He reached into his breast pocket with two fingers.
I raised the rifle an inch. "Slowly."
Julian pulled out a slim, gold-plated flash drive and held it up between his thumb and forefinger.
"You think this is about Vance pocketing fifty-dollar bills from delivery drivers at St. Jude?" Julian chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Vance is an idiot. A blunt instrument who let his ego run away with him because he couldn't stand an unarmed Black man looking him in the eye outside a school gate. If he had just taken your name and walked away, none of this would have happened."
"What’s on the drive, Julian?"
"The reason you’re not going to arrest me," Julian said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "On this drive is the complete financial registry of the Manhattan Maritime Development Fund. The fund that finances eighty percent of the mayoral reelection campaign, the police union pension reserve, and the private legal trusts for half the sitting judges in the Southern District."
The cabin went deadly silent, save for the rhythmic thrum of the idling diesel engines below the deck.
"You think Vance and Bradley were running this on their own?" Julian leaned forward, his polished facade cracking just enough to let the venom seep out. "Every precinct commander from Midtown North to the Battery gets a cut of the waterfront logistics fee. Every time an art shipment moves without customs inspection, a piece of the action lands in the campaign coffers of the men who appointed your United States Attorney."
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"Sarah Lin doesn't take dirty money," I said.
"Sarah Lin doesn't have a choice," Julian replied with a cold grin. "Because the signature on the primary offshore escrow account in the Caymans doesn't belong to Vance. It doesn't belong to Bradley. It belongs to her chief of staff."
My radio clicked. Garrison’s voice came through, strained and breathless.
"Elias! Do not execute the arrest warrant on Julian Vance! I repeat, hold your position! We just received an emergency administrative freeze from Main Justice in Washington! The Attorney General’s office has just assumed direct supervisory control of Operation Broken Star!"
I stared at Julian Vance.
His smile widened, triumphant and utterly serene.
"I told you, Inspector," Julian whispered, picking up his scotch once more. "You know how to kick down doors. But you don't know who owns the building. Now lower that rifle, get your men off my barge, and go back to your little girl before Washington decides you’re an operational liability."
Outside the wheelhouse window, the heavy white hull of a ninety-foot Coast Guard cutter finally cut through the harbor fog, its blue strobes flashing against the rain.
Julian raised his glass to me in a silent toast.