Chapter 3 - THE LEDGER
The entry beside L.M. showed $48,000.
I had never received it.
Rebecca emailed me a photograph.
L.M. — CONSULTING / SECURITY REVIEW.
Four payments.
Twelve thousand each.
I recognized the dates.
Every one corresponded to a weekend when I had been performing reserve duty.
Perfect.
Someone had built a financial story around my military schedule.
“Bank account?” I asked.
“Still tracing it.”
Amelia looked at the ledger.
“That’s Gordon’s handwriting.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve worked for him nine years.”
“Then why would he put my initials?”
“To protect himself.”
“From what?”
“From you.”
That answer made sense.
Too much sense.
I had started asking questions about Halcyon’s shipment discrepancies two months earlier.
Nothing formal.
Just logistics inconsistencies.
Maybe Gordon noticed.
Maybe Amelia told him.
I looked at her.
“Did you tell Gordon what I was working on?”
“No.”
“Vance?”
“No.”
“Anyone?”
“My supervisor asked why you were traveling more.”
“And?”
“I said reserve work.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
I wanted to believe her.
Trust doesn’t disappear dramatically.
It becomes expensive.
Every answer suddenly costs more to accept.
That afternoon, Rebecca called again.
They found the account receiving the L.M. payments.
It belonged to Logan Mercer Consulting LLC.
I had never created that company.
Registered address:
A mailbox in Blackridge.
Authorized organizer:
Gordon Pike.
The forged company was crude.
But crude fraud works when nobody looks closely.
Someone had expected nobody to look.
Then Nora called me.
The waitress.
“How did you get my number?”
“Phone book.”
People in Blackridge still did things like that.
“What can I do for you?”
“You left your cap.”
“I wasn’t wearing one.”
Silence.
Then:
“I need to talk to you.”
“About Vance?”
Another silence.
“Yes.”
We met at a public park.
Nora arrived carrying a grocery bag.
Inside was a diner receipt book.
“What is this?”
“Vance meets Gordon every Tuesday.”
“At the diner?”
“Back booth.”
“Why does that matter?”
“They think waitresses are furniture.”
She opened the receipt book.
On several pages she had written fragments of conversations.
Truck numbers.
Dates.
Amounts.
“You recorded this?”
“Wrote it down afterward.”
“Why?”
“My husband drove for Gordon.”
“Drove?”
“He died last year.”
I remembered.
Truck accident on Route 17.
Brake failure.
Nora looked at me.
“He told me Gordon was making him haul empty trailers and sign full-load manifests.”
“Did he report it?”
“He tried.”
“To Vance.”
The pattern repeated.
“What happened?”
“Two weeks later, his brakes failed.”
I didn’t speak.
Nora shook her head.
“I can’t prove they killed him.”
“Then don’t say they did.”
“I know.”
That surprised her.
“I need facts, Nora.”
“I have one.”
She removed a small USB drive.
“My husband kept dashcam backups.”
I stared at it.
“What’s on there?”
“The night before he died, Gordon met him at the freight yard.”
“Audio?”
“Yes.”
“Have you listened?”
“Once.”
“What did Gordon say?”
Nora swallowed.
“He said, ‘If Mercer starts looking, we make him part of it.’”
My name.
Before I had even known there was a scheme.
Someone had been preparing to frame me for months.
Then Nora added:
“There’s another voice.”
“Vance?”
“No.”
“Who?”
May you like
She looked away.
“Your wife.”
