Chapter 509
Chapter 509:
Heart sinking, I got dressed, slipped my mace spray into my bag, and headed downstairs.
Le Cygne Noir, the café across the street, was well-lit, a few diners still lingering over espresso and crème brûlée.
A man in a brown jacket sat at a corner table, facing the door. Light brown hair, dark eyes, brown brogues. He might’ve been attractive if he hadn’t dressed like he’d lost a bet with the color beige.
He stood as I approached.
“Madame Vance, thank you for coming.” I ignored the hand he offered.
“Let’s skip the small talk. What do you want p>
Inspector Silva clearly wasn’t the chatty type.
He skipped straight to business once he realized I wasn’t in the mood for niceties.
He handed me a file. “I must ask you to keep everything you’re about to read strictly confidential. Especially from Monsieur Marchetti p>
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” I said, waving a hand. “Not a word from me p>
The file was in French. With my sad excuse for French skills, I had to use a translation app just to begin to understand it. Silva didn’t offer to help. He just sat there watching me wrestle with it, as if it were some kind of sadistic test.
The more I read, the worse it got. For a second, I hoped the app was malfunctioning and spitting out nonsense.
But I wasn’t that lucky.
I flagged down a waiter and asked for the strongest coffee they had. I needed something industrial-strength.
“If you’ve got this much evidence,” I said eventually, my voice sounding oddly detached, “why haven’t you just arrested him p>
If the file was accurate—and it certainly looked like it was—Fabrizio wasn’t just cooking the books. He was siphoning funds from other investors and running the company straight into the ground. Turns out, being a design genius doesn’t make you a business genius.
𝐿𝑎t𝑒st ch𝑎pt𝑒rs in
The headache behind my eyes was back, and getting worse by the second.
Inspector Silva’s voice, like his beige jacket, was dull but carried weight. The kind of tone that came from knowing people always listened when you spoke.
“We’ve had Monsieur Marchetti under surveillance. He’s not a flight risk—for now. He’s been desperately seeking investors and fresh capital to keep the company afloat. If he manages to pull that off, no one will realize anything’s wrong. Not until the new investors start asking for dividends. But then you arrived p>
He gave me a look that was polite on the surface but full of judgment.
My spine stiffened. “What did I do p>
“You gave him the capital he needed p>
I thought of the joint venture. “Didn’t you say that kind of cash injection could save the company p>
“It could, if he used it to pay down overdue loans or repay the money he’s already misappropriated. But he didn’t p>
“So what did he do with my money p>
Silva flipped through the file and pointed to a page with a string of numbers.
“Did he ask you to transfer the funds to this account p>
I looked. “Yes. What’s wrong with it p>