Chương 12
Two plainclothes officers emerged with a woman carrying a laptop case.
The detective went to meet them.
Mara watched the woman accept the evidence bag without opening it.
Chain of custody.
Photographs.
Signatures.
Ordinary procedure wrapped around extraordinary claims.
It comforted Mara more than it should have.
The woman placed the drive inside a rigid container.
Adrian moved closer to Mara.
“If Rourke sent another drive to Warren, why label this one?”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
“Meaning?”
“The tape could be Warren’s.”
Adrian stared at the disappearing evidence.
“Or Eleanor’s.”
Mara looked at him.
That possibility had occurred to her too.
“Your sister knew Rourke was investigating.”
“Yes.”
“She moved records three days before she died.”
“Yes.”
“Your father’s notes had my name two years later.”
“Eleven years ago.”
“Right.”
Mara rubbed her forehead.
The numbers refused to settle.
Something was wrong with the chronology, but exhaustion kept sliding over the edges of it.
Vincent wandered closer.
“You have the face.”
“What face?”
“The one you make before ruining everyone’s evening.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You absolutely have a face.”
Mara ignored him.
“Margaret.”
Margaret turned.
“When did Thomas write my name down?”
“I don’t know the exact date.”
“You said eleven years ago.”
“The notebook was from that year.”
“Before or after Rourke came to your house?”
Margaret went still.
Adrian answered first.
“After.”
Mara looked at him.
“You’re sure?”
“He said Rourke came five years after Eleanor died.”
“Yes.”
“And Dad died eleven years ago.”
Margaret’s eyes closed briefly.
Mara felt the chronology click.
“Your husband wrote my name after Rourke showed him what Eleanor found.”
Nobody spoke.
Mara continued because stopping felt worse.
“I had nothing to do with Vale Meridian.”
“Not directly,” Margaret said.
The words were too quick.
Mara stared at her.
“Not directly?”
Margaret’s composure failed by degrees rather than all at once.
Her fingers tightened.
Her shoulders drew inward.
Her eyes went to the detective, who was still speaking with the evidence technician.
Adrian saw all of it.
“What aren’t you saying?”
“I need to be certain.”
“Of what?”
“That I’m remembering correctly.”
“You knew her employer thirty seconds after meeting her.”
“I knew the name.”
“What name?”
Margaret looked at Mara.
“Hensley and Moss.”
Mara waited.
“That was an accounting firm.”
“I’m familiar with my own résumé.”
“They audited Vale Meridian.”
“No, they didn’t.”
Margaret said nothing.
Mara shook her head.
“I worked there four years.”
“I know.”
“Vale Meridian was never one of our clients.”
“Vale Meridian wasn’t.”
A cold sensation moved through Mara’s stomach.
Vincent stopped leaning on the cruiser.
Mara spoke slowly.
“Which entity was?”
“I don’t remember the legal name.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I genuinely don’t.”
“Try.”
Margaret looked toward the city.
“North something.”
Mara’s irritation disappeared.
There had been hundreds of files.
Hundreds of forgettable private companies with names designed to mean nothing.
But one surfaced anyway.
Not because of the work.
Because of a receptionist named Darlene who ate hard-boiled eggs at her desk every morning and once microwaved fish badly enough to evacuate half the floor.
“Northstar Civic Logistics.”
Margaret turned.
“Yes.”
The garage suddenly felt colder.
Adrian watched Mara.
“You remember it.”
“I remember the client.”
“What did they do?”
“On paper?”
“Yes.”
“Municipal logistics consulting.”
Vincent blinked.
“That sounds aggressively meaningless.”
“It was.”
“What did you audit?”
“I didn’t.”
Mara stopped.
An old fluorescent office returned in fragments.
A cardboard archive box.
Blue review stickers.
A partner standing over her desk late on a Thursday.
Mara had been twenty-six, underpaid, recently dumped, and furious because everyone else had gone downstairs for drinks without waiting.
She had wanted to finish one file and leave.
She could almost smell Darlene’s terrible vanilla hand lotion.
“I reviewed bank confirmations.”
Adrian moved closer.
“For Northstar?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“It was eleven years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
Vincent’s expression sharpened.
“Mara.”
She hated him a little for hearing the lie.
“I flagged a discrepancy.”
Margaret whispered, “What discrepancy?”
Mara pressed her fingertips against her temple.
“Beneficiary names.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mara.”
“I don’t know.”
Her voice came out louder than intended.
Bruno stood immediately.
A nearby officer glanced over.
Mara lowered her hand.
“Sorry.”
No one told her it was fine.
She was grateful.
“There were wire transfers,” she said.
“Several beneficiaries had names that didn’t match the vendor documentation.”
Adrian asked, “What did you do?”
“My job.”
The answer tasted wrong before she finished it.
“I wrote a review note.”
“And then?”
“My manager cleared it.”
“Why?”
“He said Northstar had supplied amended documentation.”
“Did you see it?”
Mara opened her mouth.
Nothing came.
Vincent swore softly.
“You didn’t.”
“I was junior staff.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“I know what you said.”
Adrian’s attention never left her.
“What was your manager’s name?”
Mara looked at him.
She had spent eleven years forgetting a man who had occupied the desk beside the emergency exit and corrected everyone’s pronunciation of espresso.
“Michael Rourke.”
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Vincent said, “Well, that seems bad.”
Mara barely heard him.
The garage, the officers, the fluorescent lights, even Bruno’s weight against her ankle seemed to recede behind the memory of a narrow man with expensive glasses and a habit of tapping his pen against his lower lip.
Michael Rourke had approved her timesheets.
Michael Rourke had once made her redo an entire reconciliation because she had used black ink instead of blue on a confirmation form.
Michael Rourke had cleared the Northstar discrepancy.
Adrian said her name.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m standing.”
“That wasn’t the standard.”
The detective had returned and caught enough of the exchange to stop beside them.
“Who is Michael Rourke?”
“My former manager.”
His expression sharpened.
“The same Michael Rourke?”
“I don’t know.”
Margaret said, “It is.”
Mara looked at her.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“You just answered very quickly for someone who didn’t know.”
“I knew he worked at Hensley and Moss.”
May you like
“You knew he supervised me?”
“No.”
