Chapter 8 - The Investigation Begins-8
By midnight, my house was empty.
The party guests had long since departed, leaving behind melted ice cream, half-eaten cupcakes, and abandoned plastic cups scattered across the lawn. The police had cordoned off the backyard as a crime scene, taking photos of the pool area, collecting Clara’s dropped possessions, and securing the black notebook in an evidence bag.
Glen had been taken into custody voluntarily. He sat in the back of a police cruiser without handcuffs, agreeing to give a full, detailed deposition to state investigators about Marcus, the Tijuana clinic, and his embezzlement.
My father sat at my kitchen table, a untouched cup of black coffee sitting between his hands. He looked aged by twenty years. The man who had spent a decade defending Clara’s icy demeanor as "just her reserved personality" was completely shattered.
"I didn't know, Maya," my father whispered into the quiet room, his voice raspy. "I swear to God... I had no idea she was capable of something so wicked."
I sat across from him, holding a warm mug of tea, my eyes fixed on the kitchen clock ticking rhythmically on the wall. "She hid it well, Dad. She spent fifteen years making sure everyone thought she was perfect."
"I gave her everything," my father choked out, tears finally breaking through his stoic composure. "My house, my trust, my late wife's jewelry... and she was using my money to fund illegal surgeries and ruin my daughter's husband."
Before I could answer, a knock sounded at the front door. I stood up and opened it to find Detective Sarah Vance (no relation to us) standing on the porch, holding a thick beige case file. She was a sharp-eyed woman in her forty, dressed in a dark suit, her expression grim.
"Mrs. Miller? Mr. Vance?" Detective Vance asked, stepping inside as I gestured for her to enter. "I'm the lead detective assigned to the multi-agency task force handling Mrs. Vance’s arrest."
"Is she still in custody?" I asked immediately.
"She is," Detective Vance said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. "And thanks to the black notebook and the initial statement from Dr. Harrison at St. Jude’s, federal prosecutors have stepped in. This is no longer just a local matter. We are looking at an international organ trafficking and financial extortion network operating out of Southern California and Baja California."
My father looked up. "What about Glen?"
Detective Vance sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Your husband is in a tough spot, Mrs. Miller. He’s cooperated fully—his statement matches the entries in the notebook almost line-for-line. But he did admit to corporate embezzlement from his former employer, and he did participate in an illegal medical procedure, even if it was under severe duress."
"Is he going to prison?" my voice cracked.
"That will depend on the State Attorney and how much assistance his testimony provides in taking down Marcus and the Tijuana clinic," Detective Vance explained neutrally. "His attorney is currently negotiating a immunity agreement in exchange for state's evidence."
She pulled a glossy photograph from her file and laid it on the table. It was a mugshot of a sleek, well-dressed man in his early fifties with sharp grey eyes and a cold smile.
"Do either of you recognize this man?" Detective Vance asked.
My father shook his head, but I squinted at the photo. The face looked vaguely familiar, though I couldn't place where I had seen him before.
"That's Marcus Lindqvist," Detective Vance said. "The bookkeeper your husband owed money to. But according to state tax records, Marcus isn't just an illegal loan shark. He’s the primary trustee of Clara Vance’s offshore holding company."
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I felt a fresh chill sweep through my veins. "What?"
"Marcus didn't just target your husband by chance, Mrs. Miller," Detective Vance said, leaning forward. "Marcus has been on Clara’s payroll for eight years. The entire debt scheme wasn't just engineered to get a kidney—it was part of a much larger, systemic asset-stripping operation targeting your father's estate."
