"I'm taking the shredder bin out to Julianne's trunk," Todd called down to Marcus. "Keep that fire door locked. If you see Lauren near the curb, call the district dispatch and tell them a fired employee is making threats."
I watched the progress bar on the diagnostic screen reach ninety-four percent.
Six seconds later, the drive blinked amber, then steady green: Transfer Complete. 14. 2 Gigabytes Copied.
I yanked the thumb drive from the port and shoved it into the zippered lining of my apron.
Waiting for Monday would kill my mother. Appealing to Marcus's conscience was a dead end; he was already an accomplice to felony real-estate fraud. If I left this property through the alley without forcing the truth into the dining room before Julianne’s dinner party dispersed, the paper trail upstairs would be ashes by sunrise.
I turned back to the spiral stairs, gripped the cold iron rail, and began to climb.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
He stood in front of the two-door steel credenza where we kept the daily cash envelopes, his head lowered and both hands braced against the edge of the laminate counter. His suit jacket was slung over the desk chair, exposing dark half-moons of sweat beneath the arms of his tailored service shirt. On the desk behind him sat the burgundy leather closing binder Julianne had brought to the property—the master transfer instrument, the asset schedule, and the state corporate filings.
I stepped across the brass threshold. The latch clicked softly as my heel cleared the frame.
Marcus spun around, his right hand snapping back toward the desk as if reaching for a phone, but the sight of my dirt-streaked service slacks and wet socks froze him against the cabinet drawers. The color dropped out of his cheeks in a single, sickening rush.
"Lauren," he whispered, his throat catching on the syllables. He glanced instinctively toward the hallway door, then down at my bare hands. "How did you—the alley door is deadbolted from the inside."
"The compressor intake hatch," I said, keeping my voice level, pitched just beneath the ceiling register that vented toward the dining room mezzanine. "The one you told the city fire marshal was permanently welded shut three years ago. Step back from the credenza, Marcus."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing against his tight collar. "You need to get off the premises right now. Todd went down to Julianne’s car, but he’s coming back up with the property handover receipts. If Vance Bradley finds you up here after being formally trespassed from the floor, they won't just file a civil injunction. They'll have the downtown precinct book you for commercial burglary."
"Burglary requires an unauthorized entry into property belonging to another party," I said. I pulled the black plastic thumb drive from the pocket of my server apron and held it between two fingers, letting the overhead halogen lamp strike the brass contacts. "This building is held under a twelve-year commercial lease assigned to Mercer Hospitality LLC. The master agreement has a mandatory cure window of thirty calendar days for any senior lien acceleration. And you know that better than Todd does, because you signed the postal receipt for the bank's acceleration letter on the morning of October first."
Marcus’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His eyes darted to the lower left drawer of the credenza—the private filing compartment keyed specifically to his master ring.
"I pulled the local terminal log from the auxiliary server in the compressor box," I told him, stepping forward until the mahogany desk stood between us. "The camera above the prep sink caught you taking the certified envelope from the postal courier at nine-fourteen that morning. It caught you sliding it into your personal gym bag instead of putting it into my administrative in-box. And on October fourteenth, at two-fifteen in the afternoon—while I was lying in a medically induced coma in room three-twelve at St. Peter’s with an endotracheal tube taped to my mouth—that same camera recorded you unlocking this exact office door for Todd Renfro."
Marcus closed his eyes. His shoulders slumped forward as if the bone structure inside his tailored shirt had collapsed. "Julianne told me the mezzanine note was already foreclosed, Lauren. She showed me the assignment contract from the regional bank. She swore the cure window was a formality that had expired in September."
"Julianne lied to you, and you took thirty pieces of silver to pretend you believed her," I said. "Where is Todd’s notary logbook?"
Marcus shook his head rapidly, his hands trembling as he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his heavy brass key ring. "Todd doesn't leave the logbook here. He keeps it in his leather attache. But he left the official embosser on the side table because Julianne wanted him to stamp the auxiliary liquor license transfer before the dining room cleared out."
He turned the key in the bottom credenza drawer with a sharp, metallic snap. The drawer rolled open on its steel bearings.