Chapter 2 - HER FATHER’S MEDICINE CAME FROM MY COMPANY
I stood outside Gordon Pike’s office with ice water still drying on my jeans and listened to my own company name become a weapon.
Bellacort did not sell medication directly.
We handled temperature-controlled storage and transport.
Hospitals.
Specialty pharmacies.
Research facilities.
If someone was using our name to create private debt, something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Cassie said, “You told me there was no other way to get it.”
“There isn’t.”
“That’s why I’ve been working doubles.”
“That’s why your father is alive.”
His tone made my jaw tighten.
I knocked once and entered.
Gordon looked up.
Cassie went pale.
“You’re still here?”
“I forgot my jacket.”
I wasn’t wearing one.
Cassie noticed.
Gordon did too.
“What do you want?”
I glanced at the paper on his desk.
“You said Bellacort.”
His hand covered it immediately.
“Private business.”
“I repair refrigeration systems. I know medical distributors.”
“A man driving a fifteen-year-old Corolla does not know Bellacort.”
Cassie looked embarrassed for me again.
I almost enjoyed it.
Almost.
“I know enough to know they don’t finance patient medication through restaurant managers.”
Gordon stood.
“Leave.”
Cassie whispered, “It’s okay.”
No.
It wasn’t.
But revealing myself would solve the wrong problem.
If Gordon knew who I was, every document would disappear before morning.
So I shrugged.
“Fine.”
Then I looked at Cassie.
“Good night.”
She gave me a small grateful nod.
Outside, I walked half a block.
My security SUV rolled forward.
The passenger door opened.
Marco DeLuca looked at my soaked jeans.
“Bad date?”
“Excellent data.”
He stared.
I got in.
“Find everything on Gordon Pike.”
Marco raised an eyebrow.
“Restaurant manager?”
“And Walter Doyle.”
“Who?”
“The waitress’s father.”
That eyebrow went higher.
“Do I want context?”
“No.”
“You never want context until context starts shooting at us.”
I ignored him.
“Also pull Bellacort shipments tied to cardiology medication in Manhattan over the last eighteen months.”
Now he stopped joking.
“Why?”
“Because someone is using my company’s name to trap a waitress in debt.”
Twenty minutes later, Cassie left the restaurant through the employee entrance.
She wrapped a cheap coat around herself and walked toward the subway.
No car.
No ride.
No one waiting.
I watched from across the street.
Marco noticed.
“You’re not going to follow her.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
“Have someone make sure she gets home.”
“That is following her.”
“Discreetly.”
Marco sighed.
At 1:17 a.m., my phone rang.
Bellacort’s overnight compliance director.
He had already found something.
There was no Walter Doyle in our patient-facing records because we did not keep patient-facing records.
But there was a recurring shipment to a private clinic in Queens.
Cardiology injectables.
Cold-chain restricted.
The receiving physician was Dr. Samuel Harker.
The billing guarantor?
Gordon Pike Hospitality Holdings.
That made no sense.
Then my director sent the associated transport authorization.
My signature appeared at the bottom.
Perfect.
Except I had never signed it.
Someone inside Bellacort had forged my approval.
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And the authorization had been active for twenty-two months.
The exact length of time Cassie had been working at Marino’s Table.
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