My uncle told me I was being shipped off to New Jersey to serve a mandatory alliance contract with a veteran syndicate partner named Gabe DeLuca.
The two-hour deadline hung in the air, a ticking clock that resonated with the warehouse’s metallic silence. Julian stared at the door where Frank had vanished, then at the Devlin Associates report still clutched in my hand.
“A state home?” Julian muttered, shaking his head. “Vic really thinks he can just make you disappear.”
“He believes I’m a sixteen-year-old with no resources,” I said, folding the appraisal report. “He thinks I’m desperate. But he doesn’t know about Marcus Devlin’s double books.”
“Double books?” Julian asked, turning to me. “What are you talking about?”
“Devlin’s a syndicate appraiser,” I explained. “He’s been working for Vic for years. My father, before he died, always kept tabs on people like Devlin. Said they were ‘choke points’ in any financial network.”
I pulled out my phone. “My father had a safe deposit box. In it, a set of carbon copies. Every fraudulent real estate assessment Devlin conducted for Vic, going back five years.”
Julian’s eyes widened. “And you have these copies?”
“Let’s just say they’re digitally backed up,” I confirmed. “And I know where Devlin’s private office is.”
We drove Julian’s battered pickup truck through the maze of industrial streets into downtown Newark. The appraisal office was on the third floor of a nondescript brick building, tucked between a bail bondsman and a dry cleaner. The name on the frosted glass door read: “Devlin Forensic Appraisals.”
Inside, Marcus Devlin was a small, nervous man in a rumpled suit, perched behind a cluttered desk. Piles of paperwork threatened to spill over onto the floor. He wore thick glasses that slid down his nose, and his eyes darted nervously from Julian’s imposing frame to my quiet presence.
“Can I help you?” Devlin stammered, clutching a pen in his shaky hand.
I placed the crumpled Devlin Associates report Frank had given us on his desk. “You signed this, Mr. Devlin.”
Devlin glanced at the report, then blanched. “That’s standard procedure for a distressed property. Nothing unusual.”
“Really?” I asked, pulling out my phone and tapping the screen. A moment later, a series of images flashed across the phone’s display: scanned documents, each bearing the Devlin Associates seal and his signature. They showed various properties, over various years, all suddenly devalued due to “structural instability” or “unforeseen environmental hazards.”
“This one,” I pointed to a specific document on my screen, “is a strip mall in Elizabeth that mysteriously lost 60% of its value right before Vic bought it through a shell company in 2019.”
Devlin’s face went pale. He pushed his glasses up his nose with a trembling finger.
“And this one,” I continued, swiping to another document, “is a row of brownstones in Jersey City, appraised at half their market value just before Vic foreclosed on the original owners last year.”
“I… I don’t know what those are,” Devlin stammered, but his voice was thin, almost a whisper.
“They’re carbon copies, Mr. Devlin,” I stated, my voice calm and even. “Digital ones. Of every fraudulent assessment you’ve done for Vic Ross over the past five years. Including the one you just issued on Julian’s warehouse for ‘environmental contamination’.”
Devlin slumped back in his chair, defeated. The color drained from his face, leaving it pasty white.
“He paid me,” Devlin whispered, his eyes fixed on my phone screen. “Vic paid me forty thousand dollars, cash, to sign that report today. Said it was urgent. Said it would clean up a loose end.”
“A loose end named Julian,” Julian added, stepping closer to the desk, his shadow falling over Devlin.
“And a loose end named Leo,” I finished. “Because this ‘environmental contamination’ report would have wiped out Julian, and me with him.”
Devlin wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “You don’t understand. Vic’s a monster. If I don’t do what he says, I end up in the Meadowlands.”
“And if you keep doing what he says, you end up on the wrong side of Don Moretti’s auditors when they find out about these fake appraisals,” I countered. “The ones that systematically drained value from properties tied to syndicate loans.”
Devlin swallowed hard. “Vic already locked your personal trust accounts in New York,” he blurted out, trying to divert. “He said you wouldn’t have any money to fight him. He knows everything. He’s always watching.”
He looked at me, a desperate plea in his eyes. “You have exactly one hundred and twelve dollars in cash right now, don’t you? He said you were a pauper.”
I didn’t confirm or deny the $112. I simply looked at the computer terminal on Devlin’s desk. It was an old model, but connected to several syndicate financial databases.
“Tell me, Mr. Devlin,” I said, “does this terminal still have access to the syndicate’s private routing network?”
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