Chapter 10: The Briefcase
Eight months after the night at Sterling Ridge, I went back to the office.
Not to my old position.
That role had ended when the investigation became public and my involvement in it was formally documented.
There had been a review — standard procedure when an auditor has a personal connection to subjects of an investigation.
The review concluded that my conduct had been professional throughout and that the personal connection, while unusual, had not compromised the integrity of the evidence.
The new position was a promotion.
Senior Forensic Auditor, Complex Financial Crjme Unit.
A team of six.
A corner office with a window that looked out over the city.
I brought Nora to the office on my first day back.
Renata had flown in again to watch her, but I wanted to carry her through the lobby first.
I wanted her to see the building.
She was eight months old and regarded the lobby with her usual serious expression, as if she were already evaluating the architectural decisions.
My colleague Marcus met me at the elevator.
He had been on the Sterling case team.
He had been the one to image the financial server at nine thirty-one, sixteen minutes before Whitfield's deletion attempt.
He looked at Nora.
"She has your eyes," he said.
"Everyone says that."
"It's true."
He held the elevator door.
"Good to have you back," he said.
"Good to be back."
My office was clean and bare.
Someone had put a small plant on the windowsill.
There was a note beside it in handwriting I recognized as Diana's.
*The plant is low-maintenance.
Like you.
Welcome back.*
I set Nora's carrier on the desk and looked out the window.
The city was ordinary and bright below.
Traffic.
People.
The unremarkable movement of a normal day.
I thought about the black briefcase.
It had been logged as evidence the night of the warrant execution.
I had never asked for it back.
It had done its job.
I had a new one now.
Standard issue.
Nothing remarkable about it.
I picked up the first file on my desk.
A new case.
A different family.
A different set of shell companies and phantom vendors and signatures on documents that someone had assumed no one would ever examine closely enough.
I opened the file.
Nora made a small sound from her carrier.
I looked over.
She had found her own hand and was studying it with complete absorption.
"Give me an hour," I told her.
She ignored me, which was fair.
I started reading.
---
Some people mistake silence for weakness.
They look at a quiet woman doing careful work and see someone they can overlook, manage, or push into a bathroom and lock the door.
They are always wrong.
Have you ever been underestimated by someone who should have known better — and found a way to let the truth speak for itself?
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