Chương 12
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then Dominic said, “Eight thirty.”
“Make it nine.”
“Why?”
“I have a six-year-old who believes being grounded still includes pancakes.”
Serena covered her mouth to keep from laughing.
Dominic did not.
He simply said, “Nine.”
We ended the call.
I stood in Serena's dining room holding an eleven-year-old agreement and listening to the ordinary sounds of her house settle around me.
Then my phone vibrated again.
Not Dominic.
Not the anonymous number.
An email notification had appeared from my old Moretti Group account, forwarded automatically to my personal address during termination.
The subject line contained only three words.
YOUR COMPLIANCE REQUEST.
I opened it.
The message had been scheduled three weeks earlier for delivery tonight.
It came from my own account.
There was one attachment.
A spreadsheet.
And one sentence.
Anna, if you're reading this, someone finally used your name to open the door I couldn't.
I read the sentence twice before opening the attachment.
The spreadsheet loaded slowly on my phone, rows and columns compressing into something almost useless on the small screen.
“Laptop,” I said.
Serena pointed toward the living room.
“My oldest left his on the charger.”
“I need it.”
“He'll complain.”
“I can live with that.”
“Good, because he can too.”
She disappeared and returned with a dented silver laptop covered in skateboarding stickers.
I forwarded the email to myself, opened the attachment, and felt the room narrow around the first sheet.
Harbor Lane Logistics appeared in column B.
The payments began eleven years earlier.
They did not stop after Dawson Pike died.
They grew.
Serena leaned over my shoulder.
“How bad?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Your face knows.”
My face probably did.
I scrolled.
Invoices repeated in slightly different amounts.
Warehouse storage.
Emergency freight.
Fuel surcharges.
After-hours handling.
Services vague enough to sound normal and expensive enough to matter.
“What are you looking for?” Serena asked.
“Patterns.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It usually means somebody got lazy.”
I sorted by amount.
Nothing obvious.
Then by invoice date.
Still nothing.
I opened a second sheet.
Vendor ownership history.
Six companies from my old Dawson Pike report were listed in the left column.
Five had disappeared over the years.
Harbor Lane remained.
Beside it was a sequence of ownership entities that changed every eighteen to twenty-four months.
Delaware.
Nevada.
Wyoming.
Another Delaware entity.
“Shell companies?” Serena asked.
“Maybe.”
“You said maybe like the mafia guy.”
“Please don't call him that.”
“You defended him.”
“I corrected you.”
“Same neighborhood.”
I ignored her.
At the bottom of the sheet was a note.
Look at who approved exceptions, not who submitted invoices.
I opened the third tab.
Approvals.
My stomach tightened.
Hundreds of transactions.
Names repeated across years.
Procurement officers.
Regional managers.
Finance reviewers.
Most were people I had never met.
Then I saw Cynthia Vale.
Not often.
That would have been easier.
Her name appeared only on unusual entries.
Policy exception approved.
Vendor documentation waived.
Urgent continuity authorization.
Temporary ownership verification deferral.
Serena read one aloud.
“What does that mean in normal English?”
“Someone let Harbor Lane keep getting paid without proving who owned it.”
“And Cynthia could do that?”
“She was HR.”
“That sounds like no.”
“It is no.”
“Then why is she here?”
“I don't know.”
I scrolled farther.
One entry was dated three years ago, five days after Vincent Moretti died.
Harbor Lane had received an eighteen-month exemption from updated beneficial ownership documentation.
Approver: C. Vale.
Secondary authorization: D. Moretti.
I stared at Dominic's name.
Serena saw it.
“Well.”
“That doesn't prove he approved it.”
“It says he did.”
“It also says I requested eleven years of records while I was eating leftover noodles with Lily.”
“Fair point.”
I took a screenshot.
Then another.
My phone was already in my hand before I decided whether calling Dominic was wise.
I called anyway.
He answered immediately.
“Something happened.”
“Why do you always assume that?”
“Because nobody calls at one in the morning to discuss office culture.”
“I got an email.”
“From whom?”
“Myself.”
Silence.
“Explain.”
“It was scheduled before my account was disabled.”
“How long before?”
“Three weeks.”
“What does it contain?”
“A spreadsheet on Harbor Lane.”
Dominic swore.
“Don't open anything else.”
“Too late.”
“Anna.”
“It is an Excel file, not plutonium.”
“It could contain malware.”
“Then your cybersecurity people can send flowers to Serena's teenager.”
Serena mouthed, Absolutely not.
I waved her away.
“Who scheduled the message?” Dominic asked.
“I don't know.”
“Can you see headers?”
“Not from the forwarding preview.”
“Don't manipulate it further.”
“I've already downloaded it.”
He muttered something that sounded unkind but not directed at me.
“Listen,” I said.
“Cynthia approved vendor documentation exceptions.”
“How many?”
“I haven't counted.”
“What years?”
“Multiple.”
“Send me screenshots.”
“I thought I wasn't supposed to manipulate it.”
“Screenshots aren't manipulation.”
“You are exhausting.”
“I've been told.”
I sent the page containing Cynthia's name.
Then the entry with Dominic's.
He went silent.
“You see it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you approve that exception?”
“No.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“Three years ago, five days after your father died.”
“I was barely in the office.”
“That is not the same as no.”
“I did not approve vendor ownership exceptions.”
His voice had sharpened.
“Could somebody use your authorization again?”
“Yes.”
“You say that like you've known for a while.”
“I've suspected signatures were being routed through delegated authority.”
“Delegated to whom?”
“Several officers.”
“Cynthia?”
“No.”
“Pike?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“My chief operating officer at the time.”
“Who was?”
“Robert Vale.”
Serena's eyebrows climbed.
“Vale?”
I asked.
“Yes.”
“Related to Cynthia?”
“Her husband.”
There were moments when a complicated investigation became simpler in a way that made it more dangerous.
This was one of them.
“How long has he been gone?”
“Two years.”
“Fired?”
“Retired.”
“Voluntarily?”
A pause.
“Officially.”
“What happened unofficially?”
“My father distrusted him.”
“Your father was dead by then.”
“I distrusted him too.”
“Why?”
“Too many decisions were technically valid and practically inexplicable.”
“That is corporate poetry.”
May you like
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
