Chapter 5 - THE MONEY THAT DISAPPEARED BETWEEN TWO FLOORS
“Who is Crescent Harbor Holdings?”
Thomas Whitaker stared at the name as though I'd placed something dangerous on the counter.
“A property investment group,” he said.
“Who owns it?”
“Several private investors.”
“Which investors?”
“That's confidential commercial information.”
I almost laughed.
“You're asking me to sell part of my hotel to a company whose owners you won't identify.”
Thomas straightened.
“I'm asking you to save the Bellwether before the lender forces a much worse outcome.”
“Then start by giving me an answer.”
He didn't.
Instead, he turned toward Adrian.
“We should discuss this Monday with the full board.”
I looked at the engagement guests behind him.
“No, Thomas. Monday is when you'll explain what we've discovered tonight. Until then, all proposed property transactions are suspended.”
“You can't suspend the lender's rights.”
“But I can suspend my approval.”
I asked Maya to arrange a room where we could review the original accounting records without disrupting the guests.
She found an unused conference room on the second floor.
By nine-thirty, I was sitting beneath a fluorescent light with invoices spread across a walnut table.
My coat hung over the back of a chair.
It still smelled of champagne.
Adrian stood beside the window.
Thomas had declined to join us, claiming he needed to speak with the lender.
That suited me.
I wanted to see the numbers without him explaining them away.
Evan Brooks, our assistant controller, arrived carrying two accounting binders.
He was in his early forties, with tired eyes and a carefully pressed shirt.
When I asked why our event expenses had risen so sharply, he hesitated.
“Mrs. Bell, I flagged those charges in September.”
“To whom?”
“Mr. Price.”
Adrian spoke immediately.
“They were reviewed.”
Evan looked uncomfortable.
“Some were. Others were recoded.”
“Recoded how?” I asked.
He opened the first binder.
“Large private-event expenses were divided between departments. Some were assigned to marketing. Some to maintenance. Several were charged against the Open Door Program.”
“Who approved that?”
Evan glanced at Adrian.
“Executive management.”
I looked at the invoices.
One floral arrangement appeared three times under slightly different descriptions.
Security services for Sloane's engagement party had been billed as overnight assistance for medical-program guests.
Transportation charges appeared for families who had never checked into the hotel.
More than $280,000 in questionable expenses had accumulated across two quarters.
And that was only what we could identify immediately.
“Why didn't you report this to me?” I asked Evan.
His shoulders sagged.
“I tried to ask for an independent review. I was told the finance committee had already approved the allocations.”
He slid another sheet across the table.
It contained a note from Thomas's office:
All department questions to be routed through executive management. Do not circulate incomplete figures to ownership.
I looked at Adrian.
“You knew.”
He sat down heavily.
“I knew the allocations were being made.”
“And you knew they weren't legitimate?”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“The hotel was under pressure. Thomas said the restructuring would correct everything.”
“By taking money from families who couldn't afford hospital lodging?”
Adrian flinched.
“That wasn't how he presented it.”
“But you signed the invoices.”
He said nothing.
At ten-fifteen, Sloane appeared in the conference room doorway.
Her sequined dress looked ridiculous beneath the fluorescent lighting.
She wasn't smiling anymore.
“Adrian,” she said, “the ballroom manager says we owe another thirty thousand dollars.”
Nobody answered.
She looked at me.
“I need to explain something.”
I set down my pen.
“Go ahead.”
“Those invoices from Mercer Events? Some of them are mine.”
“I noticed.”
“My company handled flowers, decorations, and entertainment. Adrian told me the hotel had a promotional allowance.”
“Did you question why your invoices included guest relocation services?”
Sloane blinked.
“What?”
I showed her the page.
She stared at it.
“My company doesn't provide relocation services.”
“Then why is it listed?”
“I don't know.”
Adrian stepped forward.
“Sloane, this isn't the place.”
She turned on him.
“You told me everything was covered.”
“It was supposed to be.”
“Covered by whom?”
He didn't answer.
Sloane's eyes filled with angry tears.
For the first time, I saw something besides arrogance in her expression.
Fear.
She wasn't innocent. She had mocked my coat, humiliated me in front of strangers, and used Adrian's position to intimidate an employee.
But she seemed genuinely shocked by what was happening to her business.
I turned another invoice toward her.
“Did you authorize this?”
The document contained a $22,500 consulting fee.
Sloane studied it.
Then she nodded reluctantly.
“Yes.”
“For what?”
She looked down.
“Adrian said it was an advance for a future project.”
“What project?”
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
“A showroom.”
I waited.
“He said when the east wing was converted into residences, I'd have space downstairs for a bridal showroom. He said we could build something together.”
Adrian closed his eyes.
“Sloane—”
“You promised me,” she whispered.
I leaned forward.
“And where was the advance supposed to come from?”
She shook her head.
“I never asked.”
That admission seemed to hurt her more than anything else.
Evan quietly placed a final document on the table.
It showed the proposed showroom deposit moving through an account associated with Crescent Harbor Holdings.
At the bottom was an address.
I recognized it immediately.
Not because I'd ever visited Crescent Harbor.
But because it was the same office address printed on every financial report Thomas Whitaker had sent me for years.
I looked at Adrian.
“Thomas isn't merely advising the buyer, is he?”
Adrian stared at the document.
Then Sloane spoke.
Her voice was barely audible.
“Adrian, tell her what you told me about Thomas's investment.”
He looked up sharply.
“Don't.”
Sloane's expression changed.
She reached into her evening bag and pulled out a folded piece of hotel stationery.
On it was a drawing of the proposed bridal showroom.
May you like
At the bottom, beside Adrian's handwriting, were six words.
THOMAS GETS THE PROPERTY. WE GET OUR FUTURE.
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