Chapter 6 - The Company That Didn’t Exist
Meriton Industrial Consulting had a website.
At first glance, it looked legitimate.
Stock photos.
Corporate phrases.
“Operational excellence.”
“Integrated solutions.”
“Strategic manufacturing partnerships.”
There was only one problem.
Nothing on the site identified a single real person.
No staff.
No case studies.
No office photographs.
No client names.
The listed address belonged to a mailbox center.
The telephone number forwarded to an answering service.
I sat with Miguel in the IT room while he traced archived invoices.
Nine vendor companies.
Different names.
Different addresses.
Same pattern.
Each appeared.
Received payments.
Then disappeared.
Several shared registration agents.
Three were connected indirectly to Celia.
Two to a corporation Grant had created years earlier.
Millions of dollars had been moved out of Holloway Packaging.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
Enough to hide inside ordinary operational expenses.
Consulting.
Maintenance.
Freight adjustment.
Temporary warehousing.
Equipment assessment.
Mom had noticed.
Grant had known she noticed.
And then she died.
I hated myself for the thought that came next.
I had spent seven years believing Mom’s heart failure was natural.
Doctors had said she had severe underlying disease.
Nothing about that had changed.
But once someone tries to kill you with industrial equipment, coincidence becomes difficult to trust.
I called Detective Pierce.
“I need to ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Can an old death investigation be reopened?”
Silence.
“Why?”
“My mother.”
I explained the financial records.
The questionable document.
The night at the warehouse.
Pierce was careful.
“A financial dispute does not mean your mother’s death was criminal.”
“I understand.”
“Was there an autopsy?”
“No. She died in the hospital after complications.”
“Any unusual circumstances documented?”
“Not that I know.”
“Then start with records. Medical records. Admission notes. EMS report.”
“I have some.”
“Get everything legally available to you.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking facts first.”
She was right.
I requested the records.
Then I returned to Mom’s notebook.
The torn pages bothered me.
Why tear out only four?
Because those four contained something important.
Maybe Grant had removed them.
Maybe Mom had hidden them elsewhere.
Atlas rested beside me while I examined the binding.
One torn edge contained a tiny fragment of ink.
A partial letter.
Then another.
I photographed it and enlarged the image.
The remaining marks looked like the bottom of a number.
Possibly a 4.
Maybe a 7.
Not enough.
At lunch, Celia entered my office without knocking.
Atlas lifted his head.
She stopped.
“You’re bringing him every day now?”
“Yes.”
“He makes people uncomfortable.”
“Which people?”
“Some employees.”
“Names?”
She ignored that.
“We need to talk.”
“About Meriton?”
Her face remained smooth.
Celia was good.
Better than Grant.
Grant became angry when cornered.
Celia became calm.
“Meriton provided legitimate services.”
“Name one.”
“Operational analysis.”
“Performed by whom?”
“A subcontractor.”
“Name?”
“I don’t recall.”
“You approved eight hundred forty thousand dollars.”
“I approve hundreds of invoices.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She sat across from me.
“Claire, you’re getting carried away.”
“Someone cut the hoist cable.”
That broke her rhythm.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“I heard.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“What?”
“The police haven’t released that.”
Her eyes changed.
I continued.
“I haven’t told Grant either.”
Celia leaned back.
“You just said someone cut it.”
“I did.”
“You’re trying to trap me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Her voice remained quiet.
“Be careful.”
“Is that advice?”
“It’s reality.”
I leaned forward.
“Were you at the warehouse the night my mother went to the hospital?”
For the first time, Celia lost control.
Her fingers tightened around her handbag.
“Who told you that?”
“So you were.”
“I worked late often.”
“Neil saw you.”
She stood.
“Neil Barton is a frightened old man.”
“He’s fifty-six.”
“You know what I mean.”
“He also saw Grant drag Atlas by the collar.”
Celia looked toward the dog.
Atlas stared back.
“He’s an animal,” she said.
“And you’re afraid of him.”
“I’m not.”
Atlas stood.
Celia stepped backward.
Not much.
But enough.
“Why?” I asked.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then pet him.”
She stared at me.
I almost smiled.
“You were there that night.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“What happened?”
“Ask Grant.”
“I’m asking you.”
She moved toward the door.
Then Atlas did something strange.
He walked toward her.
Not aggressively.
Slowly.
Sniffing.
Celia froze.
Atlas lowered his nose toward her handbag.
Then growled.
Celia jerked the bag away.
“What is wrong with him?”
I watched closely.
“Open the bag.”
“What?”
“Open it.”
“No.”
Atlas growled again.
I stepped between them.
“Atlas. Stay.”
He stopped.
Celia hurried out.
Twenty minutes later, our receptionist called.
“Claire, Celia left the building.”
“So?”
“She forgot this.”
A small keycard.
Executive storage access.
I stared at it.
Celia’s handbag had smelled like something Atlas remembered.
Something from seven years ago.
I went to executive storage.
The room contained boxes of archived contracts and retired office equipment.
Atlas came with me.
He sniffed several shelves.
Then stopped beside an old canvas duffel bag.
I pulled it down.
Empty.
Almost.
Inside the lining was black dog hair.
And dried mud.
On the outer pocket, nearly faded away, were the initials:
G.H.
Grant Holloway.
I remembered that bag.
Grant used it at the gym years ago.
Atlas began whining.
Three soft notes.
Then he backed away.
For seven years, I had wondered how Grant transported a ninety-pound dog without anyone noticing.
Now I knew.
He had put Atlas in that bag.
But why had Celia recently carried something that smelled like it?
Before I could answer, Miguel called again.
“Claire.”
“What now?”
“We found the destination account for Meriton.”
“Whose?”
“It’s offshore, but there’s an intermediary.”
“Who owns it?”
There was a long pause.
“Grant and Celia jointly.”
I closed my eyes.
Not employer and employee.
Not business partners.
Joint account holders.
Four million dollars.
Years of lies.
And suddenly I wondered whether my brother and Celia had been hiding more than financial fraud.
I was right.
Because that evening, a hospital document arrived in my email.
It showed that someone had visited my mother alone less than one hour before her condition suddenly worsened.
May you like
The visitor had signed in under one name.
Celia Morgan.
