Chapter 6

I heard the first police radio outside Greta’s office at 2:17 a.m. I didn’t run. I stood over Greta and made her put her phone on speaker.

“Call Paul,” I said. “Tell him you have the original proxy and you’ll trade it for Toby’s footage.”

“He won’t believe me.”

“Make him.”

She dialed. Paul answered on the second ring. His voice was smooth, half-asleep, smug. “Greta. You did the right thing.”

“I have the original,” she said, her voice shaking. “The one with Irina’s real signature? I want the dashcam. I want it tonight.”

A pause. “Where are you?”

“My office.”

“Stay there,” Paul said. “I’m sending Miller. Don’t do anything stupid.”

He hung up.

I took Greta’s notary stamp from her desk and dropped it into my pocket. “You just told him exactly where to send the raid.”

“You told me to call him.”

“No,” I said. “I told you to trap him. You gave him the safe-room location earlier. Now you’re going to give him something better.”

At 5:00 a.m., the police raid hit Pier 9. Ben called me from the tugboat. “They’re inside the warehouse. They’re tossing the safe room.”

“Are the kids with you?”

“Yes. Low tide. We’re under the wharf.”

I looked at Greta. “You’re going to testify. Or I’ll make sure the state bar hears how you notarized a dead woman’s signature.”

“He’ll kill my son.”

“Then help me kill his credibility first,” I said.

By 4:00 p.m., Paul had temporary custody. The news called him a devoted father. They called me a criminal. They showed my old mug shot from the assault charges.

I watched it on Greta’s office TV and felt the world close in.

But I still had the recorder. I still had the ledger photos. And I knew a nurse named Sarah who had cried in the blue-tile room.