Chapter 7 - THE RED LEDGER
The silence in the SUV was suffocating. Madeline stared at Chloe’s digital notary stamp until the letters blurred.
"Grant blackmailed her," Madeline whispered, the horrifying puzzle pieces clicking into place. "Chloe’s younger brother has cystic fibrosis. Last month, his insurance denied a critical, experimental treatment. It cost two hundred thousand dollars. Chloe was frantic. Then, suddenly, she told me a private donor from the foundation stepped in to cover it anonymously."
"It wasn't a donation," Victor said grimly. "It was a down payment. Grant bought her loyalty and her security clearance."
"We have to talk to her," Madeline insisted, desperation making her bold. "If Chloe confesses to the wire fraud, it clears my name. And if she knows where the transfers originated, she might know where the physical evidence is."
"Marco," Victor commanded. "Find her."
"Already tracking her phone, boss," Marco replied. "She's not at your apartment, Ms. Hayes. She's at the Bellamy Crown Hotel. She swiped her employee access card in the basement archives ten minutes ago."
Victor’s eyes darkened. "The Mercer Foundation’s private archives are housed below the hotel. If Grant sent her down there tonight, he is tying up loose ends. Driver, get us to the Bellamy. Now."
They arrived at the loading dock of the hotel twenty minutes later. Victor’s men easily bypassed the low-level security guards at the service entrance. They moved through the labyrinthine concrete tunnels beneath the hotel, the air growing colder and staler the deeper they went.
"The archives are behind that biometric door," Marco said, pointing to a heavy steel door at the end of a long, flickering hallway. "My men can cut the power and drill the lock, but it will trigger a silent alarm to the precinct."
"No," Madeline said, stepping forward. "My fingerprints are still in the system. As a program director, I have tier-two access to pull old grant files."
Victor looked at her, his expression tight. "It is too dangerous, Madeline. Let Marco do it."
"I am not a damsel, Victor," Madeline said fiercely, turning to face him. "Grant stripped me of my agency for three years. He told me I was too loud, too emotional, too useless to handle the business. I am opening this door."
A flicker of profound respect crossed Victor’s face. He stepped back. "Go."
Madeline pressed her thumb against the glowing green glass of the biometric scanner. A second later, a heavy mechanical thunk echoed, and the steel door hissed open.
The archive room was massive, smelling of dust and aging paper. Rows upon rows of towering metal shelves stretched into the darkness.
"Chloe?" Madeline called out softly, stepping inside. Victor was a silent shadow right behind her.
A sob echoed from the back of the room. Madeline rushed down the center aisle. She found Chloe huddled on the floor, clutching a shredder bag, her face stained with tears and terror.
"Maddie," Chloe gasped, scrambling backward. "Maddie, I'm so sorry. I didn't want to. Grant told me if I didn't stamp the transfers, he would pull my brother’s funding. He would let him die."
Madeline dropped to her knees, grabbing her friend's trembling shoulders. The anger melted into profound sorrow. "I know, Chlo. I know. But you have to help me now. What are you doing down here?"
"Grant sent me to shred the paper trails," Chloe cried, pointing to a rolling cart filled with manila folders. "But the master ledger—the old one he uses to track the offshore accounts—it isn't in his penthouse safe. He lied to you. He keeps it down here, hidden in the historical tax boxes, because nobody ever audits the dead files."
Victor stepped forward into the dim light. Chloe shrieked, recognizing the infamous Moretti.
"Where is it?" Victor demanded, his voice low and commanding.
"Aisle four," Chloe stammered, terrified. "Box marked 1998. It’s a red leather book."
"Get her out of here," Victor ordered Marco. "Take her to the estate. She will be safe there."
Marco hauled the weeping Chloe to her feet and escorted her out.
Madeline didn't wait. She ran to aisle four, her bare foot and single emerald shoe making an uneven, frantic rhythm on the concrete floor. She scanned the dusty cardboard boxes until she saw it: Tax Disclosures - 1998.
She ripped the lid off. Buried beneath a stack of yellowed receipts was a heavy, worn red leather ledger.
"I found it," Madeline breathed, pulling it out. She opened the cover. The first page bore her mother’s meticulous, elegant handwriting. It was the original proof of the Mercer fraud.
Madeline took a step backward, overwhelming relief flooding her system.
CRACK.
Her remaining emerald stiletto snapped loudly against a loose metal floor grate.
Instantly, the overhead fluorescent lights snapped on, blindingly bright.
"You always were too loud, Madeline," a sweet, trembling voice said from the end of the aisle. "So much noise. So little elegance."
Madeline froze. She turned slowly.
Standing at the end of the aisle, wearing a pristine pearl necklace and a soft, pink Chanel suit, was Mrs. Gable.
May you like
The sweet, seventy-year-old chairwoman of the Mercer Foundation board. The woman who brought cookies to Madeline’s art classes.
And in her frail, wrinkled hands, Mrs. Gable was holding a suppressed 9mm pistol, aimed directly at Madeline’s chest.
