Chapter 17 Leather Handbook

# Chapter 17: Leather Handbook

Three days after Albert Friedrich's arrest, I found myself in an unfamiliar position: sitting across from Winton Pierce not as an adversary or infiltrator, but as an invited visitor. The federal detention center where he awaited trial was a far cry from his luxurious office—sterile walls, fluorescent lighting, guards monitoring every interaction. Yet Winton himself appeared remarkably composed, his posture still impeccable despite the orange jumpsuit that had replaced his bespoke suits.

"Ms. Zhang," he greeted me, using my real name with a slight emphasis. "Thank you for coming."

I studied him carefully, searching for traces of the powerful attorney who had once terrified me with a single glance. The man before me retained his sharp features and penetrating gaze, but something fundamental had changed—the absolute certainty of his own untouchability had vanished.

"You requested this meeting," I replied neutrally. "I'm curious why."

He smiled thinly. "Curiosity. The very quality that started all of this." He folded his hands on the metal table between us. "I've had three days to reflect on how thoroughly you dismantled everything we built. It's rather impressive."

"I didn't come for compliments."

"No, I imagine not." He leaned forward slightly. "You came because I mentioned a leather handbook in my request. You want to know what that means."

My pulse quickened, though I kept my expression neutral. He was right—that single phrase in his message had been impossible to ignore. A leather handbook had been referenced in several encrypted communications we'd found in his files, always in relation to something called "the complete registry."

"I'm listening," I said simply.

Winton studied me for a long moment, as if making a final assessment. "You've destroyed Albert Friedrich. You've exposed his crimes, frozen his assets, and ensured he'll spend his remaining years in federal prison. You've even turned his sons against him. A comprehensive revenge by any measure."

"Your point?"

"My point, Ms. Zhang, is that you've barely scratched the surface." He sat back, something like respect in his expression. "Albert was merely one member of a much larger network—powerful men who have been operating beyond the reach of conventional justice for decades."

I maintained my composure, though his words confirmed suspicions we'd developed while analyzing his files. "And this network is documented in the leather handbook?"

"Precisely." Winton nodded with the satisfaction of a teacher whose student had grasped a difficult concept. "A literal handbook—leather-bound, handwritten, updated continuously since 1978. It contains names, dates, transactions, properties. Everything."

"Where is it?"

Advertisement

"That's the question, isn't it?" His smile held no warmth. "Albert believed I kept it in my safe deposit box. I allowed him that misconception. The actual handbook is somewhere far more secure."

I considered him carefully. "Why tell me this? What do you want?"

"A deal." Winton's voice hardened. "I'm facing multiple life sentences for crimes that, while serious, represent only a fraction of what others in the network have committed. I'm willing to surrender the handbook and testify against everyone in it in exchange for certain considerations."

"I'm not a prosecutor. I can't offer you deals."

"But you have their ear," he countered. "The FBI, the US Attorneys—they're all fascinated by the woman who brought down Albert Friedrich. Your recommendation would carry significant weight."

He wasn't wrong. In the days following the arrests, I'd been approached by multiple law enforcement agencies, all eager to understand how I'd uncovered what their investigations had missed for years.

"What kind of 'considerations' are you seeking?" I asked.

"Reasonable ones. Witness protection. A twenty-year maximum sentence with the possibility of parole. Detention at a minimum-security facility." He shrugged. "I'm sixty-three. I'd like the possibility of not dying in prison."

The audacity was breathtaking—a man implicated in murder, human trafficking, and decades of corruption haggling for a comfortable incarceration. Yet the potential value of his handbook couldn't be dismissed.

"Before I even consider taking this to the authorities," I said carefully, "I need proof the handbook exists and contains what you claim."

Winton nodded, as if he'd anticipated this. "In my office, before the fire, there was a Degas on the north wall. Behind it was a safe—not my primary one, but a secondary vault you likely missed. The combination is 17-44-29-8. Inside is a single photograph of the handbook's first page, along with coordinates."

I kept my expression neutral, though internally I was cursing myself for missing this second safe during our infiltration. "Your office was destroyed in the fire."

"The safe was fireproof," he replied confidently. "It will have survived."

I made no promises as I stood to leave, but Winton seemed satisfied with our exchange. As the guard moved to escort me out, he called after me:

"Ms. Zhang. One more thing you should know."

I paused, looking back at him.

"Your father didn't stumble onto our operation by accident. He was deliberately targeted because of his previous reporting in Southeast Asia. Just as you were deliberately targeted years later." His eyes held mine. "The question you should be asking is: who pointed him toward Albert Friedrich in the first place?"

The implication sent a chill through me—that my father's death and my assault had been part of something even larger than I'd uncovered. That perhaps we had both been pawns in a game I still didn't fully understand.

I left the detention center with my mind racing, immediately calling Elliot from a secure line.

"We need to check something at Winton's office building," I told him without preamble. "There might be a second safe we missed."

After the fire, the Pierce, Goldstein & Associates offices had been cordoned off as a crime scene, but the FBI had completed their initial investigation and released the floor back to the building management. Security remained minimal—a single guard at the elevator bank who was easily bypassed with our remaining cloned credentials.

The 38th floor was a haunting sight—charred remains of once-opulent offices, the acrid smell of smoke still hanging in the air despite industrial fans attempting to clear it. Winton's corner office had suffered extensive damage, the furniture reduced to skeletal frames, the bookshelves collapsed into piles of ash.

"The north wall," I directed Elliot, picking my way carefully across the debris-strewn floor.

Where the Degas had once hung was now a soot-blackened wall, but the outline of a small safe was visible beneath the grime. As Winton had predicted, the fireproof vault had survived, though its exterior was scorched and discolored.

"17-44-29-8," I murmured, turning the manual dial carefully. The mechanism resisted, damaged by heat, but eventually yielded with a reluctant click.

Inside was a single manila envelope, sealed and untouched by the fire. I opened it carefully, extracting a high-resolution photograph showing an open leather book. The visible page contained a list of names—prominent politicians, business leaders, and judiciary figures—alongside dates and alphanumeric codes. At the bottom of the photograph were GPS coordinates written in Winton's precise hand.

"It's real," I breathed, showing the photograph to Elliot. "The handbook exists."

He studied the image, his expression darkening as he recognized several names on the visible page. He pulled out his notebook—a habit he maintained despite having resumed speaking:

*These are powerful people. Beyond Albert's level. If this gets out...*

He didn't need to finish the thought. The implications were clear: exposing this network would shake foundations far more substantial than a single corporation, no matter how wealthy.

"We need to decide our next move carefully," I said, pocketing the photograph. "Winton wants a deal in exchange for the handbook and his testimony."

Elliot considered this, then wrote: *Can we trust him?*

"Not entirely," I admitted. "But he's a pragmatist. If cooperation offers his best chance at a tolerable future, he'll follow through."

We exited the building as carefully as we'd entered, leaving no trace of our visit. Outside, the city continued its normal rhythms, unaware of the potential earthquake contained in the photograph we'd recovered. The coordinates pointed to a location in upstate New York—a rural property that, according to a quick search on my phone, had been owned by a shell company linked to Pierce, Goldstein & Associates for over twenty years.

Back at our safe house—a new one, secured after the boardroom confrontation—we debated our options late into the night. The handbook represented both opportunity and danger: the chance to extend justice beyond Albert Friedrich, but also the risk of making powerful new enemies.

"We could walk away," I suggested, playing devil's advocate. "We've achieved what we set out to do. Albert and Winton are facing justice. Lucas has confessed. The victims will be compensated."

Elliot shook his head firmly. "Partial justice isn't justice."

"Even if pursuing this puts us at greater risk?"

He met my gaze steadily. "Especially then."

His certainty gave me pause. In the days since Albert's arrest, I'd been struggling with a sense of hollow completion—the achievement of a goal that had defined me for years, leaving an emptiness in its wake. Perhaps this was why Winton's revelation had affected me so deeply; it offered a purpose beyond my personal vendetta.

"There's something else," I said quietly. "Winton implied my father was deliberately directed toward Albert—that someone used him to expose part of this network, knowing how Albert would respond."

Elliot frowned. "You think you were both set up?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "But if there's even a chance of understanding what really happened to my father..."

He nodded in understanding. The need for complete truth was something we both recognized—the difference between revenge and genuine closure.

"We should meet with the FBI," I decided. "Present what we know about the handbook, but maintain control of the investigation. If Winton's network is as powerful as he suggests, there could be compromised officials even within law enforcement."

The next morning, I contacted Special Agent Rebecca Lam, who had been leading the Albert Friedrich investigation. We arranged to meet at a secure location—not a federal building, but a safe house used for witness protection cases. I brought only the photograph, keeping the coordinates separate as insurance.

"This is remarkable," Agent Lam said, examining the photograph through an evidence bag. "We've heard rumors about a central registry for years, but never had concrete proof."

"Winton Pierce is offering to surrender the actual handbook and provide testimony against everyone in it," I explained. "In exchange for certain considerations."

She looked up sharply. "He approached you directly? That's highly irregular."

"Everything about this case has been irregular," I pointed out. "I'm bringing this to you because I believe it's legitimate, but I have concerns about how widely this information should be shared within the Bureau."

Agent Lam's expression turned serious. "You're suggesting potential compromised agents."

"I'm suggesting caution," I clarified. "According to Pierce, this network includes high-level officials across multiple institutions. Until we know who's involved, limited knowledge is safer."

She considered this, then nodded slowly. "I have a small team I trust implicitly. We can handle the initial recovery and assessment before bringing in the broader task force."

We discussed parameters for Winton's potential cooperation agreement—terms significantly less generous than what he'd proposed, but still offering some hope of eventual freedom in exchange for full cooperation. Agent Lam would present our framework to the US Attorney's office, with the understanding that final terms depended on the handbook's contents and Winton's complete honesty.

As our meeting concluded, Agent Lam asked the question I'd been expecting: "Ms. Zhang, what's your interest in this beyond the Albert case? You've achieved your justice. Why remain involved in what could be a dangerous ongoing investigation?"

I considered my answer carefully. "Three years ago, I thought justice meant destroying the men who hurt me. Now I understand it's about something larger—addressing the systems that allowed them to operate with impunity for decades."

She studied me with new respect. "That's a significant evolution."

"Necessary evolution," I corrected. "Otherwise, nothing really changes."

After leaving Agent Lam, I rejoined Elliot at a café several blocks away. He'd been monitoring news coverage of the Albert Industries collapse—the stock had been halted for three consecutive trading days, victims were coming forward by the dozens, and the foundation's international operations were being investigated by authorities in seven countries.

"They've approved a preliminary agreement for Winton," I told him. "If the handbook contains what he claims, he'll get a modified deal—still substantial prison time, but not the effective death sentence he's currently facing."

Elliot nodded, then slid his phone across the table, displaying a news alert: "ALBERT FRIEDRICH ASSAULTED IN DETENTION, CONDITION CRITICAL."

My breath caught. "When did this happen?"

"An hour ago," he replied grimly. "Reportedly a random prison attack, but the timing..."

The timing was indeed suspicious—just as Winton was negotiating to expose a broader network, Albert had been violently silenced. Coincidence seemed unlikely.

"They're tying up loose ends," I murmured. "Albert might have been willing to talk eventually to improve his own situation."

Elliot's expression darkened. "We need to move faster. If they've reached Albert in federal detention..."

He didn't need to finish the thought. If this network could arrange an attack on a high-profile detainee like Albert Friedrich, no one was truly safe—including Winton Pierce, whose knowledge now represented an existential threat to powerful people.

I made a quick decision. "We retrieve the handbook ourselves. Tonight. Before anyone else connects the dots between Winton's cooperation and Albert's 'accident.'"

Agent Lam had planned a carefully coordinated retrieval operation for the following day, with proper warrants and a forensic team. But waiting even twenty-four hours now seemed dangerously naive.

As evening fell, Elliot and I drove north in a rented SUV, following the coordinates from Winton's photograph to a remote property in the Catskills. The location was deliberately isolated—a hunting lodge set back from the nearest road, surrounded by dense forest with a single access drive monitored by discreet but sophisticated security measures.

"Motion sensors in the trees," Elliot noted as we parked a mile away and continued on foot. "Cameras disguised as birdhouses."

Years of living in the Albert penthouse had made him adept at recognizing security systems. We avoided the obvious approaches, instead using the dense undergrowth to mask our approach from the eastern side, where the surveillance appeared least concentrated.

The lodge itself was deceptively rustic—log exterior concealing what was likely a hardened structure beneath. No lights were visible, no vehicles parked outside. According to property records, the place was designated as a corporate retreat facility, used only occasionally for "executive planning sessions."

"No obvious guards," I whispered as we observed from the tree line. "Either it's unoccupied or security is inside."

Elliot pointed to a subtle detail I'd missed—a thin wire running along the ground at ankle height, nearly invisible in the dim light. "Perimeter alarm. Old school but effective."

We carefully stepped over the wire, approaching the building from its blindest angle. The rear entrance was secured with both an electronic keypad and a conventional deadbolt—substantial security for a supposed vacation property.

"Can you bypass it?" I asked, eyeing the keypad.

Elliot examined it closely, then shook his head. "Not without equipment we don't have. But..."

He moved to a nearby window, studying its frame before retrieving a thin wire tool from his pocket. Years of silent observation had taught him more than just piano—he'd watched the Albert security team perform maintenance countless times, absorbing their techniques without their knowledge.

Within minutes, he had manipulated the window's lock, creating an entry point narrow but sufficient for our purposes. We slipped inside, finding ourselves in what appeared to be a study—dark wood paneling, leather chairs, hunting trophies mounted on walls. The typical trappings of masculine power, but with subtle differences: no dust, no disuse. This room was regularly maintained despite the property's apparent abandonment.

"Where would you hide something valuable in a place like this?" I whispered, scanning our surroundings.

Elliot pointed to the imposing stone fireplace dominating one wall. "Classic hiding spot. Check for a mechanism."

We examined the fireplace methodically, testing stones, probing for hidden switches. Eventually, Elliot discovered a loose stone at eye level—behind it, a small keyhole.

"Now we need a key," I murmured.

Elliot's expression turned thoughtful. He moved to the desk, opening drawers until he found what he was looking for—a letter opener with an unusually ornate handle. When he inserted it into the keyhole and turned, a section of the fireplace wall swung inward with well-oiled silence.

Beyond lay a small room—not much larger than a walk-in closet, but containing a table, a chair, and a single item: a leather-bound book approximately twelve inches by eight, its cover unmarked except for a strange symbol embossed in gold.

"The handbook," I breathed, approaching it carefully.

As I reached for it, Elliot suddenly grabbed my wrist, pointing to nearly invisible threads stretched across the table's surface—a simple but effective alarm system. Any movement of the book would trigger whatever security protocols were in place.

"We need to photograph it in place," I decided, retrieving my specialized camera. "Page by page, without moving it."

For the next hour, we worked in tense silence—Elliot holding a small light while I carefully turned each page with a thin plastic tool, photographing the contents. The handbook contained exactly what Winton had claimed: names, dates, transactions. A meticulous record of three decades of criminal conspiracy involving some of the most powerful figures in politics, finance, and law enforcement.

As I captured the final page, a sound from outside froze us both—car tires on the gravel drive, headlights sweeping across the windows.

"Someone's here," Elliot whispered unnecessarily. "We need to go. Now."

We restored the handbook to its exact position, closed the hidden room, and erased all signs of our presence before slipping back through the window just as voices approached the front door. Crouching in the underbrush, we watched as three men entered the lodge—none familiar to me, but all carrying themselves with the unmistakable confidence of authority.

We retreated through the forest to our vehicle, driving away with lights off until we reached the main road. Only then did I allow myself to examine what we'd recovered—over two hundred photographs documenting a criminal network far more extensive than I'd imagined.

"This is bigger than we can handle alone," I admitted, scrolling through images of familiar names paired with horrifying activities. "We need to get this to Agent Lam immediately."

Elliot nodded grimly, eyes on the dark road ahead. "And then?"

It was the question I'd been avoiding—what came after this final phase of our investigation. My revenge against Albert Friedrich had evolved into something far larger, with implications beyond anything I'd initially imagined. The handbook represented both closure and beginning—the end of my personal vendetta, but the start of a much broader reckoning.

"And then we decide," I said finally, "whether we've done enough."

As dawn broke over the city, casting long shadows across the urban landscape, I couldn't help feeling we'd crossed a threshold from which there was no return. The handbook wasn't just evidence; it was a declaration of war against a system of power that had operated in shadows for generations.

Whatever came next, the simple revenge I'd once sought had transformed into something far more consequential—for myself, for Elliot, and for countless others whose lives had been damaged by the network documented in those leather-bound pages.