Page 95 of Dead Air
Claire didn’t need to tell Lawson the news. She knew it was inevitable, after seeing the tubes and the gray pallor last night. The man who'd pulled the trigger on Monica was gone, his secrets now just metal and paper waiting in a vault. Lawson nodded once, swallowing the churn in her gut. "One less ghost. Let's get what he left behind."
"What about the FBI handler he mentioned?" she asked as they stepped out, keeping her voice low even in the empty lot.
"Charles Drummond exists," Claire confirmed, falling into step beside her as they crossed toward the entrance, briefcase swinging at her side. "Twenty-six years with the Bureau. Currently Assistant Director of Organized Crime Division in Washington. Decorated career. Multiple commendations for successful operations against criminal enterprises."
"Built on Monica's grave, just like he said."
"Potentially." Claire's tone stayed neutral, lawyer's caution intact. "Without evidence, it's just Richardson's deathbed accusation."
The Savannah Trust Bank lobby gleamed with marble floors and mahogany counters. Morning light streamed through tall windows, reflecting off brass fixtures and illuminating the bank's logo etched into the wall behind the teller stations. Lawson approached the service desk, badge held discreetly at her side. Claire walked beside her, the click of her heels echoing in the high-ceilinged space.
"I need access to a safety deposit box," Lawson told the clerk, a young woman with her hair pulled into a tight bun. "Thomas Richardson is the account holder."
The clerk's expression shifted to professional sympathy. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but account holders must be present for access."
Claire stepped forward, placing a document on the counter. "Federal court order authorizing access. Detective Lawson is acting as an officer of the court in an ongoing federal investigation."
The clerk examined the paperwork, eyes widening slightly as she read through the legal language. "I'll need to verify this with the manager."
"Of course," Claire said.
They waited in silence while the clerk disappeared into a glass-walled office at the back of the lobby. Throughthe transparent walls, they watched the manager review the documents, make a phone call, then nod.
The manager emerged, a tall man with silver-streaked hair and a tailored suit. "Detective Lawson, Ms. Stevens. I understand you have a court order for Mr. Richardson's safety deposit box."
"That's correct," Lawson said.
Walsh nodded. "We'll need to document this access thoroughly. Please follow me to the vault area."
They followed him through a doorway that required both keycard and biometric access. The temperature dropped several degrees as they entered the vault corridor, the air conditioning maintaining the climate-controlled environment necessary for document preservation.
They reached the vault entrance where another employee waited with a signature log. Lawson signed the registry, documenting time and date of access. The bank employee used his key to open the outer vault door, revealing walls lined with numbered metal boxes of various sizes.
"Box 413," Walsh said, consulting the paperwork. "You'll need the customer key."
Lawson produced the key she'd retrieved from Richardson's home earlier that morning. Amy had been surprisingly cooperative, guiding her directly to the desk where Richardson had hidden it. Whether from grief or guilt, she'd asked no questions about its purpose.
The employee inserted his key into one lock while Lawson used Richardson's key in the other. Both turned simultaneously, and the drawer slid open with a metallic groan. Inside rested a rectangular steel container, approximately eighteen inches long and twelve inches wide.
"You can use Room 3," Walsh said, indicating a private viewing room off the main vault. "I'll be stationed outside should you need anything."
The viewing room contained a simple table and four chairs. No windows, no cameras. Complete privacy for customers examining their valuables. Lawson placed the container on the table as Claire closed the door behind them.
Lawson lifted the lid of the box, revealing meticulously organized contents. Multiple USB drives labeled by date. Manila folders with color-coded tabs. A portable hard drive secured in padded casing. Several small digital voice recorders.
"He prepared this thoroughly," Claire observed. "Everything cataloged and dated."
Lawson removed the first folder, labeled "FBI OPERATION: INITIAL DOCUMENTS." Inside she found official Bureau paperwork establishing Operation Harbor Justice, an undercover investigation into judicial corruption in the Southern District of Georgia. Monica's name appeared on the third page, listed as a recruited asset with Richardson as her handler. Both signatures at the bottom, dated five years and seven months ago.
"This confirms the operation existed," Claire said, examining the documents. "And that Monica worked for them."
"And that Richardson lied to me for years about knowing her involvement." Lawson set the folder aside and lifted the next one.
This folder contained surveillance photographs. Monica meeting with Richardson at locations away from the department. Monica photographing evidence in the warehouse basement. Monica sitting in her car outside Judge Byrd's residence, documenting visitors who arrived after midnight.
The third folder held financial records. Bank statements showing transfers between accounts controlled by ThomasHutchinson and Judge Byrd. Offshore holdings under shell company names. Property purchases made through intermediaries that connected back to both Byrd and various criminal defendants whose cases she had dismissed.
Lawson moved methodically through the physical evidence, absorbing information that validated everything Richardson had confessed. The operation existed. Monica worked for the FBI. Byrd's corruption extended exactly as Richardson had described.
