I paused, looking straight into Margaret’s bulging, bloodshot eyes.
« You took an envelope of dirty cash from a woman whose name isn’t on the registration. You backed a flatbed into my yard while I was having a cancer screening at the VA hospital in Asheville. You loaded that machine without my father’s logbook. And now, Arthur… you are going to hand the telephone to the special agent in charge. »
A heavy, authoritative rustle of fabric echoed through the line, followed by the crisp, steady baritone of a man who didn’t raise his voice because the entire weight of the federal government stood behind his boots:
* »Colonel Harold Whitfield? »*
« Captain Harold Whitfield, retired, United States Army Reserve, » I corrected gently. « Good afternoon, Agent. »
* »Captain Whitfield, this is Special Agent Marcus Vance, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Field Division Charlotte. We have secured your father’s historic ordnance vehicle at the Fletcher commercial terminal. The transport locks are intact. The frame is undamaged. And we have a federal grand jury warrant for the immediate detention of everyone involved in the interstate conveyance of stolen national military memorials. »*
Agent Vance paused, his voice dropping into a register of quiet, professional reverence.
* »The transport convoy is en route to your residence in Hendersonville right now, Captain. We will be in your driveway in twelve minutes. Have the conspirators gathered in the living room. »*
« Understood, Marcus, » I replied.
I hung up the phone.
