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“Club BDE’s accountant?” Desmond asked, tightening his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Serious as the stroke you look like you’re about to have,” Braden replied.
“Son of a bitch.” Damian got to his feet and paced the office. “When I get my hands on that little fucker…”
They nodded in agreement as Braden went to the sideboard and poured three glasses of scotch.
“Whoever is doing this has intimate knowledge of how the club is run,” Desmond said after accepting his glass. “Presumably, if they’re sending out tax forms, they’re also familiar with our accountant. Have you checked with them?”
“Yes, but the information went to them in those spoofed emails,” Braden replied.
“It has to be an employee.” Damian sipped his drink and nodded approvingly. “But which one? Aside from Martin, who has computer skills like that?”
A lot of money was changing hands, and even though the auctions weren’t technically illegal, nobody liked not knowing where it was going. Although most of it went to the people being auctioned, twenty-five percent was being siphoned into someone’s pocket.
“Good question,” Desmond said. “Since Club BDE isn’t paying the participants, I think the tax forms would be evidence of fraud, but I know we’d all prefer to fix this ourselves. I just wish we could find one lead. That’s all it would take.”
“We’ll get it.” Braden rose to his feet. “I promise we’ll find whoever is running the auctions and make them sorry they ever fucked with the Elliott brothers.”
* * *
