Chapter 7 - The Numbers Under the Numbers
The forensic accountant's name was Ruth Bell, and she wore running shoes to the union office because, she said, every corporate emergency eventually required sprinting down a hallway. She arrived at six in the morning with a laptop, an assistant, and a practical question: “Does anyone know where the original pension contribution notices are kept?”
Frank brought three metal boxes. Chantelle brought coffee, not because someone had asked her to serve but because she knew the workers would start arriving before dawn and nobody would think clearly on an empty stomach. She placed the cups on a separate table and sat down beside Ruth when invited. At the very least, she could help sort the documents by month.
The records showed that employees' wages had been reduced by the correct retirement deductions. Payroll statements reflected those reductions. But the pension administrator had received smaller transfers. A series of internal entries described the difference as “intercompany liquidity adjustments.” Ruth compared the payroll dates with the bank statements Simone had obtained under Devlin's authorization.
“Here,” Ruth said. “The money went into an account controlled by the holding company before it was supposed to reach the pension plan.”
“And then?” Frank asked.
“Some of it paid operating expenses. Some funded an acquisition deposit.” Ruth circled the latter entry. “The deposit was sent to an entity connected to Northpoint.”
For a moment, the office was silent. Chantelle thought of all the nights she'd worked until her legs trembled, trusting that the figures printed on her pay stub corresponded to something real. Frank took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his shirt.
“My people had that money taken out every Friday,” he said. “They did their part.”
Ruth nodded. “Now we document who instructed the transfers and who knew.”
Devlin arrived with Simone shortly after seven. There was no entourage, only a driver who stayed downstairs. He had read the preliminary report before coming. When Frank placed a pay stub in front of him and asked why a forklift operator's retirement had been used to finance a property deal, Devlin did not look at his lawyer for an answer.
“I authorized the central reserve,” he said. “Patrick controlled the transfers. I didn't authorize the deposit, but I allowed the system. I'll make the workers whole from assets I personally control.”
Frank's face stayed hard. “Then show us the money. And don't expect a parade for giving people back what they earned.”
“I don't.”
Chantelle watched Devlin sign a written authorization giving the accountant direct access to the relevant business ledgers, subject to the required legal safeguards. It wasn't redemption. It was an administrative act he'd failed to take months earlier. Still, it meant something would exist on paper after the room emptied.
At seven thirty, Solis called. Investigators had obtained matching maintenance-system records and communications linking Silas to Patrick's contracting team. Silas, now represented by counsel, had agreed to provide a statement under a formal cooperation agreement. His account would need independent corroboration, but he acknowledged passing along Devlin's route and approving the false exercise. Patrick had promised him a lucrative role after the acquisition. Silas claimed he hadn't known shots would be fired. Solis did not ask anybody to believe him on that point without evidence.
“Can you stop the vote?” Chantelle asked.
“We can provide documents to the proper authorities,” Solis replied. “The corporate lawyers are seeking an injunction. Those are different jobs.”
They were, and both were necessary. Simone submitted an emergency application supported by the preliminary accounting report and the maintenance records that investigators had authorized for disclosure. A court clerk confirmed a hearing. Patrick's attorneys argued that the sale was essential to protect the company from collapse. They pointed to the very reserve shortfall his transactions had helped create.
Chantelle wasn't in the courtroom. She was outside with Frank, Tessa, and workers whose safety boots left pale marks on the stone steps. A reporter asked her whether she was Devlin Murphy's girlfriend. She felt the old anger, the insistence that her relevance had to come from a man's name.
“No,” she said. “I'm a passenger who survived an attack. Ask why the train was stopped. Ask why workers' pension money is missing.”
The reporter asked whether she was afraid. “Yes,” Chantelle answered. “That doesn't make the questions less important.”
An hour later, the court temporarily blocked the sale pending further review. Cheers rose outside, then faded when Frank reminded the group that an injunction did not refill anybody's retirement account. The workers began organizing a formal claim. Ruth promised a complete audit, not a quick television headline.
Chantelle slipped around the side of the building and found Devlin standing alone beside a line of delivery trucks. He watched a driver unload crates as though work were a language he had forgotten how to speak.
“You could have kept the pension problem quiet,” she said.
“For another week, maybe.”
“You could have tried.”
He turned. “I spent years thinking control meant keeping unpleasant things where nobody could see them. Look where it brought us.”
“People who weren't even working for you almost died.”
“I know.”
“Don't use me to feel better about yourself.”
“I won't.” His voice was quiet. “I would like to know you, Chantelle. But I won't ask you to make this easier.”
The admission unsettled her more than a practiced compliment would have. Across the street, workers were returning to their shifts with lunchboxes and battered thermoses. Chantelle wondered how many had been told to be grateful merely because they still had jobs. She needed to see Devlin make changes when she wasn't watching, when there was no beautiful woman nearby to witness them and no newspaper to give him credit. Anything less was another performance staged at somebody else's expense. She liked the way he listened. She hated what his silence had enabled. Both feelings existed at once, and she refused to choose one merely because the story would be simpler.
“Start with the workers,” she told him. “Then the passengers. Then the truth.”
Devlin nodded. “In that order.”
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As she headed back inside, her phone buzzed with an update from Solis. Patrick Murphy had been served with a search warrant. Investigators had also found a second set of company books.
The attempt to take the docks was about to become something larger than a disputed sale.
