Chapter 8: The Ledger and the Woman in the Dark Coat
The drive to Portland took just under two hours on a clear run.
Mason made calls the entire way.
Maya sat beside him and listened to half-conversations she could only partially decode — names she didn't know, locations she couldn't place, the clipped shorthand of people who had worked together long enough to communicate in fragments.
What she understood: Diane Marsh had gotten off the bus at Portland's Union Station.
One of Mason's contacts in the city had eyes on her.
She had not been approached yet.
She was moving on foot, heading toward the waterfront.
What she also understood: Victor Hale had been seen that morning in Portland.
At Gerald Fitch's building.
"He's there to make sure the ledger disappears," Maya said.
Mason looked at her.
"Say that again."
"Carver sent Victor Hale to Portland.
Not to watch Diane — Hale doesn't know where she is yet.
Carver sent him to Fitch's office.
If the ledger gets destroyed before anyone photographs those entries, the gap in the federal case stays open.
Carver's lawyers use it.
The case weakens.
And Diane's testimony loses its anchor."
Mason was quiet for a moment.
"If the ledger is gone—"
"Then even if you find Diane and keep her safe, Carver still wins the legal fight." Maya held his gaze.
"You need the ledger today.
Before Hale gets to it."
Mason turned to Rourke in the front seat.
"How far are we from Fitch's building?"
"Twelve minutes."
"And Diane?"
"Contact says she's stopped.
Coffee shop on the waterfront.
Sitting near the window."
"Keep eyes on her.
Don't approach." He looked at Maya.
"I need you to go to Fitch's office now.
Not tomorrow.
Now."
"I know."
"I haven't arranged a meeting—"
"I don't need one." She was already thinking through it.
"I walk in as a walk-in.
Potential client, no appointment.
Apologize for the short notice, say I'm only in Portland for the day.
Attorneys see walk-ins when they're not busy, especially when the client mentions a budget."
"Fitch is cautious."
"Fitch is greedy," Maya said.
"You told me he manages legitimate real estate transactions.
That means he has legitimate clients he wants more of.
I'm a legitimate client." She paused.
"What's a number that sounds serious but not suspicious?"
"Tell him you're looking at a commercial property in the four-to-six million range."
Maya nodded.
"Four to six million.
Portland waterfront.
I want to understand the holding structure before I commit." She looked at him.
"That's the kind of thing that gets you a meeting."
The SUV stopped a block from the building.
Mason turned to face her fully.
"The filing cabinet will be to the left of his desk," he said.
"Dark grey, two drawers.
The lock is on the upper drawer.
The lower drawer uses the same key." He pressed the slim tool into her hand.
"March fourth, March nineteenth, April second.
Coastal logistics account.
Two photographs each."
"I know."
"If Hale is already in the building—"
"I walk out."
"If anything feels wrong—"
"I call you and walk out." She looked at him.
"I understand."
He held her gaze for a moment.
"Maya."
"What?"
He seemed to consider something.
Then: "Thank you."
She got out of the car.
The building was exactly as he had described — four floors, commercial, anonymous.
A directory in the lobby listed Fitch & Associates on the third floor.
Maya took the stairs.
The receptionist was young and slightly bored.
Maya gave her name as Claire Sutton, mentioned the four-to-six million range, and watched the receptionist's posture change in real time.
"Let me check if Mr.
Fitch has a few minutes," she said.
He had a few minutes.
Gerald Fitch was in his sixties, soft around the middle, with the practiced warmth of a man who had spent decades making nervous clients feel at ease.
He shook Maya's hand, gestured to the chair across from his desk, and began asking the standard questions.
Maya answered them.
She had prepared on the drive — the cover story was simple and she kept it consistent.
She asked about holding structures.
She asked about title complications on waterfront property.
She let him talk, because men like Fitch liked to demonstrate expertise, and while he talked she let her eyes move slowly, naturally, around the office.
The filing cabinet was exactly where Mason had said it would be.
Dark grey.
Two drawers.
Left of the desk.
She waited until Fitch turned to his computer to pull up a listing.
She shifted in her chair, reached down as though adjusting her shoe, and let her earring drop.
It made a small sound on the hardwood floor and rolled toward the cabinet.
"Oh — sorry," she said.
She stood, moved toward the cabinet, crouched down.
The tool was in her palm.
The lock took eight seconds.
The upper drawer opened silently.
The ledger was there — a standard black hardcover book, the kind sold in any office supply store.
She opened it to the index.
Found the coastal logistics account.
Flipped to March.
Fitch was still typing.
March fourth.
March nineteenth.
April second.
Six photographs.
Twelve seconds.
She closed the ledger.
Closed the drawer.
The lock clicked back into place.
She straightened up, earring in hand, and turned back to her chair.
"Found it," she said.
Fitch glanced over his shoulder.
"Good.
Now, regarding the title structure on waterfront parcels—"
She stayed for eight more minutes.
Asked two more questions.
Thanked him for his time.
Said she'd be in touch.
She was in the stairwell before she exhaled.
Her phone was already out.
She sent the six photographs to Mason's number and typed one word: *Done.*
His reply came in under thirty seconds.
*Rourke is outside.
Get in the car.*
She pushed through the lobby door into the grey Portland morning and found the SUV idling at the curb.
She got in.
"Did Hale go up?" she asked.
Rourke answered from the front.
"He arrived at the building four minutes after you went in.
He's still up there."
"Then he went to Fitch's office."
"Yes."
"And the ledger is still there."
"Yes."
Maya looked at Mason.
"Hale is going to find the ledger intact.
He'll tell Carver it's still there.
Carver will think he still has time to deal with it."
"Which buys us time," Mason said.
He was already forwarding the photographs.
"My contact at the federal prosecutor's office in Seattle is expecting these."
"Will they move quickly?"
"When they see what's in those entries, yes." He looked up from his phone.
"You did well."
"Where's Diane?" Maya asked.
"Still at the coffee shop." He checked his watch.
"We need to reach her before Carver's people figure out she's in Portland."
"She ran because someone told her you'd been compromised," Maya said.
"She doesn't trust your organization right now.
She might not come with you."
"I know."
"Then send me," Maya said.
Mason looked at her.
"She doesn't know me.
I have no connection to you, officially.
I walk in, I sit down, I tell her I know about the note and I know who sent it and she's not as safe as she thinks she is." Maya held his gaze.
"Woman to woman.
No security detail.
No black SUVs.
Just a conversation."
A long pause.
"The person who sent her that note," Maya said.
"Your leak.
Do you know who it is yet?"
Mason's expression hardened by a fraction.
May you like
"Yes," he said.
"I do."
