Chapter 7 - The Raid on Park Avenue
At 10:15 AM, a black SUV pulled up to the grand canopy of 740 Park Avenue.
Four field agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, wearing dark blue windbreakers with yellow lettering on the back, stepped out into the steady rain. They were accompanied by two representatives from the United States Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York.
I sat in the back seat of a silver town car parked fifty yards down the block, accompanied by David Sterling and our independent legal auditor.
Through the rain-streaked window, I watched the doorman—a man named Hector who had opened the door for me every Christmas for twelve years—hesitate for two seconds before holding the heavy wrought-iron door open for the federal agents.
“She won't take it well,” David noted dryly, adjusting his wool scarf.
“Eleanor has never had an unexpressed thought in her life,” I said. “She will blame the doorman first, the building manager second, and the United States government third.”
Twenty minutes later, the double doors opened again.
Harrison was brought out first.
He wasn't in his tailored suit anymore. He wore a grey hoodie that belonged to his mother’s driver, his head ducked down, his hands cuffed behind his back under a dark raincoat that an agent held over his wrists to spare him the immediate indignity of the press cameras that had already gathered at the corner.
Behind him came Eleanor.
She was seventy-four years old, her silver hair perfectly set, wearing a camel-hair coat that cost more than a small car. She was not handcuffed, but two agents walked on either side of her, carrying four heavy cardboard boxes marked EVIDENCE — APEX HOLDINGS.
Eleanor’s face was red with fury. She was screaming at the lead agent, her gloved finger pointing inches from his nose as he calmly directed her toward the second SUV.
As Harrison was led toward the rear door of the first vehicle, his eyes darted down the street.
He saw the silver town car.
He saw me sitting in the rear seat behind the tinted glass.
He stopped.
The agent pushed his shoulder gently to keep him moving, but Harrison resisted for three seconds, his eyes wide, his lips moving as he called out my name through the rain:
“Claire! Claire!”
His voice didn't reach me through the double-paned glass, but I could read his mouth.
He wasn't asking for forgiveness. He wasn't asking for mercy.
He was still asking: “Why?”
I didn't roll down the window. I didn't wave. I simply met his gaze for three long seconds until the agent placed a hand on the top of his head and guided him into the back seat of the black Ford Explorer.
The door slammed shut.
The siren didn't flash. They didn't need sirens. The silence of their departure was far more absolute than any noise could have been.
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“Where to now, Mrs. Cole?” the driver asked from the front seat.
“To the office,” I said. “The board meeting starts at eleven.”
