Chapter 7 - Storming the Penthouse
At 1:15 AM, the penthouse lounge of the Caroway Hotel was still alive with jazz music, cigar smoke, and laughter. Crystal flutes of Dom Pérignon clinked together as twenty elite guests celebrated the success of the charity gala. Harlon Voss stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the glittering skyline, holding a highball glass of twenty-year-old scotch.
Karen Ashford sat on a plush velvet sofa nearby, holding a small velvet jeweler’s pouch in her manicured hand. Inside was the very diamond necklace she had claimed was stolen.
"You handled that brilliantly, Karen," Voss said, smirking as he took a sip of his drink. "Miller called thirty minutes ago. She’s locked down in the 14th. By tomorrow morning, the press will run the story of the scarred charity fraud. Nobody will ever listen to her testify about the old harbor contracts."
"It cost me a few tears, Harlon," Karen laughed, tucking the pouch into her designer evening bag. "People are so gullible. When an ugly woman stands in the corner of a beautiful room, everyone is eager to believe she doesn't belong."
Before Voss could answer, the double oak doors of the private lounge exploded inward with a deafening crash.
Two private security guards flew backward across the polished hardwood floor, crashing into a champagne tower that collapsed in a rain of shattered crystal and foaming alcohol. The women screamed, scrambling behind sofas, while the men backed away in terror.
Through the broken doorway marched twelve men in black trench coats, flanking Elias Marchetti and Rosalyn.
Voss dropped his glass. It shattered on the floor, splashing liquor across his shoes. He stared at Rosalyn, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated horror. She was standing tall, her head held high, looking as regal as an empress, her scarred cheek gleaming under the warm chandelier light. And beside her stood the one man in the entire metropolitan area whom Voss had spent twenty years avoiding.
"Marchetti..." Voss choked out, his arrogance crumbling instantly into ash.
"Good evening, Harlon," Elias said smoothly, stepping into the center of the room. "You threw a rather noisy party tonight. I thought we might join the festivities."
Karen Ashford stood up from the sofa, her face pale as a ghost, clutching her purse to her chest like a shield. "What is the meaning of this? This is a private suite! Hotel security! Call the police!"
"The police are already here, Mrs. Ashford," Emmett Cross said, stepping aside.
Behind them entered Chief Inspector Wright, accompanied by four uniformed state troopers with warrant folders in their hands.
"Harlon Voss, Karen Ashford," Inspector Wright announced in a clear, booming voice. "You are under arrest for grand larceny, criminal conspiracy, insurance fraud, and federal civil rights violations."
"Larceny?" Karen shrieked, backing against the bar. "I was the victim! That scarred freak stole my diamond necklace!"
Elias smiled a thin, humorless smile. He signaled to Bishop, who walked directly over to Karen. Without saying a word, Bishop pulled the designer bag from her stiff hands, turned it upside down, and let the contents spill onto the glass coffee table.
Out rolled the velvet jeweler’s pouch. Bishop picked it up by the drawstring, untied it, and let the sparkling diamond necklace tumble onto the glass surface right in front of twenty horrified high-society witnesses.
May you like
The room went dead silent.
"It seems your necklace was never stolen, Mrs. Ashford," Elias said, his voice dripping with icy contempt. "You simply misplaced your soul."
