Chapter 4: Monday Morning
Richard called back at 1:47 a.m.
"Gerald Marsh," he said, without greeting.
"Sixty-three years old.
Three companies, two of which are shells.
The third is a logistics firm that shares a registered address with a holding company connected to Jonathan's family business."
"Connected how?"
"Jonathan's father is listed as a director.
Has been for nine years."
I set my tea down.
"His father."
"Arthur Whitmore.
Yes."
I hadn't known Jonathan's father was involved in any of this.
Arthur had been at the wedding that evening, quiet and pleasant, shaking hands and accepting congratulations.
I had thought he was simply a retired man happy to see his son married.
"Richard," I said.
"How deep does this go?"
"I don't know yet.
But Charlotte — the document you described, the one about redirecting the Q3 allocation — if that had gone through, your group's funds would have been used to cover a liability that isn't yours.
And when the auditors eventually found it, your name would have been on the authorization."
The room felt very still.
"They were going to frame me."
"They were going to make you the signature on a transaction you didn't understand.
Whether that rises to fraud depends on intent, and intent is hard to prove.
But yes.
That's the shape of it."
I looked at Vera.
She was watching me over her cup.
"Pull the funding review forward," I said.
"And freeze all discretionary authorizations from my account until further notice.
Nothing moves without my direct approval."
"Already done on the review.
I'll action the freeze first thing."
"And Richard — I need you to find out who sent that envelope."
"The whistleblower."
"Yes."
"Any idea why they sent it to Jonathan's name instead of yours?"
"Because they didn't know if I could be trusted," I said.
"They wanted Jonathan to see it first.
They wanted to see what he would do."
"And instead it came to you."
"Because Jonathan didn't come home with me."
A long pause.
"Get some sleep," Richard said.
"Monday is going to be complicated."
He was right about that.
I arrived at the Hargrove Group offices at seven forty-five.
My assistant, Priya, met me at the elevator with a coffee and a look that said she had already heard something.
"How many calls?" I said.
"Eleven.
Since six a.m." She fell into step beside me.
"Three from Jonathan Whitmore.
Two from a number registered to an Arthur Whitmore.
One from a law firm I don't recognize — Marsh and Associates."
I stopped walking.
"Marsh and Associates."
"Yes.
They left a message saying they represent a client with a time-sensitive matter related to your Q3 investment review and would appreciate a call before nine a.m."
Gerald Marsh had his own law firm.
Of course he did.
"Don't return that call," I said.
"Forward the message to Richard.
And get me the full file on the Whitmore account — everything, going back three years."
"It's already on your desk."
I looked at her.
She lifted one shoulder.
"You called Richard at two in the morning.
I assumed you'd want it."
I had hired Priya four years ago.
I had never once regretted it.
The Whitmore file was thick.
I read it standing at my desk, still in my coat, coffee going cold on the corner.
By eight-fifteen I had found the first irregularity.
By eight-forty I had found three more.
At eight fifty-five, my office phone rang.
I looked at the display.
Jonathan.
I let it ring four times.
Then I picked up.
"Charlotte." His voice was careful.
Measured.
The voice of a man who had spent the night preparing.
"I think we should talk."
"I agree," I said.
"Last night was — I want to explain—"
"Come to my office," I said.
"Ten o'clock.
Bring your father."
Silence.
"My father doesn't need to be involved in—"
"Ten o'clock, Jonathan."
I set the phone down.
Priya appeared in the doorway.
"Should I clear your ten o'clock?"
"No," I said.
"Add to it."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Call Richard.
May you like
Tell him to be here by nine forty-five." I picked up the photograph of Jonathan and Gerald Marsh and held it up.
"And find out who took this."
