"Who?" I asked again.
Chapter 7: Someone in Our Family
My father looked at Jack, then at Jonah, and forced a smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Jonah," he said, "would you take this young man back to the dining room? I believe there was a promise about more cake."
Jack looked at me. "The biggest slice, remember?"
"I remember," I said. "Go with Jonah. Stay where he can see you."
Jack took his hand and went, glancing back once. When the dining room door closed behind them, my father's smile vanished.
"Walk with me," he said.
We crossed the lobby to the fireplace, far from the desk. My father stood too close to the heat, as if he were cold to the bone.
"You said Frank is not the thief," I said. "Then give me a name, Dad."
He stared into the flames. "Andrew."
"Andrew," I repeated. "My uncle Andrew?"
"Your mother's younger brother," he said. "Executive Vice Chairman of this company. My brother in law. Someone in our family, Clara."
I laughed once, without humor. "No."
"I said the same thing," he said. "For months, I said the same thing."
"Andrew sat at our table every Christmas of my childhood. He gave the toast at my wedding reception."
"Your other uncle gave that toast," he said quietly. "Andrew held the ring for you. I remember."
"Then you remember wrong about this too," I said. "What proof do you have?"
"Numbers," he said. "Ugly, patient numbers. Nineteen million dollars, Clara. Over twenty nine months."
The fire popped. "Nineteen million," I said.
"Routed through six consulting companies. Four are real businesses with offices and letterhead. Two exist only on paper. Nothing but a bank account and a name."
"Doing what?" I asked.
"Everything and nothing. Renovation invoices for work that was never done. Vendors paid through subsidiaries until nobody could tell who had approved what. Guest compensation reimbursing stays that never happened, for guests who do not exist."
"Someone would have seen it," I said.
"Each property manager saw only his own fragment," he said. "One strange invoice. One odd staffing account. One compensation file that looked like a clerical error. Nobody saw the whole shape of it, because the shape was hidden by design. That is how it survived every audit you ordered."
"You knew," I said. "How long have you known?"
"I suspected," he said. "Eight months ago, Frank came to me in Zurich with a second set of vendor records. Hand maintained, Clara. Someone inside his office had been keeping them off the system, line by line, because the official files kept changing after he saved them."
"Frank did what any careful man does when the computers start lying to him," he said. "Then he hired help."
"Who?"
"A forensic analyst named Lucas Meyer. Thirty four years old. Brilliant, Frank said. Quiet."
My father turned from the fire at last.
"Six months ago, Lucas walked out of his apartment one morning with his bag and his coffee, and he never arrived at work," he said. "A missing person report was filed, and it led nowhere. No body. No ransom. No trace."
"You think Andrew made him disappear," I said.
"I think Lucas found the pattern," he said. "And I think someone decided that was far enough."
"That is suspicion," I said. "Not proof. You are accusing my uncle of stealing nineteen million dollars and making a man vanish, and all you have given me is suspicion."
"Four months ago, a package arrived at my house," he said. "No postmark. Inside was a photograph of you and Jack outside his school. Taken from across the street, through a car window, I think. Jack had his backpack half open. You were fixing his strap."
My throat closed. "I remember that morning."
"There was a note with it," he said. "One sentence. It quoted something only four people in this world have ever known, Clara. You. Me. Frank. And Walter."
"Then the threat came from one of us," I whispered.
"Or from someone one of us trusted with it," he said. "After that package, I doubled the security around Jack's school. I hired two men you never saw. I did not tell you because I needed you in London until Frank had proof."
"You lied to me," I said. "You watched my son through hired men and you lied to me."
"I protected him," he said. "Call it what you need to call it. But understand this: whoever sent that photograph was not warning me away from Andrew. They were warning me that anyone who gets close to this can be reached. Anyone. Including a boy with a backpack."
I looked down then, because I could not look at his face, and I saw his hands at his sides, shaking for the first time I could remember.