Chapter 5 - The Paper Shield
At seven o'clock the following morning, the rain had cleared, leaving behind a sky the color of a bruised plum.
The Iron Scythes clubhouse did not look like a tavern or a garage anymore. It looked like a command bunker.
Sarah Vance sat at the long wooden table in the center of the room. She was forty-two years old, wearing a sharp grey wool blazer over a black silk blouse, her dark hair pulled back into a tight, severe bun. She was a woman who had spent fifteen years in family courtrooms dealing with monsters in suits, and she possessed a gaze that could strip the paint off a motorcycle tank.
spread out across the table were three dozen high-resolution photographs Doc had taken during the night, printed on glossy paper.
They showed the distinct, deep purple thumb-and-finger impressions on Mia’s upper arms. They showed the hairline fractures in the puppy’s X-rays—Doc had driven the dog to an all-night emergency vet clinic in the next town over at three in the morning under an assumed name. They showed the old, faded scars on Mia’s shins and the cracked rib she had sustained two weeks prior that had never been treated by a doctor.
Sarah lifted one of the photos with the tip of her pen, her face cold and expressionless.
"Richard Sterling is politically connected," Sarah said, her voice crisp and rapid-fire. "He sits on the board of the Mill Creek Children's Hospital. He’s the treasurer for Judge Thomas’s re-election campaign. He donates two hundred thousand dollars a year to the Sheriff’s Youth Athletic League."
She set the photo down and looked at Mike, who was sitting across from her, drinking black coffee out of a chipped ceramic mug.
"If we just go to the local police with these photos," Sarah continued, "the report will land on Sheriff Miller’s desk. Miller and Sterling play golf together every Saturday morning at the Country Club. The report will be 'lost' in processing. Mia will be returned to the home within six hours under an emergency custody order, and by tomorrow night, she’ll be in a private boarding school in Vermont where nobody can see her bruises."
"Not happening," Mike said. His voice was completely flat.
"I didn't say it was," Sarah replied, sliding a blue folder across the table. "I spent the last three hours running a forensic background check on Sterling’s late wife—Mia’s mother, Eleanor."
Dutch leaned over Mike’s shoulder to look at the documents.
"Eleanor Sterling died eight months ago," Sarah explained, tapping a page with her gold ring. "Official cause of death: accidental fall down the stairs at their estate in The Crest. No autopsy was performed because the local coroner—who, surprise, was appointed by Judge Thomas—signed off on the scene report within two hours."
"You think he pushed her?" Bear asked from the counter.
"I think Eleanor Sterling was worth fourteen million dollars in inherited timber stock," Sarah said coldly. "And I think three weeks before she fell down those stairs, she opened a private safety deposit box at the First National Bank in Greenfield—a bank where Richard has no signature authority."
She looked up at the circle of twelve men standing around the table.
"I filed an emergency petition for temporary protective custody at five AM with State Supreme Court Justice Elena Gomez in the capital district," Sarah said, a thin, sharp smile touching her lips for the first time. "I bypassed the local county court entirely. Judge Gomez is a former federal prosecutor who hates corruption more than she hates traffic. She signed an ex-parte restraining order five minutes ago."
"What’s that mean for us?" Mike asked.
"It means," Sarah said, standing up and buttoning her blazer, "that as of right now, Richard Sterling cannot come within five hundred feet of Mia, this clubhouse, or any member of this organization without committing a felony. But it’s just a paper shield, Mike. A paper shield doesn't stop a man who’s facing twenty years in prison if that little girl starts talking to a state investigator."
Right on cue, the heavy double doors of the garage shook with three massive, heavy blows.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
"County Sheriff!" a voice boomed from the driveway. "Open the door! We have a felony warrant for the recovery of a missing juvenile!"
Goliath, who was lying near Mia’s feet under the table, didn't jump up. He simply lifted his head, looked at Mike, and let out a low, steady breath through his nose.
Mike stood up slowly, rolling his shoulders.
"Sarah," Mike said, handing her the white calfskin folder. "Keep the girl in the back."
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"Mike," Sarah warned, taking his arm. "Do not hit a deputy. If you touch a badge, Gomez’s order won't save you."
"I ain't gonna touch 'em, Sarah," Mike said, stepping toward the door. "I'm just gonna show 'em our dog."
