Today, Magursky Construction was worth upward of $50 million. It was his only child. He’d done things to both build and maintain his business and his fortune that he wasn’t necessarily proud of, but he had long ago learned to live without regret. And when you looked all around the island of Manhattan, enough buildings bore Magursky exoskeletons that he could legitimately say his fingerprints were visible all over one of the greatest cities in the world. Over the last few years he’d spread those fingers into the Midwest. The Albertson Bridge in Ashby and now contracts for three commercial buildings in Chicago. That $50 million value would double in the next five years.
So when Louis Magursky walked into his office, adorned with plaques and honors and photos of him with mayors and governors, and saw a man in a suit—a suit!—sitting behind his desk in his chair, he had to refrain from ripping the man’s spine out through his back. To add insult, the man had his elbows—his elbows!—on Louis’s desk. The man looked calm. He was tall, trim, with neatly parted blond hair. And he didn’t appear to understand—or care about—the consequences of sitting in Louis’s chair.
Louis approached the desk with murder in his eyes. But then the man took his elbows off the desk and removed a leather-bound case from his suit jacket pocket. He flipped it open to reveal a gold badge with a bald eagle at the center of a five-pointed star.
It bore three words that Louis could read from across the room.
US Marshal.
“Bet you thought you were a smart guy, using those burner cell phones to talk to Sam Wickersham and Caroline Drummond,” he said. “Unfortunately you weren’t smart enough to buy them at different stores. Thankfully A-Plus Electronics around the corner uses digital surveillance and keeps their files. Just like Mayor Alan Caldwell, in Ashby. You knew him back when he was deputy mayor under Constance Wright. We have your email and phone records, and soon we’ll have Caldwell’s too. No, you’re not a smart guy, Louis. Or should I call you Albatross?”
Louis didn’t need to hear another word.
He turned and bolted out the door. For a short man with short legs carrying a fair amount of both fat and muscle, Louis could move. He rounded the hallway corner and sped into the reception area. He pulled out his cell phone. His lawyer kept Louis a “Go” bag, which he could have delivered anywhere in the five boroughs in twenty minutes. Louis could disappear overnight and start over with half a million in cash and a passport with a new name. He’d been dreading this day for a long time, but he was prepared.
Louis bounded down the stairs, not stopping for a moment to catch his breath, taking three steps at a time. Sweat was pouring down his body. He could smell his own wretched odor.
Then Louis burst through the stairwell door and into the lobby atrium. He could see the sun shining outside. He would be a ghost in seconds.
He didn’t notice the older man with gray hair and a handlebar moustache leaning against the wall, reading a copy of Fortune. As Louis ran past, the man stepped out, grabbed Louis by his stocky arm, and used his own momentum to fling him onto the marble floor. Before Louis could even comprehend what was happening, his thick wrists had been pulled behind him and handcuffs clicked into place. Louis yelped as the metal bit into his skin.
“Louis Magursky,” the man said. He had a deep voice with a southern accent. “You’re under arrest for data fraud, cellular fraud, conspiracy to commit perjury, bribery, and being a general shitheel.”
Magursky’s cheek was pressed against the floor. He managed to spit out, “Do you know who I am? I’m gonna have your badge, you southern-fried asshole.”
Then he heard a ding, and the elevator door opened. Out stepped the blond marshal from his office.
“Tortoise and the hare, my friend,” the marshal said. “It’s time for you to answer for Constance Wright.”
Nicholas Drummond did not try to run. When he saw the brown Crown Victoria pull up outside his home, flanked by three other police cars, he stood up and smoothed out his shirt and regretted not having had more for lunch.
He had always loved the bay windows in the foyer, how he could see the whole neighborhood splayed out in front of him like a private movie theater. Even right now, as the police lights swirled and reflected off the downy snow, there was something poetic about it. Truthfully, he was surprised it had taken this long. But as soon as Serrano and Tally had arrived at their home that day with that odd Marin woman, he’d known it was only a matter of time.
Isabelle came running downstairs in a panic. She was wearing a tight white Rag & Bone T-shirt and Moussy distressed jeans, gold bracelets jangling on her wrists. She always wore good jewelry and the best labels at home. That was one thing about Isabelle: she never phoned things in. When they had begun seeing each other—Nicholas couldn’t really call it dating, more like monogamous screwing—Isabelle had worn gorgeous outfits every time they’d met up. Sometimes she hid them under bulky, shapeless coats so as to not turn heads. It was imperative they saw each other in secret. Nicholas had too much to lose—namely close to a million dollars if Constance could prove he had been getting laid on the side before they legally separated.
“Getting laid” was such a crass term, though. To Nicholas, that was what it was at first. Once the marriage went sour, he and Constance stopped having sex. And at his age, simply giving up intimacy was not an option. He needed a release. He’d met Isabelle at one of Constance’s myriad fund-raisers. At first, Nicholas enjoyed the galas. It was a chance to dress up, mingle with Ashby’s elite, be something he never thought he would be: a star.
But he wasn’t really a star. He was the arm candy to a star. A garnish. Sprinkles on ice cream. It might add a little flavor, but nobody would really notice if it wasn’t there.
Isabelle was young. Gorgeous. Wealthy. She had no political aspirations. Her only baggage was her idiot brother, Chris. Chrissy, she called him. Nicholas felt that once you could buy alcohol legally, you had to stop answering to the name Chrissy.
They ran into each other again at a cheese shop. And Nicholas knew his cheeses. He helped her pick out a sumptuous imported Camembert and recommended a tasty Napa red to pair with it. She thanked him for saving her dinner party and invited him to a future soiree. He declined, said it was hard for Constance to get out these days with reelection coming up.
“Who invited Constance?” she replied with a mischievous smile. They slept together three days later on her luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets.
He knew he would marry her after a month.
Getting free from Constance was another matter. He told Caroline about it; they shared everything. Caroline hated Constance, felt she was always upstaging Nicholas. So when Caroline told Nicholas that there might just be a way to get him out of the marriage with hefty spousal support, Nicholas was all ears. Isabelle had money, but this would be his money. All he had to do was be willing to let Constance burn.
It didn’t sit particularly well with him. Caroline knew a guy who knew a construction guy in New York who would spearhead the effort. Some guy named Louis with an eastern European last name who’d lost millions when the Wright family business had gone belly up.
Nicholas Drummond knew Constance would fall. He didn’t anticipate how hard.
He had a hard time stomaching the Sam Wickersham testimony, hearing this young man lie about screwing his wife when the truth was Nicholas was the one screwing around. But Isabelle watched it with glee. She bought half a dozen copies of the Ashby Bulletin with the forty-eight-point-font headline “Mayor Cradle Robber.”