The CFO's name had been Richard Chan. Forty-nine years old. Married for twenty-two years. Two children, both in college. He'd met his wife, Elena, at a church potluck in Queens. They'd adopted a rescue dog named Toast.
Victoria had read his entire personnel file on the flight back from Seattle. Richard Chan was a meticulous man. Every expense report, every email, every meeting note was organized down to the quarter hour. He'd never taken a sick day. He'd never been late to a meeting.
And then, on a Tuesday afternoon in March, he'd collapsed at his desk. Dead before the ambulance arrived.
The official cause: myocardial infarction. The unofficial cause: stress, overwork, and a secret he'd taken to his grave.
Elena Chan lived in a townhouse in Scarsdale. The neighborhood was quiet, tree-lined, expensive. Victoria parked her rental car across the street and sat for a moment, watching the house.
Nathaniel had made the call. Elena had agreed to fifteen minutes. No more.
Victoria walked up the front steps and rang the bell.
A woman opened the door. She was in her early fifties, with silver-streaked hair and eyes that had cried too much. She wore a simple black dress and no makeup.
"Ms. Hart?"
"Yes. Thank you for seeing me."
Elena stepped aside. The house was warm and smelled like cinnamon. Family photos lined the walls—vacations, birthdays, the dog. A man with a kind smile and tired eyes appeared in every frame.
Richard Chan.
They sat in the living room. Elena offered tea. Victoria accepted.
"I know why you're here," Elena said. "Richard's hard drives."
"Yes."
Elena set down her teacup. Her hands were steady, but her voice trembled slightly. "The police said it was a robbery. I didn't believe them."
"Why not?"
"Because Richard was careful. He backed up everything. He had three copies of every file—one at work, one at home, and one in a safe deposit box. The night he died, I went to the safe deposit box. It was empty."
Victoria leaned forward. "The bank said someone accessed it?"
"They said Richard accessed it the morning of his death. But that's impossible. He was at work. He collapsed at two in the afternoon. The bank records show the box was opened at eleven AM."
"Someone forged his signature?"
"Someone had a key. Richard never gave me a copy. He said the box was for emergencies only."
"What was in it?"
Elena looked down at her hands. "I don't know. He never told me. But he said something before he died. The night before. He said, 'Elena, if anything happens, don't trust the company. Trust the numbers.'"
Victoria felt a chill run down her spine.
"Trust the numbers," she repeated.
"He was an accountant. Numbers were everything to him."
"Do you still have his personal computer? The one from home?"
"It's in his study. The police took it, but they gave it back. There's nothing on it. I had a friend look."
"May I see it?"
Elena hesitated. Then she stood up and led Victoria to a small study on the second floor. The room was frozen in time—pens in a mug, a calendar still open to March, a framed photo of Richard and Toast.
The laptop sat on the desk, closed.
Victoria opened it. The battery was dead. She found a charger, plugged it in, and waited.
The screen flickered to life. No password. Richard had trusted his home to be safe.
She opened the hard drive. Documents, photos, music. Nothing unusual.
Then she found a folder labeled "Taxes." Inside, a single encrypted file.
"Did Richard use any encryption software?"
Elena shook her head. "Not that I knew."
Victoria tried to open the file. It asked for a password.
She thought about what Richard had said. Trust the numbers.
She typed: 2400000.
The file opened.
Inside was a list of names. Twelve of them. Each with a dollar amount next to it. And at the top of the list, a name Victoria recognized.
Nathaniel Cross.
She closed the laptop and turned to Elena.
"I need to take this with me."
"Is it important?"
Victoria looked at the widow's face. She deserved the truth. But not yet.
"Yes," Victoria said. "It's very important."