When my ex-husband and former architectural partner locked me out of our firm's flagship site in minus-three-degree Chicago weather to celebrate his illegal $14.5 million buyout with his young asso...
My burner phone vibrated, an incoming call from an unlisted number. I answered, recognizing the sympathetic, hushed voice of Margaret, one of our firm’s long-time secretaries.
“Ms. Higgins,” she whispered, her voice tight with nerves. “I just overheard Chief Miller in Julian’s office. He was talking to two uniformed officers. They have a search warrant for your residence. For ‘stolen company property.’”
My jaw tightened. Julian had moved fast. He was using the fabricated police report to seize Frank’s confession letters. He knew time was running out.
“They’re on their way now,” Margaret continued, her voice trembling. “They mentioned going to your old apartment first, then anywhere else you might have archives.”
“Thank you, Margaret,” I said, my voice calm despite the surge of adrenaline. “You’ve done enough. Stay safe.”
I hung up, the implications stark. Julian believed I would follow the traditional path. He thought I would engage in a lengthy legal battle, filing counter-suits, trying to expose his corruption through official channels. He was expecting me to contact my lawyers, to file a formal complaint with the police about his bribery.
That’s why he was focused on fabricating an immediate police report against me. It was a pre-emptive strike, designed to discredit me and reclaim the evidence. He was banking on the slowness of the justice system.
A standard police investigation into Julian’s decade-long corruption, especially with syndicate ties, would take months, if not years. Grand juries, endless interviews, legal maneuvering—it would all buy Julian the precious time he needed to finalize his $14.5 million exit strategy and disappear abroad, likely to some non-extradition country.
No. I wouldn’t play his game.
Law enforcement, for all its necessity, moved at a glacial pace. Julian’s criminal backers, however, operated on a far swifter, far more brutal timetable. Sal Morante wouldn’t wait for warrants or due process. He would act.
My objective was no longer to put Julian in prison, which would be a long, drawn-out process benefiting no one but Julian’s escape efforts. My objective was to strip him of his power, his wealth, and his freedom, swiftly and decisively.
The anonymous tip about the search warrant wasn’t a setback; it was a confirmation of Julian’s desperation. It showed me precisely where his mind was, and where he expected me to be.
He would be looking for a legal fight. I would deliver a criminal reckoning.
I packed a small overnight bag, careful to include the binder of Frank Kowalski’s confession letters and the copies of the municipal ledger. I wouldn’t be going home tonight. I had a much more important delivery to make.
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