Chapter 6 - The Account Celeste Wasn’t Supposed to Have
Dr. Simon Kessler had an office on the Upper East Side.
At least according to the letterhead.
The next morning, Marcus called before I left my hotel.
“Do not go there alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“I’m taking you.”
“That is the first sensible thing you’ve said this week.”
We arrived at nine forty.
The address belonged to a polished medical building with brass elevators and quiet carpeting.
Suite 1104 existed.
Dr. Kessler’s name appeared on the door.
But the receptionist frowned when I showed her the document.
“We don’t issue these.”
Marcus asked, “Is Dr. Kessler available?”
“He died.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
Marcus and I looked at each other.
The document was dated eleven months after his death.
“Who took over his practice?” I asked.
“No one. His records were transferred.”
“To where?”
She became cautious.
“I can’t disclose patient information.”
“I’m not asking for patient information. I’m asking who controls the former practice records.”
Marcus handed her his card.
“This document bears Dr. Kessler’s signature after his death. If you prefer, law enforcement can make the request.”
Ten minutes later, we had a name.
A records management company.
At eleven twenty, Marcus obtained counsel.
At two, we learned something stranger.
Dr. Kessler had once treated Richard Hale.
Not me.
Richard.
We could not see the records.
Did not need to.
The connection was enough.
That afternoon, Celeste met us at Marcus’s office.
She had brought the physical laptop.
And an attorney.
Good.
Her attorney was a sharp woman named Denise Patel who looked like she considered everyone in the room potentially irritating.
“My client will cooperate,” Denise said.
“With conditions.”
Marcus nodded.
“Reasonable ones.”
Celeste sat across from me.
She could barely look at me.
I did not enjoy that.
I wanted accountability.
Not humiliation.
There is a difference people forget when they’re angry.
Marcus began reviewing the financial trail.
Most payments to Celeste had flowed into CA Brand Strategies.
Some paid legitimate expenses.
Some transferred onward.
“To where?” I asked.
He enlarged a diagram.
“Here.”
A company named Northglass Advisors.
I recognized nothing.
“Who owns it?”
“Nominee structure.”
“And after that?”
“Cayman account.”
Celeste frowned.
“I never sent money there.”
Denise turned to her.
“You signed authorizations.”
“I signed tax forms.”
Marcus slid copies across the table.
“These are wire authorizations.”
Celeste’s face lost color.
“I didn’t sign those.”
Everyone stopped.
Denise picked up the first document.
“Celeste.”
“I didn’t.”
She looked at me desperately.
“I swear.”
Marcus asked, “How certain are you?”
“That isn’t my signature.”
Denise examined it.
“It looks like yours.”
“I know.”
She pulled out her phone.
“My real signature has a loop in the A.”
She showed us.
She was right.
Small difference.
But real.
Someone had forged her too.
Marcus leaned back.
“This changes things.”
Celeste whispered, “Grant?”
“Possibly Richard.”
“Why use my company?”
“Because nobody is surprised when a fashion socialite gets paid by a fashion company.”
She flinched.
Marcus did not apologize.
He wasn’t wrong.
The arrangement had hidden transfers inside something already questionable enough to discourage deeper scrutiny.
Celeste had been both participant and cover.
Denise turned toward her client.
“You understand what this means?”
Celeste nodded slowly.
“I was useful.”
The sentence landed heavily.
I knew that feeling.
Celeste and I were not the same.
I refused any version of the story that erased her responsibility.
She had knowingly slept with my husband.
Accepted extravagant gifts.
Mocked me.
But Grant had also used her.
Two truths could exist together.
My phone buzzed.
Alessandra.
I answered.
“Tell me you found money.”
“Better.”
“What’s better than money?”
“People who want to give us money.”
I nearly smiled.
The Fashion Week controversy had created unexpected demand.
Museum buyers wanted access to the archive.
A documentary company wanted licensing rights.
A major retailer proposed an exclusive capsule collection.
The story was becoming commercially valuable.
That made me uncomfortable.
But discomfort did not pay seamstresses.
“How much?”
Alessandra told me.
It covered Vale payroll.
Not Mercer Vale.
Still, one fire contained.
“We accept the museum offer,” I said.
“Not the retailer?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Too much control.”
“You sound like me.”
“Terrifying.”
After the call, Marcus handed me another report.
“We found Northglass.”
“And?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Today has been full of that.”
He turned the page.
Northglass Advisors had been established six years earlier.
Its registered beneficiary was not Grant.
Not Richard.
Not Celeste.
It was a trust.
And the trust beneficiary was Elaine Porter.
Mercer Vale board member.
Corporate attorney.
The woman who had voted to remove me.
I stared at the name.
“Elaine?”
Marcus nodded.
“Possibly without her knowledge.”
“Or with it.”
“Yes.”
The conspiracy widened again.
I thought about the board meeting.
Elaine had seemed uneasy.
But she still voted for Grant.
“Call her.”
Marcus said, “No.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t know whether she’s involved.”
“Then what?”
“We watch.”
I hated waiting.
But he was right.
At six p.m., I returned to Mercer Vale headquarters.
Most employees had gone home.
The building felt different without Grant.
Quieter.
I entered my old office.
I had not used it regularly in months.
Grant had gradually moved major meetings to the executive suite upstairs.
I told myself I preferred working remotely.
Now I wondered how much space I had surrendered without noticing.
On my desk sat a package.
No postage.
No delivery label.
Only my name.
I called security before touching it.
They checked the hallway cameras.
A maintenance worker had found it outside my door.
Inside was a flash drive.
And a note.
You are looking at the wrong account.
No signature.
Marcus arrived thirty minutes later.
Cybersecurity isolated the drive.
It contained one file.
A spreadsheet.
Thousands of rows.
Payments.
Vendor names.
Dates.
Amounts.
And one column labeled:
GUEST.
Grant.
Richard.
Elaine.
Initials.
Codes.
Then one name appeared repeatedly.
V.M.
My initials.
I felt sick.
“They used your name,” Marcus said.
“Or someone wants it to look that way.”
“What does V.M. authorize?”
He studied the entries.
“Large transfers.”
“How large?”
“Twenty-seven million.”
I stared.
“Over what period?”
“Five years.”
“Someone made it look like I approved twenty-seven million dollars?”
“Yes.”
The contingency plan suddenly made sense.
Forge my authorization.
Create fake medical records.
If the fraud emerged, blame the unstable wife.
A complete story.
Almost elegant.
Then cybersecurity opened the final tab.
A list of scheduled future transfers.
One was dated tomorrow.
$3.2 million.
Destination:
Northglass Advisors.
Authorization:
V.M.
My name.
A transaction that had not happened yet.
A transaction we could watch.
Marcus looked at me.
“If we stop it, they’ll know we found the ledger.”
“What if we don’t?”
“Money disappears.”
I stared at the transfer.
Then smiled for the first time all day.
“Not if we let them think it disappeared.”
Marcus sighed.
“I hate that smile.”
“Call the bank.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to let tomorrow’s transfer happen.”
His eyes widened.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
Because whoever was behind the network still believed I was chasing old evidence.
May you like
Tomorrow, we would give them new evidence.
And this time, we would be waiting on the other side.
