Chapter 4 - The Shadow Broker
Miles Wexler's law office overlooked the Mississippi River from the nineteenth floor of an ivory skyscraper in downtown Minneapolis.
When I walked in at seven sharp, Miles was already drinking black coffee, surrounded by thick binders and financial printouts.
"Sit down, Everett," Miles said, sliding a manila folder toward me. "We have a significant problem, but we also have leverage."
I opened the folder. Inside was a bill of sale with the logo of Vance Antique Instruments, an upscale boutique located in the historic North Loop district.
"Victor Vance is not an ordinary piano technician," Miles explained, leaning over his desk. "He is an unlicensed high-end broker who caters to wealthy individuals wanting untraceable luxury transactions. Your father brought the Steinway to Vance because Vance doesn't ask questions about provenance."
"Who bought it?" I asked, scanning the paperwork. The buyer's name was blacked out with heavy marker.
"The buyer paid Vance one hundred and forty thousand dollars in cash," Miles said, tapping the blacked-out line. "Which means your father was swindled on top of committing theft. Vance paid Calvin ninety-five thousand and pocketed a forty-five-thousand-dollar finder's fee in forty-eight hours."
"Can we force Vance to give us the name?"
Miles gave a cold, shark-like grin. "Vance has two pending investigations with the Minnesota Department of Revenue regarding sales tax evasion. I called his personal attorney thirty minutes ago. If he doesn't cooperate with our trust reclamation, those tax files will land on the Attorney General's desk before noon."
At 9:30 AM, Miles and I walked into Vance Antique Instruments on 1st Avenue.
The showroom was filled with gleaming harpsichords, restored pipe organs, and velvet-draped pianos. A thin, sharply dressed man with slicked-back gray hair was standing near the back, talking into a wireless earpiece.
When he saw Miles, his expression hardened like drying cement. He clicked the earpiece off and shoved his hands into the pockets of his designer trousers.
"Mr. Wexler," Victor Vance said, his voice dripping with condescension. "I told your associate that transaction was completed legally under a signed bill of sale from a verified executor."
"Calvin Whitaker was not the executor, Victor," Miles said, pulling a laminated court document from his jacket. "He was a disinherited son who executed a fraudulent conveyance of trust property. Under Minnesota Statute 501C, this constitutes felony conversion of trust assets."
Vance scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "That's between you and your client's family. I acted in good faith as a licensed broker. The buyer is a private collector with ironclad privacy agreements."
"Good faith?" Miles chuckled softly, stepping closer until he was standing toe-to-toe with the broker. "You bought an irreplaceable 1928 Steinway Model D for forty percent below market value from an individual who couldn't produce the original deed of gift, and you didn't report the transaction to the state antiquities registry."
Vance's smug posture began to crack. His eyes darted nervously toward his glass-walled office.
"Furthermore," Miles continued, lowering his voice to a lethal whisper, "my firm handles the corporate restructuring for your landlord. If I find out this afternoon that you hindered a criminal investigation, your commercial lease will be terminated by five o'clock."
Vance swallowed hard, wiping a drop of sweat from his upper lip. "The buyer isn't going to give it back, Wexler. He's one of the most powerful men in the Midwest."
"Give me the name, Victor," Miles demanded.
Vance walked behind his marble counter with trembling hands, pulled open a locked drawer, and slid a delivery receipt across the glass.
I looked down at the signature at the bottom of the invoice.
May you like
My breath caught in my throat.
The name on the line was Hugh Ashb.
