Chapter 4 - What the Safe Contained
Brenda spent those fifteen minutes shrieking insults at the deputies, throwing expensive designer shoes into garbage bags, while Evan frantically tried to make phone calls to his lawyer on his cell phone—calls that clearly went straight to voicemail.
By ten o'clock, both Evan and Brenda were escorted down the driveway by the deputies, their trash bags of clothes dumped into the trunk of Evan's sports car.
"This isn't over, Margaret!" Evan roared through his open car window as he reversed out of the driveway, his tires screeching against the pavement. "I'll see you in court! You'll never see a dime of my money, and I will take Noah from Delilah if it's the last thing I do!"
The neighborhood went quiet again as the police cruisers and Evan’s car disappeared around the corner.
Hank finished installing the new digital lock, handed me two master keys, and drove away, leaving Delilah and me standing alone in the quiet foyer of the house.
The house smelled faintly of Brenda’s cheap perfume and stale cigarette smoke.
Delilah walked slowly through the living room, touching the edge of the sofa, looking around as if she were visiting a museum of her past life.
"I can't believe they're gone," Delilah whispered, tears welling in her eyes again. "For two years, I thought this house belonged to them. They made me feel like an intruder in my own home."
"This house belongs to you and Noah," I told her, placing a firm arm around her shoulders. "Now... where did Evan keep his private office?"
Delilah led me down the hallway to a small room near the back of the house that had once been a cozy sunroom. Evan had installed a heavy solid-wood door with an electronic keypad lock.
"I was never allowed in here," Delilah said, pointing to the digital lock. "He kept it locked twenty-four hours a day. If I stepped inside to vacuum, he would scream at me."
I didn't waste time trying to guess the code. I went to the garage, retrieved a heavy crowbar from my tool rack, came back, and jammed the steel wedge into the doorframe right beside the latch.
With one hard heave of my weight, the doorframe splintered with a sharp CRACK! and the door swung open.
The room was neat, almost clinical. A large mahogany desk sat in the center, flanked by two locked filing cabinets and a heavy black steel safe sitting in the corner.
"He used his birthdate for everything," Delilah offered quietly, watching me approach the safe. "04-12-88."
I spun the electronic dial on the safe: 0-4-1-2-8-8.
CLICK.
The heavy steel door unlatched and swung open.
Inside were four thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound in bank bands, three gold bars, and another black leather binder marked PROJECT MERCER.
I pulled the binder out and opened it onto the desk.
Delilah gasped as she looked over my shoulder.
Inside were detailed bank statements for six offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands registered under Evan’s name—containing over 1.8 million dollars.
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And attached to the back of the statements was a copy of a corporate audit report from Evan’s logistics employer, showing that Evan had been systematically embezzling funds from his company for three years, routing the stolen money through fake vendor invoices signed by Brenda.
Evan wasn't just a controlling, abusive husband. He was a federal criminal.
