Chapter 9 - THE MAN ETHAN TRUSTED MOST
Martin waited in a private conference room downstairs.
Two federal financial investigators sat beside him.
His lawyer sat across the table.
Victor was placed in another room.
Patricia and Karla had been sent home pending formal review.
Lupita refused to leave.
Ethan did not ask her to.
Before entering, Ethan checked on Lily.
She was awake now.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed eating crackers.
The battered roses stood beside her.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Did the mean lady get in trouble?”
The question hurt.
Children reduce adult failures to their simplest form.
Mean.
Kind.
Safe.
Not safe.
“She’s not working tonight.”
Lily nodded.
“Is Lupita okay?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Then Lily looked at the roses.
“Mommy would like those.”
Ethan kissed her forehead.
“She would.”
He left before Lily could see his eyes change.
Downstairs, Martin looked exhausted.
No expensive smile.
No performance.
Ethan closed the conference room door.
“Why are federal investigators here?”
Martin answered.
“Because I called them six weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“Because I found evidence someone was forging your approvals.”
Ethan stared at him.
“You expect me to believe you’re protecting me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Martin pushed a folder across the table.
“I expect you to read.”
Inside were copies of the same ownership documents Ethan had seen at the gala.
But these copies contained metadata reports.
The forged signature was linked to Ethan’s physical token.
Martin’s access records showed something else.
His credentials had been used too.
On nights he was documented in other cities.
Someone had been impersonating both of them.
Ethan looked at the investigators.
“Is this verified?”
One nodded.
“Preliminarily.”
“Then who moved the assets?”
“That is what we are investigating.”
Ethan turned toward Martin.
“What about the employee fund?”
Martin looked ashamed.
“I authorized transfers.”
“So that part is real.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought Sarah had created those accounts for an internal investigation.”
“She did.”
“I continued them.”
“After she died?”
“Yes.”
“Using money intended for employees?”
Martin closed his eyes.
“That was wrong.”
“Lupita’s husband needed surgery.”
Martin looked down.
“She should have received help.”
“She didn’t.”
“I know.”
“No. You know now because I found out.”
Martin had no answer.
Ethan leaned forward.
“You can cooperate with every federal agency in America. You still took money away from people who needed it.”
“Yes.”
The simple admission took some of Ethan’s anger away.
Not the accountability.
Just the noise.
“Why tonight?”
Martin looked toward the investigators.
“Because whoever has been manipulating the ownership structure scheduled the final vote.”
“You.”
“No.”
“Your name is on it.”
“Forged.”
“Convenient.”
“I know.”
“Victor says you’re behind it.”
“Victor has been taking kickbacks for four years.”
“Also convenient.”
Martin rubbed his face.
“Ethan, Sarah knew we had an internal problem.”
“She wrote your name.”
“I know.”
“She didn’t trust you.”
“I know.”
That answer stopped him.
Martin’s eyes were wet.
“She shouldn’t have.”
Ethan said nothing.
“After she died, I found part of her investigation. I thought I could finish it without putting you through more.”
“You made that decision for me.”
“Yes.”
“Everyone keeps doing that.”
Martin lowered his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Ethan almost laughed.
Sorry.
A small word for three years of secrets.
One investigator placed another file on the table.
“We believe the person directing the ownership changes had access to the original corporate formation documents.”
“Sarah?”
“No.”
“Martin?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
The investigator looked at Ethan.
“Someone involved before the first Grand Regent opened.”
Ethan frowned.
“That leaves four people.”
“Exactly.”
“Me. Sarah. Martin.”
“And?”
Ethan stopped.
The fourth person had not worked for Vance Hospitality in thirteen years.
Graham Vance.
Ethan’s father.
The man who had invested the first $2 million when every bank laughed at Ethan’s original business plan.
The man Ethan had later forced out after discovering he was using company money to cover gambling debts.
The man who had died seven years ago.
Martin opened a photograph.
Taken three months earlier.
A hotel lobby in Toronto.
Victor Hale stood near the elevators.
Beside him was an older man wearing a gray coat.
The image was grainy.
But Ethan recognized the posture.
The shoulders.
The face.
His father.
Alive.
May you like
Martin whispered:
“Graham Vance never died.”
