Chapter 8 - The Price of Treason
On the screen was a high-resolution satellite tracking log, cross-referenced with rental car telemetry provided directly by the Cairo car agency through the American consular legal attaché.
"Modern vehicles are marvels of technology, Tyler," James explained with grim satisfaction. "Your rental car had an internal cellular transponder. It logged your route down to the meter. It logged the exact coordinates where the vehicle idled for ninety seconds while you ordered Sarah out of the car. It logged your speed as you accelerated back toward the highway at eighty-five miles per hour. And more importantly, the Egyptian National Police retrieved the dashcam footage from your own vehicle when you returned it at Cairo International Airport."
Tyler went utterly limp against the back of his chair, the bluster draining out of him like air from a punctured tire.
"You forgot to erase the memory card," James said. "The internal audio microphone recorded your entire conversation as you drove away. It recorded you telling Madison that her mother would be dead before nightfall, and that you should start browsing real estate listings in Laguna Beach."
The door behind me swung open again. Two plainclothes detectives from the Minneapolis Police Department stepped into the room, accompanied by an agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation carrying a folder of federal warrants.
"Tyler Vance," the agent said, stepping up behind the young man and snapping a pair of cold steel handcuffs over his wrists with a sharp, metallic click. "You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder of a United States citizen abroad, wire fraud, and grand larceny."
Tyler didn't look at Madison as they pulled him to his feet. He looked down at the floor, his face gray, his expensive suit looking suddenly cheap and rumpled. "She was in on it," Tyler muttered, pointing a handcuffed finger at my daughter. "It was her idea from the beginning. She told me her father left millions and that the old woman was hoarding it all. She helped me plan the route!"
"Tyler, no! You bastard!" Madison shrieked, scrambling to her feet, lunging at him with her nails bared. One of the city detectives caught her by the shoulders, restraining her easily as she thrashed and sobbed.
"Madison Miller," the female detective said softly, reading from a small card. "You are being detained under warrant for conspiracy to commit foreign murder and forgery. You have the right to remain silent."
Madison stopped fighting. She turned toward me, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, her mouth open in a desperate, childish plea. "Mom... tell them it's a mistake. Please. Mom, I'm your baby! You can't let them take me to jail! Dad wouldn't want this! Dad loved me!"
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I looked at the girl I had raised. For twenty-two years, I had excused her selfishness, defended her tantrums, and emptied my pockets to shield her from the consequences of her choices. But Robert was gone, and the illusion was shattered forever.
"Your father loved you enough to protect you from the world, Madison," I said, my voice steady and cold as winter ice. "He just didn't realize he needed to protect me from you. You made your choice in the desert. Now you have to live with it."
