Chapter 5: What Was Left on the Server
Grace made the call from the cathedral steps.
I stood beside her and listened to half a conversation—her voice clipped and precise, the kind of precision that meant she was already three steps ahead of whatever problem she was describing.
"Get the forensic team in before end of business," she said.
"I don't care what it costs.
I need to know what Mercer touched." A pause.
"All of it.
Every file, every timestamp, every deletion log." Another pause.
"Yes.
Tonight."
She ended the call and looked at me.
"Mercer is Adrian's attorney," she said.
"Richard Mercer.
He's been with Adrian for six years."
"I know who he is," I said.
"He drafted the asset transfer agreement."
"He also had administrative access to the Blackwell Group's internal servers.
Adrian gave it to him two years ago." Grace put her phone in her pocket.
"We think Mercer knew what was on those servers.
All of it.
He may have been helping Adrian manage the shell companies."
"Then he's not just an attorney," I said.
"No," Grace said.
"He may be a co-conspirator.
Which means he had every reason to go in there and clean house the moment he saw those federal agents walk into the cathedral."
I looked out at the street.
A taxi moved past.
A couple walked by with a stroller, oblivious, ordinary.
The city continuing as if nothing had shifted.
"Can they recover what he deleted?" I said.
"Depends on how sophisticated he was.
Most people think deleting a file removes it.
It doesn't—not immediately.
The forensic team can recover a great deal if they get there fast enough." Grace paused.
"But if Mercer knew what he was doing—if he used a proper wipe tool—we may lose some of it."
"How much does it matter?" I said.
"We already have the wire transfer records.
We have the shell company documentation.
We have Cat's testimony."
"It matters because the prosecutor wants to go after all eight years," Grace said.
"The earlier transactions are harder to prove without the internal communications.
If Mercer wiped the emails—the ones between him and Adrian—we lose the paper trail on the first four years."
I was quiet.
"Adrian would walk on half the charges," Grace said.
"He'd still face bigamy.
He'd still face the more recent fraud.
But his attorneys would argue the earlier conduct was unproven.
He might serve two years.
Maybe three."
"Instead of?"
"Twelve to fifteen."
The number settled between us.
"Then we need that server," I said.
"We need whatever's left of it," Grace said.
"The forensic team is good.
But I want you prepared for the possibility that Mercer got there first and knew exactly what he was doing."
My phone buzzed.
I looked at the screen.
Unknown number.
New York area code.
I showed it to Grace.
She nodded once.
"Answer it."
I picked up.
"Hello."
"Ms.
Hargrove." A man's voice.
Careful.
Measured.
"My name is Richard Mercer.
I think we should talk."
Grace's hand was already on my arm—a light pressure, steady.
"Mr.
Mercer," I said.
"You left the ceremony rather quickly."
"I did," he said.
"I had something I needed to take care of."
"The server room," I said.
A pause.
Longer than it should have been.
"I went to the office, yes," he said.
"But not to do what you think."
"Then what were you doing?"
"I was making a copy," Mercer said.
"Of everything.
Every email.
Every internal communication.
Every transaction record going back to the beginning." Another pause.
"Ms.
Hargrove, I have been Adrian Blackwell's attorney for six years.
I drafted documents I am not proud of.
I told myself they were legal.
Some of them were.
Some of them were not."
I looked at Grace.
Her expression hadn't changed.
"What do you want, Mr.
Mercer?" I said.
"I want to give you the copy," he said.
"All of it.
In exchange for a conversation with the federal prosecutor about cooperation."
"That's not my decision to make."
"No," he said.
"But it's your case.
And I think you know that what I have fills the gaps in your timeline." A pause.
"The first four years, Ms.
Hargrove.
I have all of it."
The cathedral doors were still open behind me.
Inside, the candles at the altar were still burning.
"Where are you?" I said.
"Forty-third and Lexington," he said.
"There's a coffee shop on the corner.
I have a laptop and a hard drive.
I'll wait one hour."
He ended the call.
Grace was already on her phone.
"I'm calling the prosecutor's office," she said.
"Don't go alone."
"I wasn't planning to," I said.
But even as I said it, I was thinking about what Mercer had said.
The first four years.
Adrian had been running this scheme for eight years.
I had built my case around the last four—the transactions I could trace, the shell companies I could document, the accounts I could follow.
The first four years had always been the gap.
The part I couldn't close.
If Mercer had it—
"Elise." Grace's voice was sharp.
"I need you focused.
Mercer is a co-conspirator trying to negotiate his way out of a federal charge.
He may be telling the truth about the documents.
He may also be trying to get you somewhere quiet to find out how much you actually have."
"I know," I said.
"Do you?"
I looked at her.
"I know.
That's why you're coming with me."
Grace held my gaze for a moment.
Then she put her phone to her ear and started walking.
I followed her down the cathedral steps, still in the dress I had worn to my own wedding—the slip beneath the gown, simple and white, the folders tucked under my arm, the city loud and indifferent around us.
Forty-third and Lexington.
One hour.
May you like
I had spent eleven months getting to this morning.
I could manage one more hour.
