Chapter 71 Chapter 71
SEVENTY-ONE~
The threatening letter should have gone to the FBI and stopped there. But I made copies. Started analyzing the paper, the typeface, the postmark. Old habits.
"You're investigating again," Declan said, finding me at my desk at midnight.
"I'm being careful," I corrected.
"It's the same thing," Declan said. "Anita, you promised."
"Someone threatened our family," I said. "All six of James's children. I can't just ignore that."
"You can let the FBI handle it," Declan said. "That's what they're paid for."
"The FBI is treating it as a crank letter," I said. "They're not taking it seriously."
"Maybe because it is a crank letter," Declan said. "Maybe it's just someone angry about Calloway's conviction."
"Or maybe it's not," I said.
We'd had this argument so many times it felt like a script we were performing. Declan wanting me to step back. Me unable to do so.
"I'm tired, Anita," Declan said finally. "I'm tired of fighting about this. Tired of watching you get pulled back into investigations. Tired of being second to your need to fix everything."
"You're not second," I protested.
"Aren't I?" Declan asked. "Right now, at midnight, you're analyzing a threatening letter instead of sleeping beside your husband. That tells me where your priorities are."
"That's not fair," I said.
"None of this is fair," Declan said. "I didn't ask to be James Harris's son. You didn't ask to marry into this family. But we made choices. We built a life. And I thought we'd agreed that life would come first."
"It does," I said.
"Then prove it," Declan said. "Put down the letter. Come to bed. Let someone else worry about this."
I looked at the letter. At my notes. At the analysis I'd been doing.
Then I looked at Declan. At the exhaustion in his eyes. At the years of strain showing on his face.
I closed my laptop. "You're right. I'm sorry."
"I've heard that before too," Declan said, but he softened. "I know you mean it when you say it. But then something else happens, and you're right back here."
"I'm trying," I said.
"I know," Declan said. "But trying isn't enough anymore. I need you to actually succeed. I need you to actually put us first."
We went to bed, but I couldn't sleep. The letter nagged at me. Someone out there wanted to hurt my family.
How could I just ignore that?
The next morning, Emma called.
"I got a letter too," she said. "Same threat. Different postmark."
"Where was yours sent from?" I asked.
"Chicago," Emma said. "Yours?"
"Philadelphia," I said.
"So multiple locations," Emma said. "Coordinated."
"This isn't a lone crank," I said. "This is organized."
We compared notes. Lily had received a letter from Seattle. Marcus from Boston. Liam from San Francisco. Andrew from Miami.
Six letters. Six different postmarks. All mailed on the same day.
"Someone's running a coordinated intimidation campaign," Agent Martinez said when we brought this to her. "I'll have the FBI analyze all the letters."
"Can you trace where they came from?" I asked.
"We'll try," Agent Martinez said. "But if they're smart, they used public mailboxes and wore gloves. We might not find anything."
"There has to be something," I insisted.
"There might not be," Agent Martinez said gently. "Sometimes criminals cover their tracks well."
But I couldn't accept that. There was always a trail. Always a clue.
I gathered all six letters and started comparing them obsessively. The paper was standard printer paper, available anywhere. The typeface was Times New Roman, the default in most word processors. The envelopes were generic, sold at any office supply store.
Except.
One of the letters—the one sent to Marcus—had a faint watermark. Something barely visible unless you held it up to the light at exactly the right angle.
I examined it under a magnifying glass. The watermark showed three interlocking circles.
"What is that?" Emma asked, looking over my shoulder.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But it's something."
I photographed the watermark and sent it to a forensic document examiner I'd worked with on previous investigations.
"That's a custom watermark," the examiner told me. "Only used by high-end paper manufacturers for exclusive clients."
"Can you identify the manufacturer?" I asked.
"Give me a few days," the examiner said.
While waiting, I noticed something else. The letter to Marcus mentioned specific details about his work. About cases he was handling. Information that wasn't public.
"Someone's been watching you," I told Marcus.
"For how long?" Marcus asked.
"I don't know," I said. "But they know things only someone close to you would know."
We checked Marcus's home and office for surveillance devices. Found nothing obvious, but that didn't mean there wasn't anything there.
"Could be electronic surveillance," the FBI tech specialist said. "Phone taps. Computer monitoring. Email interception. All invisible."
"How do we stop it?" Marcus asked.
"You change everything," the specialist said. "New phones. New computers. New email addresses. Assume everything you've been using is compromised."
Marcus implemented the changes immediately. So did the rest of us. It was inconvenient and paranoid, but necessary.
The document examiner called back three days later.
"I identified the watermark," she said. "It belongs to Ashworth Paper Company. They only sell to corporate clients. Very exclusive."
"Can you get a client list?" I asked.
"I tried," the examiner said. "Ashworth wouldn't cooperate. Client confidentiality."
"Can the FBI get a warrant?" I asked Agent Martinez.
"On what grounds?" Agent Martinez asked. "We have a watermark on a threatening letter. That's not enough for a warrant."
"Then we investigate Ashworth another way," I said.
"Anita," Agent Martinez warned. "Don't do anything illegal."
"I won't," I promised.
But I didn't promise not to do anything questionable.
I contacted an old friend who worked in corporate research. Completely legitimate background checking for companies doing due diligence on business partners.
"I need to know who uses Ashworth Paper Company," I told her.
"That's confidential information," she said.
"Which you could theoretically find through public corporate filings," I suggested. "If certain companies list their suppliers in annual reports."
She understood what I was asking. "Give me a week."
A week later, she sent me a list of twenty-three companies that publicly acknowledged using Ashworth paper products. Most were law firms, consulting companies, and financial institutions.
One name jumped out at me.
Meridian Consulting Group.
I'd heard that name before. During the investigation into Marcus Steele's network. Meridian had been mentioned as a company that provided "risk assessment" services to various network members.
"Meridian," I told Agent Martinez. "That's our connection."
Agent Martinez pulled up everything the FBI had on Meridian Consulting Group. The company specialized in corporate security, risk management, and strategic consulting.
On paper, completely legitimate.
"But several of their employees have backgrounds in intelligence services," Agent Martinez said. "CIA. NSA. Military intelligence. This is a company staffed with people who know how to gather information and eliminate threats."
"They're the ones sending the letters," I said.
"Possibly," Agent Martinez agreed. "But we'd need proof."
"Then let's get proof," I said.
I proposed a plan to Agent Martinez. We'd have one of James's children—someone the threats were targeting—reach out to Meridian. Pretend to be interested in hiring them for security services. See if we could gather evidence of their involvement.
"That's risky," Agent Martinez said. "If Meridian is behind the threats, sending one of you in could be dangerous."
"I'll do it," Andrew volunteered. "I'm a federal prosecutor. They might be more cautious around me, which could make them slip up."
"Or more careful," Agent Martinez warned.
"Either way, we need to do something," Andrew said. "We can't just wait for them to act."
We prepared Andrew carefully. Fitted him with a hidden recording device. Briefed him on what to say and what to look for.
Andrew called Meridian and requested a meeting to discuss personal security services.
"Of course, Mr. Mitchell," the Meridian representative said smoothly. "We'd be happy to discuss your security needs. Given your high-profile prosecution work, I'm sure you face various threats."
The meeting was scheduled for the following week at Meridian's offices in New York.
"Be careful," I told Andrew. "These people are professionals."
"So am I," Andrew said.
Andrew went to the meeting accompanied by two undercover FBI agents posing as his assistants. The Meridian office was sleek and modern, projecting an image of competence and discretion.
The meeting was with a man named David Sterling, Meridian's director of personal security services.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Mitchell," Sterling said. "We understand you've been receiving threats recently."
Andrew tensed. "How did you know about that?"
"We monitor potential clients," Sterling said smoothly. "It's part of our service. We're aware of the letters you and your siblings received."
"That information wasn't public," Andrew said.
"We have extensive resources," Sterling said. "It's why our clients trust us."
"Did you send the letters?" Andrew asked bluntly.
Sterling smiled. "Of course not. But we are aware of who did."
"Who?" Andrew demanded.
"That information comes at a price," Sterling said. "Our services aren't inexpensive, Mr. Mitchell. But they are effective. For a reasonable fee, we can not only tell you who sent the letters but ensure you never receive another threat again."
"That sounds like protection money," Andrew said.
"We prefer to call it comprehensive security services," Sterling said. "You pay us. We make your problems go away. Everyone's happy."
"Except that's extortion," Andrew said.
"Is it?" Sterling asked. "We're offering a service. You're free to decline. Of course, if you decline, we can't guarantee your safety. Or the safety of your siblings."
The recording device captured everything. But as evidence, it was ambiguous. Sterling had been careful not to directly admit to sending the threats.
After the meeting, Andrew met with Agent Martinez and me.
"They're definitely involved," Andrew said. "But Sterling was too smart to say anything explicitly incriminating."
"The recording shows intent to extort," Agent Martinez said. "We can use it to get a warrant."
"Do it," I said.
The FBI raided Meridian's offices two days later. Seized computers, files, and communication records.
What they found was damning. Emails discussing the "Harris project." Planning documents for the threatening letter campaign. Surveillance reports on all six of James's children.
But they also found something unexpected.
Meridian had been hired by someone specific. Someone who wanted James's children intimidated.
The client's name was in the files.
Victoria Torres.
"I thought she was in prison," I said, shocked.
"She was released eight months ago," Agent Martinez said. "Early release for cooperation and good behavior."
Victoria Torres. The woman who'd testified against James Harris. Who'd been part of his network for decades.
"Why would she target us now?" Declan asked.
"Revenge," Agent Martinez suggested. "She blames James's children for the network's destruction."
"But she helped destroy it," I said. "She testified against James."
"And spent ten years in prison because of it," Agent Martinez said. "Maybe she regrets her cooperation. Maybe she wants to rebuild what was lost."
We needed to talk to Victoria. Understand what she wanted. Why she was threatening us now.
Agent Martinez arranged for Victoria to be brought in for questioning.
Victoria looked older, harder than I remembered. Prison had changed her. Made her bitter.
"Why are you threatening James's children?" Agent Martinez asked.
"Because you destroyed everything," Victoria said. "James built an empire. A system that worked. And his children tore it down."
"James built a criminal organization," I said. "It deserved to be destroyed."
"You don't understand what you destroyed," Victoria said. "The network provided services. Solved problems. Made things work in a broken system."
"By breaking it further," I said.
"The system was already broken," Victoria said. "We just learned to work within that reality."
"And now you want revenge?" Agent Martinez asked.
"I want what I'm owed," Victoria said. "James promised to take care of me. Promised I'd be protected. Instead, I spent ten years in prison while his children lived free."
"You chose to cooperate," I reminded her. "You chose to testify."
"I was told I had no choice," Victoria said. "Told if I didn't cooperate, I'd spend the rest of my life in prison. So I did what I had to do. And now I'm doing what I have to do."
"Which is what?" Agent Martinez asked.
"Making sure James's legacy survives," Victoria said. "Through his children or despite them."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
Victoria smiled. "You'll find out."
She refused to say anything else. Invoked her right to an attorney.
"She's planning something," Agent Martinez said after Victoria was taken back to holding. "Something bigger than threatening letters."
"What?" I asked.
"I don't know," Agent Martinez admitted. "But whatever it is, it involves all of you."
We increased security around all six of James's children. FBI protection. Private security. Surveillance.
But Victoria had already been planning for months. She'd had time to put things in motion.
The question was what.
I spent sleepless nights trying to figure it out. What was Victoria's endgame? What did she want?
The answer came a week later.
Emma disappeared.
She left her apartment one morning to go to work and never arrived. Her phone went to voicemail. Her apartment showed no signs of struggle.
She was just gone.
"Victoria took her," I said immediately.
"We don't know that," Agent Martinez said. "Emma could have—"
"Emma wouldn't just disappear," I interrupted. "Not without telling anyone. Victoria has her."
Agent Martinez initiated a massive search. FBI agents. Police. Federal resources.
But there was no trace of Emma. No witnesses. No surveillance footage. Nothing.
She'd vanished completely.
Twelve hours after Emma disappeared, I received an email from an anonymous account.
You destroyed the network. Now I'm going to destroy what you love.
One child of James Harris at a time.
Starting with Emma.
The email included a photo. Emma, bound and gagged, looking terrified.
"She's alive," I said, relief flooding through me.
"For now," Agent Martinez said grimly. "But Victoria's making a statement. She can get to any of you."
"What does she want?" I asked.
Another email arrived.
I want what James promised me. His empire. His legacy. His power.
And I'm going to get it by using his children.
You have forty-eight hours to give me what I want. Or Emma dies.