Chapter 6 - Carter
Dominic arrived at the dialysis clinic forty-three minutes later without an entourage.
He drove himself.
That surprised me more than it should have.
His car was black, low, and probably worth more than every vehicle in the clinic parking lot combined.
He stepped out wearing yesterday's suit under a charcoal coat.
He looked like he had not slept either.
I met him outside before he could enter.
"You are not going near my mother."
He stopped on the sidewalk.
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good."
"You called me."
"I called you because you know the people doing this."
"Maybe."
"That word is becoming irritating."
"It is also accurate."
I folded my arms against the cold.
"What did you mean about my father?"
Dominic looked toward the clinic doors.
"We should talk somewhere private."
"This is private enough."
"There are three people smoking twenty feet away."
"Then speak quietly."
He studied me for a moment.
"You don't make things easy."
"Easy hasn't shown much interest in me."
That almost-smile appeared again.
Then he reached into his coat and handed me a thin manila folder.
My father's name was written across the tab.
DANIEL CARTER.
I did not take it immediately.
"What is this?"
"A copy."
"Of what?"
"Something Marco kept."
"Why?"
"Because my father told him to."
I took the folder.
Inside were seven pages.
The first was a photocopy of a handwritten note.
The writing was my father's.
I knew it instantly.
Dad wrote capital R's with an exaggerated loop because his third-grade teacher had taught cursive like it was architecture.
The note listed invoice numbers, truck routes, dates, and amounts.
At the bottom, he had written a sentence twice.
THE LOADS DO NOT EXIST.
My throat tightened.
The second page was an internal Whitmore Industrial payment sheet.
Moretti Logistics appeared in three lines.
Each payment exceeded $400,000.
The third page contained a photo of a warehouse loading dock.
The fourth showed a truck with a Moretti Logistics logo.
The fifth showed the same truck two days later with a different plate.
The sixth was a typed memo.
The seventh was a newspaper clipping about my father's death.
I looked up.
"Why did your father have this?"
"Daniel brought it to him."
"Why?"
"Because the name Moretti was on the invoices."
"So my father thought your family was stealing from Whitmore."
"At first."
"At first?"
Dominic leaned against the hood of his car.
"My father, Antonio, checked the company records."
"And?"
"Moretti Logistics had not handled those shipments."
"The invoices say they did."
"The invoices were fake."
I looked down at the papers.
"Someone was using your company name."
"Yes."
"Who?"
"My father believed the theft was internal to Whitmore."
"Believed?"
"He did not have proof yet."
"And then my father died."
Dominic nodded.
I felt pressure behind my eyes and hated it.
"What did your father do after that?"
"He told Marco to preserve Daniel's documents."
"That's it?"
Dominic's expression hardened.
"No."
"Then what?"
"He sent people to investigate."
The phrase made my stomach tighten.
"People."
"Investigators."
"Is that what you call them?"
"Sometimes."
"And what did they find?"
"Nothing they could prove."
"Convenient."
Dominic pushed away from the car.
"Do you think I came here before eight in the morning to lie to you?"
"I think rich men usually have reasons for everything."
"So do broke delivery drivers."
I stared at him.
"My reasons are taped to a refrigerator."
His expression changed slightly.
"And mine are buried in a cemetery in Rosehill."
That stopped me.
"Your father is dead?"
"Six years."
I had known that in the vague way people know facts about families in the news.
It felt different standing three feet from his son.
"How?"
"Cancer."
For once there was no mystery.
I looked back at Dad's note.
"Did he ever find out who forged the invoices?"
"He suspected Charles Whitmore's chief financial officer at the time."
"Who?"
"Martin Voss."
"Where is he now?"
"Dead."
I laughed bitterly.
"Of course."
"Heart attack three years ago."
"And Elliot Crane?"
"Worked under him."
I looked up sharply.
"So Crane might know everything."
"He might."
"And Vanessa?"
Dominic did not answer fast enough.
"What?"
"Vanessa was nineteen when your father died."
"So?"
"So I don't know how involved she could have been then."
"She is involved now."
"Maybe."
I glared at him.
"Use that word again and I may charge you for it."
He ignored the threat.
"The coverage review on your mother's insurance was initiated through a third-party benefits administrator."
"How do you know that already?"
"I made calls."
"To who?"
"People who return mine."
There it was.
Money bending the world again.
"Can you reverse it?"
"Probably."
I hated how much relief I felt.
"I don't want you paying for anything."
"I know."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"Then don't."
"I am not paying your bill."
He took out his phone.
"My attorney is challenging the review as potentially fraudulent interference."
"Fraudulent interference?"
"Someone submitted a claim that your mother had alternate primary coverage through an employer plan."
I stared at him.
"She hasn't worked in four years."
"Exactly."
"Who submitted it?"
"The form lists a benefits consultant named Lydia Roane."
"Who is she?"
"We are finding out."
"We?"
"Marco."
"I don't want Marco digging through my life."
"He already knows more about your father than either of us would like."
I looked at the folder.
That was true.
The clinic doors opened behind us.
A nurse I recognized stepped out.
"Avery?"
I turned immediately.
"Is she okay?"
"She's fine."
The nurse smiled reassuringly.
"She asked for you."
I started toward the doors.
Then I looked back at Dominic.
"Wait here."
"I'm not a dog."
"Then enjoy the parking lot voluntarily."
I went inside.
Linda was pale but alert, wrapped in a heated blanket while the machine beside her clicked softly.
"Your billionaire is outside," she said.
I stopped.
"He is not my billionaire."
"The nurses are talking."
"Nurses need hobbies."
She studied the folder under my arm.
"What's that?"
I hesitated.
Then I gave it to her.
She recognized Dad's handwriting on the first page.
Her fingers began to tremble.
"Where did you get this?"
"Dominic."
She read silently.
When she reached the typed memo, her expression changed.
"I've seen this."
My breath caught.
"Where?"
"Your father had a copy."
"Where is it now?"
"I don't know."
"Mom."
"He hid things near the end."
"What things?"
"Papers."
"Where?"
She looked toward the ceiling as if the answer might be written there.
"He kept saying he needed insurance."
I stared at her.
"Insurance?"
"Not medical insurance."
"What did he mean?"
"Something to protect us if the company came after him."
My mind raced.
"Did he have a safe-deposit box?"
"No."
"A storage unit?"
"Not that I knew."
"Did he give you a key?"
Linda frowned.
Then her eyes widened.
"The medal."
"What medal?"
"Your martial arts medal."
I stared.
"Which one?"
"The state championship."
A memory surfaced.
Dad holding my gold medal after my final tournament at seventeen.
Me complaining that he was getting fingerprints on it.
Him laughing and saying, Maybe one day this thing will be worth more than the trophy cabinet.
I had not thought about that medal in years.
"It's in the storage closet at home."
Linda shook her head.
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"After the funeral, I found it in his work locker box."
"Why would he have my medal at work?"
"I thought he took it because he was proud of you."
My heartbeat increased.
"Where is it now?"
"In the blue tin with your old belts."
I stood.
"I'm going home."
"Avery."
"I'll be back before you're finished."
"Don't go alone."
I looked through the window toward the parking lot.
Dominic was still by his car.
Linda followed my gaze.
"Take the billionaire."
"Stop calling him that."
"Does he have another job?"
"Several questionable ones."
She almost smiled.
Then her face became serious again.
"Take him."
Twenty minutes later, Dominic followed my sedan back to Cicero.
When we reached my street, I knew something was wrong before I parked.
The plastic covering my passenger window was flapping loose.
Our building's front door stood open.
A broken lock lay on the sidewalk.
I ran upstairs.
Dominic was behind me.
Our apartment door had been kicked inward.
Drawers were open.
Couch cushions were slashed.
Kitchen cabinets hung crooked.
The insurance envelope lay empty on the floor.
I crossed the apartment to the narrow hall closet.
Boxes had been thrown everywhere.
The blue tin was gone.
Dominic stood in the doorway behind me.
"They knew what you were looking for."
I stared at the empty shelf where my medal had been.
Then I noticed something taped to the wall.
A small white card.
Four words were printed across it.
May you like
STOP DIGGING, CARTER GIRL.
