Chapter 8: What the Warrant Found
Marcus Webb was a compact, quiet man in his mid-fifties who wore the same expression whether he was discussing the weather or financial fraud.
He met Cameron and Natalie at the AG's satellite office on Peachtree Center Avenue at eleven that morning, shook their hands once, and led them to a conference room with a long table and no windows.
Grace sat beside Natalie.
Webb opened a folder.
"I want to walk you through what we found this morning," he said.
"And then I need to ask you some questions.
Take your time with the answers.
Accuracy matters more than speed."
He laid three documents on the table.
The first was the Meridian Residential Partners incorporation filing.
Natalie's name at the top.
The second was a notarization log from Sandra Fitch's UPS store location in Smyrna.
Natalie's name appeared four times across eighteen months.
"I never visited that location," Natalie said.
"I've never been to Smyrna."
"I know," Webb said.
"We pulled the store's security footage from the dates on the log.
The woman who presented your identification was approximately your height and coloring.
She used a Georgia driver's license.
The license number matches yours."
"Someone had a copy of my license?"
"Logan Pierce had a copy of your license," Grace said.
"You sent him a photo of it two years ago when you were trying to get him a plus-one ticket to a private event that required ID verification.
He asked you to text it."
Natalie stared at the table.
"I remember that," she said.
"It was a gallery opening.
He said the organizer needed it for the guest list."
"There was no such requirement," Grace said.
"We checked with the gallery."
Webb placed the third document on the table.
It was a wire transfer record.
Not from Cameron and Natalie's joint account.
From a separate account entirely.
In Natalie's name only.
"I don't have a separate account," Natalie said.
"You do," Webb said.
"It was opened online fourteen months ago using your Social Security number, your driver's license image, and a utility bill that was digitally altered to show your name at a different address." He looked at her steadily.
"You were not aware of this account."
"No."
"It was opened, funded with a single deposit of $12,000, and then used to make two payments to Warren Holt's personal LLC before being closed.
The entire cycle took eleven days."
"Where did the $12,000 come from?"
"From the Meridian account.
Which received it from your joint account." Webb folded his hands.
"The money moved in a loop.
Out of your joint account.
Into Meridian.
Into the fraudulent personal account.
To Holt.
The loop was designed so that if any one piece was investigated, the trail led back to an account bearing your name."
Cameron said, "They built a complete frame."
"A thorough one," Webb said.
"Mr.
Pierce contributed the personal access.
Mr.
Pruitt contributed the infrastructure.
Mr.
Holt contributed the receiving end and the financial expertise to structure the routing." He paused.
"This was not improvised.
This took planning."
"How long?" Natalie asked.
"Based on the earliest documents we found this morning, the initial planning began approximately twenty-six months ago." He looked at her.
"Before Mr.
Pierce re-established contact with you."
The room was very still.
"He came back into my life specifically to do this," Natalie said.
Webb didn't soften it.
"That is the current evidence, yes."
Natalie looked down at the table for a moment.
Then she looked up.
"What do you need from me?"
Webb reached into the folder and produced a twelve-page document.
"A formal statement.
Signed and witnessed.
Covering your account history, your interactions with Mr.
Pierce over the past two years, the documents you signed, the documents you did not sign, and your knowledge — or lack of knowledge — of Meridian Residential Partners at any point before last night."
"I'll do it now," she said.
"It may take two hours."
"That's fine."
Grace put a hand briefly on Natalie's arm.
Webb uncapped his pen and slid the document across the table.
Cameron's phone buzzed.
He stepped into the hallway to take it.
It was a number he didn't recognize — but the area code was Savannah.
He answered.
"Mr.
Blake." A woman's voice, professional, unhurried.
"My name is Detective Renee Carver, Savannah PD.
I'm calling about a Logan Pierce.
We've been looking at him in connection with a property fraud case that originated here three years ago." A pause.
"I understand you may have some relevant documentation."
Cameron leaned against the hallway wall.
"How did you get my number?" he asked.
"Marcus Webb gave it to me twenty minutes ago," she said.
"He said you'd been thorough."
Cameron looked through the glass panel in the conference room door.
Natalie was already on page three of her statement, writing steadily, not looking up.
May you like
"Detective Carver," he said.
"How long do you have?"
