Chapter 28
A Billion Dollar
Laird
The esteemed Malcolm Golden is sitting on the sofa across from me. His hand doesn’t stop shoving cookies into his mouth. Is he not afraid of diabetes? The man looks like he hasn’t eaten in a week.
“How about I cook spaghetti for you, sir?” Sharon Baxter blushes, offering the suggestion with a smile.
“I want some too!” Matthew raises his hand.
“You’ve just had dinner. Stop raiding the food in this house,” I say, giving his arm a light smack.
“Uh, I don’t mean to be rude, but I love all her cooking. I wonder why I haven’t visited more often,” Jessy giggles.
“Don’t tell me you all have been living here like parasites for a week,” Golden scoffs.
“Watch your mouth, sir! We’re not living here for free!” Matthew exclaims, pointing at his face.
“Yeah. We help wash the dishes, clean the house, help with charity events, and go grocery shopping,” Jessy adds, frowning as he defends their efforts. Clearly, he knows it’s still not enough to be considered mutually beneficial.
“You’re incredibly shameless,” Golden growls, glaring at us with sharp eyes.
“It’s okay, sir. I’m glad they’re comfortable staying here. After all, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a house this lively,” Sharon laughs, her cheeks rosy.
“They’d better be out of this house once we capture Peter.”
“It’s not up to you to decide that,” I snap, my eyebrows shooting up.
The room falls silent. The old man now stares at me with the same piercing gaze, his eyes glittering in the firelight.
“You also don’t have the right to forbid me from giving advice,” Golden says.
“Everyone is welcome in this house, okay? No one’s banned,” Fenella waves her arms between us. “We should focus on tonight’s topic.”
“She’s right,” Golden says, finally relenting.
“Fine,” I agree. “Tell us what you’ve found from your investigation.”
“I’d better work on my spaghetti now,” Sharon chuckles and disappears into the kitchen.
Golden’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t drag it out. He pulls several sheets of documents from his bag and hands them to me. Fenella, Matthew, Jessy, and I gather around and read all the FBI notes.
“As you read, thanks to the suspicious card transaction, we caught the culprit. And because of the bank report and search warrants, we were able to trace the account for a week,” Golden explains, walking us through the investigation timeline.
“Linda? Isn’t that the jewelry store manager from yesterday?” Fenella asks, breath quick.
“That explains it,” I say.
Fenella shakes her head with a frown. “Has she been arrested?”
“Done. The FBI interrogated her. She did it purely out of desperation. She bought a kidney donor illegally for her brother, who suffers from an autoimmune disease,” he explains.
“Oh, man. She was unlucky to get a credit card already targeted. If only she’d waited until Dave cracked the card, she probably wouldn’t have been caught,” Matthew groans.
I turn to my left, raise an eyebrow, and give Matthew a knowing look. My glare screams it’s a crime. The morally gray character just shrugs.
“From tracing his accounts and matching the numbers with several contracts, we’ve built a strong suspicion,” Golden says evenly. “Peter has formed a network with friends under the disguise of a social foundation and a joint venture investment company.”
“We also noticed a similar pattern in the transaction records and documents you gave me,” he says. I pass the notes to Fenella. “The social foundations owned by artists, celebrities, and fashion designers are all connected.”
“Wait. Mallory West’s Foundation?” Fenella gasps, scanning the page.
“They’re fake social foundations and shell companies?” I ask. Golden nods.
“What’s a shell company?” Jessy frowns, confused.
“Shell companies only exist on paper,” I explain patiently. “No real business happens. They’re just a cover, used to funnel illegal money so it’s harder to trace.”
“There are dozens of them, all intertwined,” Golden adds. “They form one massive network tied to Alan’s business, Amy’s, Mallory’s, Oscar’s, and several other celebrity companies.”
“But those are all Mallory’s friends,” Fenella whispers, her eyes wide as she flips through the list. “And my mom’s hospital charity…
No wonder the money was never enough. She always works so hard to gather the money.
” Her voice trails off as she stares toward the kitchen. I feel a pang of pity for her.
“Don’t tell your mom yet,” I say softly, rubbing her arm. She turns to me, eyes worried, and nods.
“Wait, so you’re saying their companies are just fronts for laundering money?” Jessy blurts.
“Exactly. Think about those designer clothes you like, Jessy,” Matthew says, smirking. “They mark up prices in the name of luxury. Half the time, no one even wears them on the street.”
“Well, yeah, not everyone can afford them and definitely not on the street,” Jessy scrunching his nose.
“Whatever.” Matthew rolls his eyes.
“Sales data can be faked to make it look like profit,” Golden cuts in. “But it’s just dirty money being recycled.”
Jessy’s jaw drops. “You mean all those sold-out launches are fake? Even the people lining up?”
“They might be,” I say. “Or they’re real buyers, but the money’s nothing compared to what’s laundered. Sometimes they even pay models or extras to fill the crowd. Marketing gimmick. They hide the cash flow behind PR budgets.”
Matthew laughs. “I once got paid by a coffee shop to sit there for hours pretending to be a customer. Place looked packed.”
“Oh my God, it’s the same as Oscar’s new club,” Jessy says, snapping his fingers. “He paid Gene and other agencies to bring in models for the grand opening.”
“Bingo.” I grin and point at him.
“This sounds too big to be just suspicion. Do we have any solid proof?” Fenella asks, her brow furrowing, fear flickering in her eyes.
Golden exhales slowly. “There are plenty of Irish mob ties covering their tracks, not to mention Alan’s tangled web of companies.” He takes a sip of hot tea, unbothered.
“Yes, but what proof?” Fenella presses, almost breathless. The idea that the fashion world she’s been part of is fake seems to shake her.
He slides another document toward us. “Our tracing shows these shell firms, posing as investment companies, buy shares to inflate stock value. Alan’s company, for instance, received massive capital from one of them.”
“Then Alan’s firm reports fake profits, holds the funds for a few months, and when the shell company dissolves, they return part of the ‘investment’ plus dividends,” Golden continues.
“After that, they form a new shell company and repeat the process with another partner, like Mallory’s. The money keeps circulating in that loop, and whenever Peter needs cash, he just pulls it out.”
“Question!” Jessy shoots his hand up.
“Yes?” Golden replies.
“Why does he need to create all those shell companies? Why not just park the money in different banks?” Jessy asks.
“Simple,” Golden says evenly. “Money. Big banking transfers attract regulators and red flags. If you keep the cash moving through businesses, transactions look like legitimate investments. Returns look reasonable, and everything gets buried in paperwork.”
“So, Alan’s company was a sham? Not many real customers, just promotions and big names to cover the cash flow?” Fenella asks, her finger tracing a line on the page.
“Yes. Designer stores, artist labels, Peter folds them in because brand value is hard to pin down. Celebrities get the illusion of demand, they open branches, launch product lines, and the whole thing expands like a web.” Golden nods.
“What about the charities? They’re supposed to be non-profit.” Jessy and Fenella both speak up.
“Charities are even easier,” Golden says.
“Donations can be anonymous, written off as operational costs, or recorded as street donors. You can only pump so much through a foundation before it looks suspicious, but used carefully, they’re perfect cover.
And by these records, Amy runs most of the charities in the state. ”
“Oh, this is so messed up. No wonder Amy has been begging for a business empire.” Fenella runs her fingers through the hair at her nape and rubs it.
“Oh God. My head’s already spinning just thinking about it.” Jessy presses both palms to his temples.
“Ugh. That means Gene would surely be shut down if Alan gets arrested.” Fenella bites her lower lip and exchanges a look with Jessy. They grab each other’s hands and squeeze.
“What’s the estimated total Peter has in circulation right now?” I ask Golden.
“From the phone data and the financial tracing, we estimate around a billion dollars in circulation,” Golden says.
Matthew whistles at the number. “Has there been any record of where he spent the money when he liquidated it?” he asks.
“The FBI is still tracing everyone tied to Peter, including top officials. Nothing confirmed until we dig deeper, but we suspect Irish-mob weapons deals, drugs, and payments to women,” Golden replies.
“Wait—women? What do you mean by women?” Fenella’s voice trips up a register.
“Peter kept several mistresses,” Golden says with a shrug. “Each lived an extraordinarily lavish life. He bought them jets, yachts, and designer clothes.”
“Genius. He funds women, they blow the cash at his affiliated companies, show off the items, and the money funnels back through sales,” Matthew says, rubbing his palms together.
“Oh, shit. This is all crap,” Fenella curses, burying her face in a sofa pillow and whining.
“So, you have the evidence. What are you waiting for?” I shrug.
“Confession,” Golden answers, eyes narrowing.
“Is that important?” Jessy frowns.
“Crucial,” Golden says. “So far, the evidence came through your hands. We could claim an anonymous tip, but Peter’s lawyers would shred that. We need undeniable proof.”
“I can help with that. I bought a rare device from a friend that can capture confessions,” Matthew says, hand shooting up, eyes gleaming.
“No torture. A case this big draws media and teams of lawyers. The only clean way is a recorded confession,” Golden says.
“So, what do you mean?” I raise an eyebrow, guessing where this is headed.
“We need to lure a confession out of them, straight from their real voices. No AI tricks. Those are easy to detect,” he says as if it’s obvious.
“Whoa, hold up. You want us to do your dirty work again?” I say, frowning and lifting a hand to stop him.
“What’s the big deal? You offered access inside their circle. Now you’re in the circle. The only thing left is to get a confession,” he snaps.
Heat rushes up my back and my heart thuds.
I stand to cut off his wild plan. “This is beyond our limits. Stealing files quietly is one thing. Confronting them and trying to force a confession is another. We don’t have the capacity or the guarantees for safety, especially Fenella.
She’s the one inside their world. Alone. It’s too dangerous.”
“There’s nothing too dangerous. We’ll attach a voice recorder to Fenella’s necklace, like before. A clear confession, on tape, is something Peter’s lawyers can’t spin away. She gets them talking, we record admission that the money’s illegal, and boom—you become the heroes,” Golden says, confident.
“This isn’t about heroics. It’s about her life,” I growl, meeting his cold stare.
He rises from the sofa, meeting my glare head-on. “The FBI will mobilize teams. We can’t lose this chance. No one could get this close in such a short time except her. We’re so close!” Golden says, dragging his words, fists on air.
“No. Your team can’t protect her from Alan, Amy, or Peter. They’re dangerous. Irish mob, for God’s sake,” I shoot back, my tone just as sharp.
“I’ll do it,” Fenella says. Her voice slices through the room. Everyone turns. She’s already looking at me, steady and resolved.
My eyes widen when I see her. For a second, I can’t process everything, but the look in her eyes tells me she’s not joking. “What? Wait. No.” I stammer in disbelief.
“Ah, finally, someone’s got some guts,” Golden hums, a hint of melody in his voice.
“You shut your damn mouth.” I warn, throwing every killing stare I have at him, holding back every ounce of patience not to strangle him right there. He gets the message and sinks back into the sofa.
“Let’s talk upstairs,” Fenella says, standing and motioning for me to follow her.