Chapter 3 - The Woman Behind the Numbers
Beatrice rushed toward the door.
Dante caught her wrist.
“Wait.”
“That’s my sister.”
“Maybe.”
She stared at him.
The voice came again.
“Bea? Are you in there?”
Maggie.
Definitely Maggie.
Dante opened the door carefully.
Maggie Gallagher stood in the hallway wearing jeans, sneakers, and a red wool coat, her dark blond hair tied messily behind her head.
Beatrice pulled her inside.
“What are you doing here?”
Maggie looked equally furious.
“What am I doing here? Some giant man named Luca showed up at the coffee shop and told me you'd been threatened.”
Dante appeared behind Beatrice.
Maggie stared at him.
“Oh.”
Dante inclined his head.
“Maggie.”
She looked him up and down.
“You're Dante Moretti.”
“Yes.”
“The Dante Moretti?”
“I wasn't aware there were several.”
Maggie turned to Beatrice.
“You're having a weird night.”
“That doesn't begin to cover it.”
Beatrice closed the door and explained quickly.
The file.
The missing money.
The threats.
Her office.
The false administrator profile.
Maggie's face lost its color.
“Someone framed you?”
“Looks that way.”
“Then we call the police.”
Dante said, “Soon.”
Maggie folded her arms.
“That sounds suspiciously like something a man named Dante Moretti would say.”
Beatrice almost laughed despite herself.
“Maggie.”
“What? I've had a security escort for forty minutes. I'm allowed one bad joke.”
Dante's expression remained serious.
“Police involvement becomes useful when we know which evidence hasn't been compromised.”
Maggie frowned.
“You think someone inside the company could manipulate the investigation?”
“I think someone with access to Beatrice's identity, internal security, executive terminals, and client accounts already has significant reach.”
Beatrice turned the monitor back on.
The administrator profile remained.
BG.
Her name.
Her career.
Her future.
All attached to fraud she had never committed.
“I need to know when this profile was created.”
She entered a forensic command.
The system requested supervisor access.
Beatrice tried Charles's generic departmental permissions.
Denied.
Then she remembered something.
Three years ago Wilkes & Hart had migrated from an older accounting platform.
Legacy audit credentials had never been completely disabled because regulators sometimes requested archived reports.
Beatrice entered the old system administrator code.
The screen flickered.
Dante looked at her.
“Should I ask how you know that?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains everything.”
Access granted.
Creation date appeared.
Nine months earlier.
Beatrice stared.
“Nine months?”
Dante leaned closer.
“The missing transfers only began three months ago.”
“Which means somebody prepared my identity six months before using it.”
Maggie whispered, “Why you?”
That was the question.
Beatrice searched linked records.
Her fake administrator identity had accessed only one account family.
Moretti Holdings.
No other clients.
Dante's expression hardened.
“This was targeted.”
“Yes.”
“Against me?”
“Maybe.”
“Or against you,” Maggie said.
Beatrice turned.
“Why would anyone plan for nine months to frame me?”
Maggie hesitated.
“Because they knew you'd notice?”
Silence.
Beatrice looked at the screen again.
That possibility was worse.
If someone had selected her because she was careless, the plan made sense.
But Beatrice was not careless.
She was known for finding irregularities.
What if that was exactly why she had been selected?
A perfect scapegoat was not someone incompetent.
A perfect scapegoat was someone whose discovery could be made to look like guilt.
Dante seemed to reach the same conclusion.
“They expected you to find it.”
“Yes.”
“They wanted you investigating.”
“Yes.”
“So the theft isn't the real objective.”
Beatrice felt cold.
“No.”
Maggie looked between them.
“Then what is?”
The computer chimed.
Another linked file had appeared.
Personnel transfer request.
Beatrice opened it.
Her name.
Approved promotion.
Executive accounting liaison for Moretti Holdings.
Effective six months earlier.
She had never seen it.
Never signed it.
Never received the salary increase listed.
“This is fake.”
Dante read it.
“It places you directly over my accounts.”
“And gives motive,” Beatrice whispered.
“If someone later claims you controlled them.”
Maggie said, “This is insane.”
Beatrice scrolled.
At the bottom was an electronic signature.
Charles Wilkes.
And a secondary approval.
Victoria Lane.
Dante photographed the screen.
“Now we have something.”
“Not enough,” Beatrice said.
“Why?”
“Electronic signatures can be spoofed. We need the original HR authorization packets.”
“Where?”
“Executive archives.”
“Upstairs?”
“Fortieth floor.”
Maggie shook her head.
“No. Absolutely not. Someone threatened me and broke into your office.”
“I know.”
“So you're leaving.”
Beatrice looked at her younger sister.
For years Maggie had been the fearless one.
Maggie had confronted bullies.
Changed careers twice.
Moved cities without knowing anyone.
Beatrice had always been careful.
Responsible.
Quiet.
Tonight careful had nearly destroyed her.
“No,” Beatrice said.
Maggie stared.
“No?”
“I spent ten years letting people like Charles decide what I should tolerate because I wanted to keep my job.”
“This isn't about a job anymore.”
“Exactly.”
Beatrice shut down the terminal.
“That's why I'm not leaving.”
Dante watched her with an unreadable expression.
Maggie pointed at him.
“You keep her alive.”
“I intend to.”
“That's not a promise.”
“No,” Dante said. “It's an instruction to everyone else.”
Maggie blinked.
“Okay. Very mafia.”
Beatrice groaned.
Dante almost smiled.
Luca escorted Maggie to a secure car.
Before leaving, Maggie hugged Beatrice hard.
“Call me every twenty minutes.”
“I will.”
“If you don't, I call every police station in Manhattan.”
“Understood.”
Maggie pulled back.
Then she looked at Dante.
“She likes cinnamon coffee.”
Beatrice stared.
“Maggie.”
“What? If I'm being kidnapped by security men, I get to embarrass you.”
“You were not kidnapped.”
“I was aggressively escorted.”
Dante said, “Cinnamon coffee.”
“Remember it.”
“Maggie!”
Her sister grinned and left.
For the first time that night, Beatrice smiled without forcing it.
Dante watched her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
“I was wondering how two sisters can be so different.”
“She got the courage.”
“And you?”
“I got spreadsheets.”
“I disagree.”
The warmth in his voice unsettled her.
She looked away.
They took a private elevator toward executive archives.
“Why did you really call me your queen?” Beatrice asked.
“I told you.”
“To protect me?”
“Yes.”
“You could have said I was a protected witness. A consultant. An employee working for you.”
“None would have stopped those people from viewing you as beneath them.”
“And queen did?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds arrogant.”
“I have many flaws.”
“I noticed.”
He looked at her.
She kept her face straight.
The elevator opened.
The fortieth floor was dark.
Executive offices.
Boardroom.
Private lounge.
Beatrice led him toward archives.
The door required Charles's access.
Her badge failed.
Dante examined the electronic panel.
“Can you bypass it?”
“I'm an accountant, not a burglar.”
“I'll remember that distinction.”
He called someone.
Thirty seconds later, Luca sent a temporary access code obtained from building administration.
Beatrice stared.
“You have a concerning number of useful people.”
“Relationships matter.”
“That is a very diplomatic word.”
The lock clicked.
They entered.
Executive archives contained rows of fireproof filing cabinets.
Beatrice found human resources.
G.
Gallagher.
The folder was empty.
“Of course.”
Dante opened neighboring files.
Normal contents.
Only hers had been removed.
Beatrice searched the cabinet.
Something was stuck behind the drawer.
A torn piece of paper.
She pulled it free.
Half a document.
TRANSFER AUTHORIZATION.
Her name.
And beneath it, handwriting.
Not Charles's.
Not Victoria's.
Beatrice recognized it.
She had seen that handwriting every December for years.
On bonus cards.
On birthday notes.
On little messages left beside her computer.
Her department manager.
Elliot Crane.
Elliot was sixty-two.
Soft-spoken.
Kind.
The only executive who had ever defended her in meetings.
When Beatrice's father died, Elliot attended the funeral.
When Maggie needed emergency surgery, Elliot covered Beatrice's workload.
He had once told her she was the best accountant he had hired in thirty years.
“No,” Beatrice whispered.
Dante took the fragment.
“You know the handwriting.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
She didn't answer.
The archive door slammed shut behind them.
The overhead lights went out.
Dante moved immediately.
“Stay behind me.”
A red emergency light came on.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Approaching from between the cabinets.
Beatrice heard breathing.
Then Elliot Crane stepped into the red light.
His familiar gray hair was disheveled.
His face looked terrified.
“Beatrice,” he whispered.
She stared at him.
“Elliot?”
He held out both hands.
“You need to leave.”
“What did you do?”
“Please.”
Dante moved slightly in front of her.
Elliot looked at him.
“So it's true.”
“What?” Dante asked.
Elliot's expression twisted.
“They got to her too.”
Beatrice stepped forward.
“Who?”
Elliot shook his head.
“You don't understand what this is.”
“Then explain.”
“I can't.”
“You forged my transfer.”
His face crumpled.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“By framing me for stealing millions?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Elliot looked toward the darkened hallway.
“They said they'd kill my son.”
Beatrice froze.
“What?”
“I never thought they'd use your name. I only signed the authorization. They told me it was temporary.”
“Who told you?”
Elliot began trembling.
Dante said, “Name them.”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
Elliot looked at Beatrice.
Tears filled his eyes.
“They already know you're here.”
A sound came from behind the cabinets.
Metal scraping.
Dante pulled Beatrice backward.
Elliot suddenly shouted.
“Run!”
A fire alarm exploded through the floor.
Sprinklers activated.
Doors unlocked.
Dante grabbed Beatrice's hand and pulled her toward the emergency exit.
She looked back.
Elliot had disappeared.
They reached the stairwell.
Dante pushed the door open.
A man lay unconscious on the landing.
Wilkes & Hart security uniform.
Beside him was Elliot's phone.
The screen was still lit.
One unsent message filled the display.
May you like
BEATRICE, THE PERSON RUNNING THIS IS—
The sentence ended there.
