Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Interstate 90
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The rain began at midnight, washing against the dark glass of the Meridian tower in heavy sheets.
Dela stayed late, volunteering to clean the private dining suites after the evening service ended. It gave her an excuse to stay in the building past midnight without raising suspicion among the night security team.
She walked down the long, carpeted corridor of the executive floor, carrying a stack of fresh linens. The hallway was silent, lit only by low wall sconces.
Elias had been a senior forensic accountant for a firm contracted by Sinclair Maritime. Two years ago, he had uncovered a massive network of shell companies transferring funds from the Chicago docks to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. Three days after he told Dela he was going to the federal prosecutor, his car blew a tire on Interstate 90 and flipped three times into a concrete barrier.
The police report called it a mechanical failure leading to a fatal collision. Dela had spent two years believing it was a tragic accident—until she found the missing financial files hidden inside Elias's private wall safe six months ago.
She stopped in front of Suite 4001—Augustine Vandermir’s private executive office.
The heavy mahogany door was locked, but Dela knew from watching the night staff that the cleaning master key card opened every door on the floor except the central vault. She pulled her master key from her apron pocket, her heart pounding in her chest.
She swiped the card. The light flashed green, and the electronic lock clicked softly.
Dela slipped inside, closing the door behind her.
The office was vast, dominated by a massive dark wood desk and a wall of windows overlooking the rain-slicked city skyline. The air smelled of expensive leather, cedar, and faint tobacco.
Dela moved quickly to the filing cabinets set against the far wall. She pulled out a small penlight from her pocket, illuminating the labels.
Sinclair Maritime. Dock 44. Continental Logistics.
Her fingers flew through the folders. She opened a blue file labeled Sinclair Merger — Phase II.
Inside were pages of financial audits detailing a proposed forty-million-dollar buyout of Sinclair Maritime by Vandermir Enterprises. But as Dela scanned the balance sheets with her trained legal eye, she spotted an anomaly instantly.
Sinclair Maritime was carrying over twelve million dollars in unrecorded liabilities—debts hidden behind fraudulent shipping receipts.
“They’re cooking the books,” Dela whispered to herself. “Victor Sinclair is selling a hollow company to Vandermir.”
Suddenly, the heavy brass door handle turned.
Dela froze. The penlight beam wavered.
The door pushed open, and a tall silhouette filled the doorway.
Dela snapped the file cabinet shut, stepping back into the shadows beside the heavy velvet curtains, her breath catching in her throat.
Augustine Vandermir stepped into the room. He didn't turn on the overhead lights. Instead, he walked slowly toward his desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket.
“You’re standing in the light of the window, Mrs. Hawthorne,” Gus said, his deep, calm voice cutting through the darkness. “Anyone on the street could see your silhouette.”
Dela’s heart stopped.
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He didn't call her Dela. He didn't call her "waitress."
He called her Mrs. Hawthorne.
