Chapter 65
Vanessa
There is one law for the poor, and another for the rich.
Vanessa had come to understand this. But what she had never fully appreciated, not until these past two weeks, was that there was a third strand to that saying.
One law for the poor.
Another for the rich.
And no laws for the ultra-rich.
This was America. Maybe the rest of the world too.
While she had spent most of the two weeks following the trial moving around the mid-west, never staying in the same place twice, paying cash, just to be safe, she had also followed the news and fallout from the trial with forensic interest.
The prosecutor, Riley, had resigned from the district attorney’s office the day after the case had finished.
Some reporters mentioned that he was being headhunted by several law firms. The judge was on bail facing federal charges.
The FBI said in a press statement that, while their investigations continued, there was no evidence to tie any of the money received by the judge to a single individual.
But there was a link to Detective Larkin’s murder. The NYPD stated that he had been killed by a rogue former special forces operative, acting on his own, and probably suffering from PTSD.
One law for the poor.
Another for the rich.
No law for Patrick and Julian Vanderpool.
But that didn’t matter tonight.
She sat in the driver’s seat of her Mercedes and checked her black Gucci purse.
Cell phone.
Keys.
A perfume bottle.
The bracelet wasn’t in her purse. She had it in a clear plastic baggie, taped to her stomach. This was a dangerous situation, and she didn’t want to have to hand it over right away. Not until she had made sure she could go through with her plan.
The little silver revolver was still in her red Valentino purse, safely secured in the glovebox of the car. She couldn’t risk bringing it inside.
She swung the Gucci purse over her shoulder with the silver chain strap.
She reached for her shoes which were in the passenger side footwell.
Black open-toed high heels. Too difficult to wear while driving.
She slipped them on, got out of the car and felt those heels sink into the gravel of the driveway.
Vanessa would need to be careful in these heels.
They suited the little black cocktail dress, though they were uncomfortable and ugly in their own way.
But entirely necessary for tonight.
Just like the perfume bottle.
The cocktail dress was sleeveless. Ordinarily, she would never have worn a piece like this to one of Patrick’s functions. Both he and Vanessa were conscious of her scars.
Now, having revealed them at the trial, Vanessa felt no shame about displaying her bare arms in public. If anything, she was proud.
Most of the guests had their own drivers, and they weren’t taking up space in the drive of what was, at that time, still her house in the Hamptons. Or at least half of it was hers, but only for the moment.
As she looked at the house, her memory flashed on the murder of the lawyer from Buchanan and Duff, and she shivered.
Two burly men in tuxedos stood outside the entrance.
Security for Julian and the guests.
There was no discreet way of doing this in public, and making the exchange in Julian and Patrick’s lawyer’s office would only raise more questions, or so Vanessa had maintained.
She would only agree to this, an exchange at the house in the Hamptons, during the relaunch party for Patrick’s campaign for governor.
His second time running for the office.
Inside were thirty-four high rollers – all of them friends of Julian.
Or at least they pretended to be his friend.
Like Patrick, his father didn’t really have any friends in the traditional sense.
These were powerful, vastly wealthy individuals who would pledge money as long as they knew they would get something in return when they needed it.
Preferably something that would increase the stock value of their companies.
That was the thing Vanessa had learned about the rich – they were lonely.
Every relationship, even with those of their own wealth class, was purely transactional.
They liked it that way.
As arranged with Patrick, Vanessa would enter via the back staircase, which would mean she could meet Julian and Patrick in the second-floor lounge area, away from the guests.
No one would see her enter. No one would see her leave.
Yet she had the security of knowing there were sixty or seventy people downstairs, moving around freely, and she could scream and draw their attention if she felt threatened.
Vanessa picked her way through the gravel to the front door.
One of the security men in a penguin suit held out a hand with thick fingers.
‘We just need to search your purse, ma’am.’
She opened the Gucci purse, and he looked inside. Then nodded to his colleague.
Were they checking her for weapons, or making sure she had the bracelet on her?
It didn’t matter.
‘I’ll take you to the rear staircase,’ said the security guard. Before she went round the side of the house, Vanessa looked past the security, through the glass doors.
The hallway was lit with tasteful lamps and candles, just as she had planned. Melissa, the property manager, had decorated the house just as Vanessa had instructed. Rattan chairs, the oars on the wall, and the ship’s wheel, the barometers, and most important of all, the ship’s lamps.
This was exactly how she had envisaged it. Melissa had carried out her instructions to the letter.
This was how the house was supposed to be decorated for her anniversary party that Patrick had cancelled. Two years married.
She also saw fleeting glances of the assembled guests in their black ties and chic designer dresses. Mostly old men and young wives.
She followed the security guard round the side of the house, through a door and up a flight of stairs. This was essentially a well-decorated fire escape.
Patrick stood at the top of the staircase. Hands in his pockets. He moved aside as she came to the wide, spacious second-floor landing.
The guard left via the main staircase, and stood at the bottom to make sure none of the guests ventured upstairs while business was being conducted.
Sitting on a couch behind the large sea-view window, Julian Vanderpool waited in a sharp black tuxedo.
This area was her favorite part of the house.
The landing spread from this generous upstairs lounge area, round to the right where there was a bathroom.
Beside it stood a hall table arranged with smooth white sea stones and distressed wood, and a ship’s lamp burning with warm light. Beyond that were the bedrooms.
No one else on this floor.
This was private, family business.
On the table in front of Julian were three glasses of champagne.
‘I need a drink,’ said Patrick. ‘Thought we could all use one.’ He took a glass for himself and handed one to Vanessa.
She couldn’t help but notice Patrick’s hands shaking, ever so slightly, as he gave her the glass. She took a sip.
So did Patrick.
‘What the fuck is this? A reunion?’ asked Julian.
‘Give me an account number, Vanessa, and I’ll wire you one hundred million dollars now, and you’ll sign a no-fault divorce and you get ten per cent of Patrick’s net worth.
I’ll arrange the transfer of the money right now. But I want to see the bracelet first.’
Taking another sip of the champagne, Vanessa never took her focus from this old, dangerous man.
He was hard to look at. The blood-drenched eyes betrayed the liver problems that had plagued him from a long history of alcohol abuse.
Not that he cared. If anything, Julian enjoyed causing those in his company some level of discomfort however he could.
‘I said I wanted half of Patrick’s worth. That’s what we agreed. I want to see that divorce agreement,’ said Vanessa.
‘You want three billion dollars? Because that’s what this amounts to, half of his worth. You weren’t with Patrick for his good looks and charm. You’re a player. You may have fooled my idiot kid, but you never fooled me. Where’s the bracelet?’
‘I want this over tonight. I need the heads of agreement signed by me and Patrick. The lawyers can work out the legalese, but I need something binding.’
‘You’re a real piece of work,’ said Julian. ‘Show me the bracelet.’
‘Show me the agreement. You know, Patrick shouldn’t have bought that bracelet at Seinfeld’s.
They have meticulous records of their client’s purchases.
I know – I have one of their rings,’ she said, and glanced at her engagement ring.
‘The bracelet will have Molly’s DNA all over it.
And Seinfeld’s will confirm Patrick bought it.
A gift like that? What, eighty grand’s worth of diamonds?
That’s a gift for a lover, not a PA. That’s the evidence the DA will need to prove the affair.
It won’t take long for them to figure out it was you who sent the painters to Molly’s apartment after Patrick panicked and called you that night.
You want me to give the bracelet to you, or the police?
If you want it, I need to see the agreement. ’
Patrick shifted his weight on his heels nervously, rocking side to side.
‘Dad, just show her the agreement,’ said Patrick.
‘Fuck the both of you,’ said Julian, and took a document from his tuxedo jacket.
He threw it on the floor. Patrick knelt down, picked it up and gave it to Vanessa.
A single page, agreeing to divorce and equal split of Patrick’s total net worth, an estimated payout for Vanessa of three billion dollars.
‘Do you have a pen?’ asked Vanessa.
‘Before you sign this, I need to see what we’re buying. It’s not in your purse, I know that,’ said Julian.
‘I have it on me. I just need some privacy to retrieve it. Couldn’t really just pop something so valuable in my purse, now, could I?’
Patrick drew a pen from his pocket, and signed and dated beside his name.
Then waited.
‘I’ll just be a moment,’ said Vanessa.