Chapter 8 - The Confrontation in Ouray
The Ouray County courthouse is a red-brick Victorian building with a silver bell tower that looks out over the box canyon. In December, it looks like a postcard from a world that doesn't exist anymore—quiet, dignified, and immovable.
Inside, the heat was turned up to eighty degrees, the radiators clanking like loose pipes in an old ship.
Olivia was standing near the records counter, wearing a full-length shearling coat she definitely hadn't paid for, her hair pulled back into an aggressive, sleek ponytail. Jason was pacing near the water cooler, his leather dress shoes squeaking loudly on the linoleum.
Beside them sat Arthur Higgins—seventy-five years old, wearing a suit that smelled of mothballs and stale pipe tobacco, holding a manila folder with a yellow county filing form pinned to the top.
Mary-Ann, the county clerk, was sitting behind the reinforced glass window, sipping coffee from a mug that said *“Don’t Mess with Colorado Cowgirls.”* She was deliberately entering data into an ancient desktop computer with one finger, moving at the speed of a glacier.
The bell above the heavy wooden entrance door jingled as I walked in.
Everyone turned.
"Rebecca," Higgins began, his voice wheezing like an accordion. "Now, look here, young lady. There’s no need for family acrimony. We have a verified instrument here—an affidavit of equitable interest with a parental attestation from your mother—"
"Shut up, Arthur," I said, walking straight past him to the glass window. "Mary-Ann, has he presented the filing?"
"He tried to, honey," Mary-Ann said, looking over her reading glasses at Higgins like he was a stray dog that had wandered onto her porch. "He’s got an affidavit claiming Diane Hart is the controlling trustee of a familial oral trust that predates your purchase deed. Problem is, he forgot that Ouray County went to digital verification on land patents three months ago."
Jason stepped forward, his face twitching. "The paperwork is legally sufficient! We have the parental affidavit! Diane Hart signed it under penalty of perjury this morning in front of a mobile notary in Montrose!"
"Diane Hart doesn't own a shovelful of dirt in this county," a voice boomed from the vestibule.
Sean Crawford walked in, his heavy coat open, his service weapon visible on his right hip. Behind him walked another man—tall, silver-haired, wearing a sheepskin vest over an ironed chambray shirt.
It was Sterling Henderson.
Jason stopped dead. The color drained from his lips so fast he looked like he was about to vomit on the linoleum.
"Sterling?" Jason squeaked. "What... what are you doing here? I thought you took the shuttle to Montrose Airport."
Sterling Henderson didn't look like an investor who had been embarrassed; he looked like an executioner who had checked his watch and found he was ahead of schedule.
"I called my attorneys from the hotel last night, Jason," Henderson said, his voice flat, cultured, and devastating. "I had them run a forensic check on Vance Capital’s commercial escrow accounts. Do you want to tell me why four hundred thousand dollars of our seed money for the Lyons project was transferred to an offshore holding account in Belize forty-eight hours ago?"
Olivia’s mouth fell open. She looked at Jason. "What? Jason, what is he talking about?"
Jason didn't answer. He took half a step toward the emergency exit, but Deputy Wayne was already leaning against the doorframe, chewing on a toothpick, his thumbs hooked in his belt.
"And do you want to tell Sheriff Crawford," Henderson continued, taking a step toward the trembling young man, "why your vehicle’s registration has three active warrants for fraudulent representation in Larimer County?"
"This is a civil matter!" Higgins protested, his hands shaking as he tried to pull the yellow folder back from the counter. "This is an intra-family financial adjustment—"
"It stopped being a civil matter when your client drilled out my safe last night, Arthur," I said.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and laid it flat against the clerk’s glass.
On the screen was a clear, high-definition video feed from the infrared trail camera I had hidden inside the cold-air return vent three months ago when I finished the loft.
The video showed Jason Vance on his knees in my crawl space, using an electric drill on the safe dial, while Olivia stood above him holding a flashlight and my father’s Silver Star medal in her left hand.
May you like
"Grand larceny," Sean Crawford said, his hand resting on the leather snap of his holster. "Burglary of an occupied dwelling. Class 3 felony in the state of Colorado. Step away from the counter, Mr. Vance. Put your hands on the wood."
***
