Page 168 of His Good Girl

“Rich criminals outsource better. Cheap criminals leave receipts.”

By Saturday afternoon, the receipts had started to appear.

Grant Vale’s firm did not invoice Lang directly, because even cowards understood letterhead. It invoiced Rookline Advisory, a ‘strategic communications consultancy’ with an address inDelaware, a receptionist in no known universe, and two directors who also happened to sit three layers down in Lang’s family office structure.

By Saturday night, Ryan had linked Rookline to two prior bid disputes where competitors had withdrawn after anonymous reputation campaigns.

By Sunday morning, he had identified the drone vendor, but not officially, of course. Officially, a boutique aerial cinematography outfit called Skylark Media had been hired by a cultural nonprofit to capture ‘skyline and civic renewal B-roll’ for a promotional package that did not appear to exist. Unofficially, Skylark had been paid through Rookline, advised by Meridian, and scheduled over Rowe Tower on the same night Avery and I had been reckless enough to believe forty-seven floors and glass meant privacy.

I read that part twice. Then set the tablet down before I broke it.

Benjamin, from across my office, did not look up from his laptop. “Do not destroy the hardware. It has evidence.”

“I know.”

“I am saying it because your hands look like a problem.”

“My hands are fine.”

“Your hands are thinking about destruction and murder.”

By Sunday night, Ryan had the beginnings of the evidence we needed to potentially subpoena some people and make a judge listen.

“Lang is in this,” Ryan said as he appeared on my laptop in a black sweater. He looked too young to be as dangerous ashe was and too amused by danger to be trusted with normal conversation. “Your man Vale is the glove. Rookline is the sleeve. Lang’s people are the hand.”

Benjamin, sitting beside me, made a note. “That metaphor will not survive legal review.”

“It wasn’t for legal. It was for the emotionally constipated billionaire.”

“I am emotionally selective,” I corrected.

“Sure. And I’m a misunderstood librarian.” Ryan leaned closer to his camera. “The good news is they got lazy. The bad news is they got confident. Confident men are sloppy.”

“What do you have on Vale?”

“Prior patterns. Two settlements sealed tighter than a nun’s diary. One former associate who left Meridian and now teaches yoga in Vermont, which is either healing or witness protection with incense. Basically, I’ve got enough on him to make him deeply unhappy if Tom knows where to press.”

“Tom will do what he needs to do,” Benjamin assured him.

“And Lang?”

Ryan smiled.

It was not a pleasant smile.

“I got dirty, dirty shit on Lang.”

“Define dirty.”

“Bid interference. Shell payments. Coordinated rumor campaigns. A consultant who appears every time Lang losessomething expensive and disappears every time they win it back. Also, a city council staffer with a gambling issue and a Rookline invoice coded as ‘community access strategy,’ which is either bribery or the worst euphemism ever created.”

“Admissible?”

“Some. Discoverable? Very. Terrifying in a demand letter? Delicious.”

“Get everything together and send it all to me by tomorrow morning. We’re going to bury them.”

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