were open, the tie was gone, and the top three buttons of his white shirt were unfastened.
He was barefoot. His hair was damp. His hands were tucked casually into his trouser pockets.
Behind him walked Willa Hayes, carrying her canvas sack in one hand and Dr. Whitfield’s brown leather case in the other.
Sterling’s face went completely grey.
The crystal tumbler slipped from his hand, hitting the hardwood floor and shattering into a hundred glittering shards of glass.
"No..." Sterling whispered, stepping back until his spine hit the carved mantelpiece of the marble fireplace. "No... it’s not... you’re..."
"Hello, Sterling," Everett Kane said.
His voice resonated off the stone walls, deep, cold, and entirely lethal.
He walked slowly down the length of the twenty-foot dining table, his bare feet making no sound on the polished wood floor. He stopped directly across from his cousin.
The lawyer beside Sterling scrambled out of his chair, knocked over his inkwell, and backed into the farthest corner of the room, holding his hands up in total surrender.
"You look like you’ve seen a ghost, cousin," Everett said, picking up one of the probate transfer deeds from the wet table surface.
He glanced at the red seal at the bottom.
"Selling the river terminals to Detroit?" Everett murmured, ripping the thick parchment down the middle with a slow, clean snap. "For twelve cents on the dollar? You always were a terrible businessman, Sterling. That’s why my father never gave you a seat on the board."
"Everett..." Sterling stammered, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic pitch. "Listen to me... Whitfield... Whitfield said you were in a permanent vegetative state! He told me there was no recovery! I was just... I was trying to protect the company assets!"
"You were trying to bury me," Everett said flatly.
He reached across the table, grabbed Sterling by his silk tie, and dragged him across the polished mahogany surface until his face was six inches from his own.
"Three hundred men work those docks, Sterling," Everett growled, his dark eyes burning with pure, unadulterated fury. "Three hundred families eat because those trucks move every morning. And you were going to sell them out to Detroit so you could pay off your gambling markers in Las Vegas."
"Please..." Sterling wept, tears pouring down his cheeks, soaking his silver tie. "Everett... we’re blood... we’re family..."
"Family doesn't lock a man in his own skin for eight months," Everett whispered.
He shoved Sterling backward. Sterling crashed into the fireplace grate, his silk robe catching fire from a stray ember before he frantically beat it out with his bare hands, sobbing uncontrollably on the hearth.
Everett turned around and looked at Willa.
The cold, deadly rage in his eyes melted away instantly, replaced by a deep, intense quiet that filled the room.
"Call the police, Mrs. Kane," Everett said softly. "Tell them Detective Miller down at the 1st District needs to bring two paddy wagons to the Kane estate."
May you like
He looked back down at his sobbing cousin.
"And tell him to bring the fraud unit."
