Chapter 4 - The Man in the Flannel Shirt
Twenty feet away on the sun-drenched sidewalk of Main Street, a dozen townspeople stopped outside the hardware store and the bakery, watching in grim silence as Deputy Roy Tucker unclipped the heavy brass padlock from his belt.
Nora stood with her back pressed flat against the warm grille of her father's truck, her knuckles white around the original Friday court stay while sixteen-year-old Toby stepped up beside her, his jaw trembling with helpless rage.
Look at the paper, Deputy Tucker, the judge gave us until Friday at twelve o'clock noon!
Nora pleaded, her voice breaking slightly before she steadied herself.
That stay was issued against a standard commercial collection, Nora, Deputy Tucker said uncomfortably, shifting his weight in his boots as he gestured toward the glossy document in Marcus Sterling's hand.
Mister Sterling here just produced an interstate corporate indemnity bond personally signed and notarized this morning by Grant Callaway, the Chairman of Callaway Holdings—and under county code, a parent-company bond overrides a local magistrate's stay unless the signatory is challenged in person.
Grant Callaway does not even know where Millbrook is!
Toby shouted, stepping toward Marcus until the two private security guards moved in with hands on their batons.
Oh, Grant and I go back years, kid, Marcus Sterling laughed, smoothing the lapels of his three-thousand-dollar Italian suit as he looked around at the small crowd with arrogant amusement.
In fact, Grant called me on my private line right before boarding his jet to Zurich last night and told me to clear out these rundown eyesores along the tracks before the first snow hits—so step away from the bumper, Miss Vance, before my men move you themselves.
Grant walked slowly through the small circle of onlookers and stepped off the curb onto the asphalt right beside Nora, his grease-stained flannel sleeves still rolled to his elbows.
Do not touch her, and keep that padlock on your belt, Deputy, Grant said calmly.
Marcus Sterling spun around, his eyes narrowing with recognition and irritation as he saw the tall mechanic who had cost him the truck the night before.
You again?
Marcus barked, stepping into Grant's space and poking a manicured finger toward Grant's chest.
Listen to me, you grease-monkey drifter, I do not know what kind of roadside jailhouse lawyer act you pulled in the rain last night, but this is a five-hundred-thousand-dollar corporate indemnity bond signed by the billionaire Chairman of Callaway Holdings—you cannot even spell the words on this page!
Grant did not flinch or step back a single inch; instead, he reached out with two fingers, took the notarized bond out of Marcus's hand before the smaller man could stop him, and held it up to the bright morning sunlight.
Is that right, Mister Sterling?
Grant asked evenly, looking down at the forged loop of his own name—Grant Thomas Callaway—written across the bottom of the page.
You say your close personal friend Grant Callaway signed this document in front of a Manhattan notary at eight o'clock this morning before flying to Switzerland?
That is exactly what the stamp says, pal!
Marcus snapped, trying and failing to snatch the paper back from Grant's iron grip.
Then your close personal friend must have suffered a serious head injury last night, Deputy Tucker, Grant said, turning the document so the sheriff's deputy and the crowd on the sidewalk could see the signature clearly.
Because any bank clerk in America who has ever cleared a Callaway Holdings commercial bond knows two facts that are printed in the public Securities and Exchange Commission registry: first, Grant Callaway has been left-handed since birth, which means the upward right-hand slant on this fountain-pen stroke was written by a right-handed forger.
The color drained slightly from Marcus Sterling's cheeks as Deputy Tucker stepped closer to squint at the ink.
And second, Grant continued, his voice dropping half an octave as he locked eyes with a suddenly sweating Marcus, Grant Callaway's middle name is not Thomas—it is Arthur, after his grandfather, and the New York notary seal stamped over the date line expired in November of last year, which makes presenting this document to a uniformed peace officer a federal felony for uttering a forged interstate security!
A collective murmur of shock and triumph rippled through the townspeople on the sidewalk as Deputy Tucker snatched the document from between them, pulled out his pocket magnifier to read the expired notary commission date, and glared furiously at Marcus Sterling.
By God, he is right—the commission date on this brass stamp expired ten months ago, Mister Sterling!
Deputy Tucker barked, slapping the paper back against Marcus's expensive suit jacket.
If you hand me one more crooked piece of paper in my jurisdiction before Friday at twelve noon, you and both of your bodyguards are going into the county lockup without bail—now get in your car and get off Main Street!
As the townspeople erupted into applause and Marcus Sterling backed furiously toward his black Mercedes—shooting Grant a look of pure, venomous suspicion before roaring away—Nora turned to Grant, her hazel eyes shining with amazement and relief as she impulsively threw her arms around his neck in a brief, fierce hug.
How on earth did a mechanic from upstate know that Grant Callaway is left-handed and what his middle name is?
Nora laughed breathlessly as she stepped back, her hands still resting warmly on his forearms.
I read a lot of financial magazines when the shop is slow, Grant replied with a quiet smile.
Ten minutes later, while Nora and Toby secured the tarps over the apple crates for tomorrow's dawn run down the mountain, Grant stepped back inside the quiet public library and returned to the computer terminal he had left open.
Why had Marcus Sterling been so confident that the real Grant Callaway would never see a forged bond in Pennsylvania today?
May you like
Grant typed his own name into the national financial news wire, and the smile vanished completely from his face as the breaking headline from ten minutes ago flashed across the monitor in bold black type: CALLAWAY HOLDINGS CHAIRMAN GRANT CALLAWAY HOSPITALIZED IN SWITZERLAND AFTER SEVERE PSYCHIATRIC BREAKDOWN; VICE PRESIDENT DANIEL ROSS AND FIANCÉE SABRINA WHITMORE APPOINTED JOINT CONSERVATORS OF TEN-BILLION-DOLLAR EMPIRE.
Beneath the headline was a live press photograph taken thirty minutes ago on the steps of Grant's Manhattan headquarters—showing Sabrina dressed in mourning black, dabbing a lace handkerchief at her eyes while holding up a sworn psychiatric commitment affidavit signed by three doctors who claimed Grant had lost his mind and vanished into a European asylum.
