Chapter 8: Frank Delaney
I was at Grace's office at eight forty-two.
Frank Delaney was already there — a compact man in his early sixties, gray at the temples, a yellow legal pad on the table in front of him and a cup of coffee he hadn't touched.
"Olivia," Grace said.
"This is Frank."
He stood and shook my hand.
"Sit down.
I've read through what Grace sent me.
I have some questions."
I sat.
Grace sat beside me.
"The notarized ownership transfer," Frank said.
"The notary's name is Ellen Marsh.
Do you know her?"
"No."
"She notarized a document that purports to record your agreement to a business transfer.
That agreement does not exist.
You never signed it.
You never verbally agreed to it." He looked at me steadily.
"Is that correct?"
"That's correct."
"Then Ellen Marsh either notarized a document she knew was fraudulent, or she was deceived about its contents." He made a note.
"We'll find out which." He turned a page.
"The shell company — Hartwell Consulting.
The $1,500 payment that cleared your company's vendor account.
Are you aware of any other payments that may have been processed through that same account in the last eight months?"
"I called my CFO this morning," I said.
"She's running a full audit.
She'll have results by end of day."
Frank nodded.
"Good.
I want those results the moment she has them." He turned another page.
"The woman in the apartment.
Sandra Voss."
"Yes."
"She's licensed.
She has a clean record.
She's also made a significant error." He looked up.
"She was present when you discovered documents she helped create.
She spoke to you.
She attempted to recover those documents.
All of that is on camera — the same camera your husband used to watch you." He paused.
"Do you understand what that means?"
"The camera recorded her too," I said.
"It recorded everything.
And that recording belongs to the apartment.
Which belongs to your mother-in-law." He tapped his pen on the pad.
"What do you know about Margaret?"
I thought about her in the armchair.
The teacup.
*You should be careful about what you think you understand.*
"She's been part of this from the beginning," I said.
"Her name appears on two of the bank transfer documents," Grace said.
"As a secondary account holder."
I hadn't seen that when I photographed them.
I had been moving too fast.
"She's been receiving transfers?" I said.
"Small ones.
Regular.
Going back fourteen months." Grace slid a page across the table.
"Before Daniel stopped working."
Fourteen months.
We had been married for three years.
Which meant this had started a year into our marriage.
"He married me for the company," I said.
Frank didn't soften it.
"That's what the evidence suggests."
I looked at the page.
The numbers were small — two hundred here, three hundred there — but they were consistent.
Methodical.
Patient.
"He's been building toward this for over a year," I said.
"Yes," Frank said.
I sat with that for a moment.
"What happens now?" I said.
"Now we move," Frank said.
"I'm filing a complaint with the financial crimes unit today.
Grace will file a motion to freeze the shell company account.
Your CFO's audit will give us the full scope of the vendor account exposure." He looked at me.
"I also want you to contact your company's IT department and have them pull the access logs for your email and internal systems going back fourteen months.
If someone has been in your accounts, there will be a record."
"I'll do it today."
"One more thing." He set his pen down.
"Your husband doesn't know yet how much you know.
He knows the passwords changed.
He knows the plan is compromised.
But he doesn't know you've been here.
He doesn't know about me." He looked at me carefully.
"How long can you maintain that?"
I thought about last night.
The dinner.
The apology.
The hand over mine.
"As long as I need to," I said.
Frank picked up his coffee for the first time.
He took a slow sip.
May you like
"Good," he said.
"Because I need three days."
