Chapter 11 - The Corpse That Belonged to Someone Else
The sterile chill of the Coast Guard interrogation bay smelled of industrial bleach, wet neoprene, and the copper reek of dried blood. Elena sat on an aluminum folding chair, wrapped in an abrasive emergency wool blanket that scratched raw against the rope-burned skin of her shoulders. Her fingernails were split down to the quick, crusted with the black soot of the *Sovereign of the Seas*. Beside her, Julian had his head buried in his hands, his knuckles taped with white gauze, his wedding tuxedo torn to shreds and stiff with dried seawater.
Across the metal table, Special Agent Miller of the Federal Bureau of Investigation slid two glossy photographs toward them. He didn’t offer coffee. He didn’t offer condolences. His eyes held the flat, dead stare of a federal investigator who had seen too many rich monsters buy their way out of murder.
“The cutter’s salvage team pulled a female body from the submerged engine compartment forty minutes ago,” Miller said, his voice a low, gravelly drone against the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights. “Five-foot-eight. Estimated age late fifties. Severe trauma to the skull, extensive third-degree burns across the torso and face.”
Julian flinched, his shoulders hitching in a jagged, silent spasm. He looked at the photograph through trembling fingers. “My mother… she wouldn’t stop. She locked the hatch from the inside trying to drown Elena. She lost her mind.”
Elena leaned forward, her chest seizing. Her ribs throbbed where Victoria’s designer leather boot had kicked her backward off the mahogany gunwale twelve hours earlier. She looked at the photograph. The waterlogged horror staring back from the glossy print was bloated, the face charred beyond recognition.
Then Elena’s gaze locked onto the corpse’s left hand.
A cold, electric shock raced from Elena’s spine to the tips of her frozen toes. Her breath caught in her throat.
“That’s not Victoria,” Elena whispered.
Agent Miller frowned, tapping his pen on the case file. “Mrs. Montgomery, shock is completely natural after what you’ve been through. But the yacht was thirty miles off the coast of Montauk. The crew manifest accounts for four deckhands—all male—and your personal stewardess, Maria Santos, who was evacuated early. There was only one older woman on that vessel.”
“Look at the hand!” Elena’s voice cracked, rising to a desperate, sharp pitch that echoed off the cinderblock walls. She grabbed the edge of the table, leaning across until she was inches from Miller’s badge. “Victoria Montgomery never took off her grandmother’s Burmese sapphire signet ring. Never! She bragged at the rehearsal dinner that it was soldered onto her knuckle when her arthritis worsened three years ago! But look at that finger—there is no ring. There is no mark of a ring. And Victoria’s index finger was missing half the nail from an equestrian accident in Paris!”
Miller froze. He pulled the photograph back, squinting under the harsh light.
Julian slowly raised his head. His face, bruised and hollow, drained of whatever little color remained. “Miller… whose body is that?”
Before Miller could answer, the heavy steel door of the briefing room swung open with a resounding bang.
Standing in the doorway was a man who looked like an executioner tailored by Savile Row. He wore a charcoal cashmere overcoat, wire-rimmed glasses, and carried a titanium briefcase chained to his wrist. Marcus Vance—senior managing partner of Vance, Sterling & Croft, and the Montgomery dynasty’s lead attorney for the past twenty-five years.
“Agent Miller,” Marcus Vance said, his voice smooth, resonant, and entirely devoid of human warmth. “You will cease questioning my clients immediately. In fact, you will vacate this room. Because as of six o’clock this morning, you are no longer investigating an accidental maritime catastrophe.”
Miller rose to his feet, bristling. “Vance, this is an active federal inquiry into an alleged attempted murder and maritime arson—”
“There is no inquiry,” Marcus interrupted smoothly, stepping into the room. He set the titanium briefcase on the table, entered a six-digit code, and popped the heavy latches with a crisp, terrifying snap. “Twelve hours ago, while that yacht was burning, a courier hand-delivered an encrypted flash drive to the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York. It was filed by Victoria Montgomery herself.”
Elena’s heart slammed against her ribs like a caged animal. “She’s dead. Julian watched her burn behind the bulkhead!”
Marcus Vance slowly turned his cold, predatory eyes onto Elena. A thin, venomous smile touched his lips.
May you like
“Mrs. Montgomery is very much alive, Elena,” Marcus said softly. “And she has just filed criminal charges against you for the attempted murder of her son… and the armed hijacking of her yacht.”
***
