Chapter 8 - THE INTERROGATION
The downtown police precinct was cold, smelling of stale coffee and bleach.
I sat in a metal chair in the interrogation room. Arthur was beside me, his briefcase resting on the table.
Through the two-way glass, I could see Robert in the hallway, talking animatedly to a senior detective, playing the role of the betrayed, heartbroken CEO. He looked disheveled but dangerous.
A female detective walked into the room and sat across from us. She placed a thick file on the table.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” Detective Larson said, her tone professional but skeptical. “Your husband has provided us with loan documents containing your signature, authorizing a fifteen-million-dollar mortgage on the Whitmore Broadcasting towers. He claims you took the money and transferred it to an offshore account.”
Arthur scoffed. “It’s a blatant forgery. We have the original deed proving Robert never had the authority to leverage the land.”
“We have the deed,” Detective Larson acknowledged. “And Vanessa Clarke is currently in custody for attempted arson and assault. But frankly, Mrs. Whitmore, the financial crimes unit is looking at a massive paper trail that points directly to you. Your husband was meticulous. The offshore accounts are in your maiden name.”
My stomach dropped.
Robert hadn't just pawned my mother’s legacy. He had systematically framed me for his own embezzlement over the last four years, creating a perfect scapegoat in case his creditors ever came calling.
“He set me up,” I whispered.
“Can you prove it?” Larson asked. “Because right now, it’s his word against yours. And he has bank records.”
I looked down at the table. Robert had always handled the finances. I had trusted him completely. I had signed tax returns without reading them. I had given him my passwords. I had handed him the knife he was now using to stab me in the back.
Arthur looked grim. “We will hire a forensic accountant. We will trace every cent.”
“That takes months,” Larson warned. “In the meantime, the DA will likely freeze all of Mrs. Whitmore’s assets. Including her home and the radio station.”
If the station was frozen, it would go bankrupt within weeks. Robert’s creditors would win by default.
Suddenly, the interrogation room door opened.
A young uniform officer peeked his head in. “Detective Larson? There’s a kid out here. Says she has evidence for the case.”
My head snapped up. “Madison?”
Madison walked into the room, holding her little red cassette player. Mr. Collins was standing right behind her in the hallway, acting as her chaperone.
“Madison, what are you doing here?” I asked, standing up. “You’re supposed to be at the diner with Mr. Collins.”
“Mom,” Madison said, her voice steady. “You didn't listen to the whole tape.”
I frowned. “The tape from the gala?”
Madison nodded. She set the red cassette player on the metal table.
“When Dad tried to grab the microphone, Mr. Collins stopped the tape,” Madison explained. “But Grandma recorded forty-five minutes of audio. She didn't just talk about the station.”
Madison looked at Detective Larson. “My grandma was a radio host for thirty-two years. She knew how to do interviews. And she knew how to record phone calls.”
The detective raised an eyebrow. “What’s on the tape, kid?”
Madison pressed play.
The cassette hissed.
Then, two voices filled the small interrogation room.
One was my mother’s. The other was Robert’s.
It was a recording of a phone call from four years ago. Just weeks before my mother died.
“Robert,” Mom’s voice crackled through the speaker, sounding weak but furious. “I saw the mail you left on the kitchen counter. You opened an account in the Cayman Islands under Elizabeth’s maiden name.”
There was a pause. Then Robert’s voice, arrogant and dismissive, echoed from the past.
“Evelyn, you’re sick. You don't understand modern corporate finance. I’m shielding our assets from tax liabilities.”
“You’re stealing from the company,” Mom shot back. “And you’re setting my daughter up to take the fall. I’m going to the police.”
“No, you’re not,” Robert’s recorded voice sneered. “You have stage four cancer, Evelyn. You’ll be dead in a month. If you tell Elizabeth, I’ll take Madison and move to California. You will never see your granddaughter again before you die. Let me run my company, and I’ll let you die in peace.”
The interrogation room went dead silent.
I stared at the cassette player in absolute horror.
Robert had blackmailed my dying mother. He had threatened to take my child away from her just to cover up his fraud.
Detective Larson stared at the tape player. Then she looked through the two-way glass at Robert, who was still confidently chatting with the other officers in the hallway.
Larson stood up. She picked up her radio.
“Unit four, this is Larson. Detain Robert Whitmore. Fraud, extortion, and we’ll be adding a dozen federal financial charges by noon.”
Through the glass, I watched as two large officers stepped behind Robert.
Robert smiled at them, clearly thinking they were there to escort him out.
Then, they aggressively slammed his hands behind his back and slapped the cuffs on him.
Robert’s face contorted in shock. He yelled something, pressing his face against the two-way glass, staring directly into the room where I sat.
I didn't look away.
I stood up, walked over to the glass, and held up the gold sun pin my mother had left me.
May you like
Robert slumped against the glass in defeat.
It was over.
