Chương 9
Once at 3:09 in the afternoon on the day Teresa visited.
Alejandro stared at the screen.
“How?”
“Someone had the badge.”
“Security collects it at termination.”
“Was Sergio terminated onsite?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“Corporate.”
“Who collected his badge?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“HR, I assume.”
I searched the offboarding records.
The form showed equipment returned, fuel card disabled, phone returned, laptop returned.
The line beside access badge was blank.
Neither of us said anything.
The small empty box felt more important than half the accusations thrown in my kitchen earlier.
“Who handled his termination?” I asked.
Alejandro leaned forward.
“Claudia initiated it.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He scrolled.
The manager acknowledgment field contained his electronic signature.
His face went pale.
“I signed this.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember seeing the badge line blank.”
“You probably didn’t.”
He turned toward me.
“That isn’t an excuse.”
“No.”
He pushed away from the desk.
“God.”
The word came out flat.
“What did Sergio do exactly?”
“I told you.”
“Fuel cards.”
“He stole them?”
“We believed he diverted card numbers and used them through outside drivers.”
“How much?”
“About ninety thousand pesos.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He repaid part of it and signed an acknowledgment.”
“Who made that decision?”
“I did.”
I looked at him.
“With HR.”
“Why no complaint?”
“Because the amount was recoverable and we had weak proof tying him personally to every transaction.”
“That sounds like Claudia.”
“It was.”
“What did Sergio say?”
“That the cards were being passed around by drivers and subcontractors and he was being blamed because his credentials appeared in the logs.”
Alejandro stopped.
We looked at each other.
The parallel was ugly.
“Did you believe him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He lied about two transactions.”
“That proves those two.”
“It also made the rest look worse.”
“Did he name anyone else?”
Alejandro reached for the keyboard.
“I don’t remember.”
He opened Sergio’s termination packet.
Most of it was administrative.
Then we found a handwritten incident statement scanned at the end.
Sergio’s writing was cramped and angry, the letters leaning hard to the right.
He denied taking fuel-card numbers.
He admitted using a card once for a driver who claimed his company account had failed.
Then, near the bottom, one sentence stopped me.
Tomás gave the card to me and said Alejandro had approved it.
Alejandro went completely still.
“Did you see this?”
“I don’t remember.”
“That isn’t good enough.”
“I know.”
“Did Tomás have authorization to distribute company cards?”
“No.”
“Did he work for us?”
“No.”
“Then why was he anywhere near one?”
“I don’t know.”
He stood and walked out of the study.
I followed him to the hallway.
“Where are you going?”
“I need air.”
“Stay inside.”
He turned.
“I’m not going to run.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“No.”
He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes.
“Neither is any of this.”
For once I did not answer.
He slid down until he was sitting on the bottom step of the staircase.
I sat two steps above him.
We stayed there in silence.
The house had cooled.
Somewhere outside, a truck shifted gears on the avenue.
Alejandro bent forward with his elbows on his knees.
“I signed Sergio’s termination.”
“Yes.”
“I signed off on the investigation summary.”
“Yes.”
“I probably didn’t read his statement carefully.”
I did not answer.
“That’s what you’re thinking.”
“It’s what happened.”
He laughed without humor.
“I spent years wanting everyone to see me as important, and apparently I was too important to read the paperwork.”
There was no useful response to that.
After a minute he said, “My father used to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sign things without reading.”
I waited.
“He hated paperwork.”
“Most people do.”
“He would stack invoices on the dining table and sign whatever my mother put yellow tabs on.”
The connection passed between us slowly.
“Teresa handled the books.”
“Sometimes.”
“For his construction company.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to it?”
“It failed.”
“How?”
“Debt.”
“What kind?”
“Taxes, supplier claims, a couple of bad projects.”
“Any fraud?”
His head came up.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
That was the first time all night he had answered the question correctly.
He looked exhausted.
“I was twenty-six when it collapsed.”
“What do you remember?”
“My parents screaming.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“My father blaming the accountant.”
“Which accountant?”
“I don’t know.”
“Puebla?”
He looked at me.
“You’re thinking of the administrator on Naviera.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if it’s the same person.”
“Did Daniel send the name?”
I went back to the study.
Alejandro stayed on the stairs.
The Naviera filing listed an accountant named Emiliano Cortés Saldaña.
I read the name aloud from the doorway.
Alejandro frowned.
“No.”
Then he shook his head.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“I know Cortés.”
“How?”
“My father had an accountant named Cortés.”
“First name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Could be unrelated.”
“Could be.”
He stood.
“Lucía might know.”
“We’re not calling her.”
“She lived at home longer than I did.”
“We can ask in the morning.”
“And if my mother gets to her first?”
“Gets to her with what?”
“The box.”
“She said the box was thrown out.”
“Maybe.”
I looked at him.
“You think she lied?”
“I think she may not want to be involved.”
“That’s different.”
“Not if we need facts.”
He reached for his phone.
I blocked him again.
“Stop.”
His frustration flashed.
“Mariana.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to control every conversation.”
“No, but I get to protect an investigation you already compromised once.”
That hurt him.
I saw it.
I let it stand.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
We both looked down.
Lucía again.
This time the message was longer.
Mom came here.
Alejandro opened it.
She says Dad’s old papers could hurt her if anyone sees them.
Then another message arrived.
I told her I threw the box away, but I didn’t.
Alejandro looked up at me.
May you like
A third message appeared before either of us spoke.
It’s in my storage cage downstairs.
