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I grind my molars as I dredge through last Thursday’s footage, sorting the mismatched feeds into chronological order. Ziggy sits in one corner across the table from me, while Butch sits in the other. All of us ignore Trent, who paces the room, biting on his nails.
More than once, he’s asked what I’m working on, peering over my shoulder to get a look at what’s on my computer screen. When I told him I’m doing data recovery from the Trojan set loose in the database, he became agitated, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.
Either the guy is truly concerned for his place of employment or he’s hiding something. I watch him from the corner of my eye, bringing up a different screen with code when he comes too close to witnessing what I’m doing.
At this moment, I can’t rule Trent out as a potential suspect. He has access to our assigned conference room and witnessed how far we’ve gotten with tracking the perp. Although, I still believe our number one suspect is his contemptible partner, Cynthia.
Slowly, I collect the multiple scattered videos from Thursday and begin organizing them sequentially. The virus did the most damage to recent video recordings, with a sizable chunk completely gone. My mood sours when I notice the footage of Simone and me together is among the videos missing. I would have loved to have downloaded it for us to watch later in private.
In the mess, I find a video from nine in the evening showing the main entrance. Trent comes into the screen, walking casually to the front doors. He runs into another employee leaving late—a young male temp from the first floor. The two exchange pleasantries, joking about being overachievers for burning the midnight oil. The men exit together, and the video cuts out.
The time stamp fits. Trent could have planted the bug in the main computer server. Yet I can’t find footage of him anywhere near the conference room until an hour before, when Butch and I left to run upstairs after Cynthia attacked Simone. Video footage of him leaving the conference room is missing.
Frustrated, I rub at my eyes under my glasses, pushing them askew. I can’t rule Trent out, and I can’t pin him down as our suspect either. There wasn’t a camera in the conference room until I installed one yesterday, meaning we have no video of the perp committing the crime.
As I continue to sort through the recordings, Butch jumps to his feet, hands in the air and bouncing on his toes like Rocky Balboa. “I found it! Holy shit, I found it!”
Springing from my chair, I run around the table to look at his work. “Where is this account?”
“Cayman Islands. The money was being tossed around like a hot potato, but it was dropped here. It’s been sitting here since Friday. This is it.”
Ziggy fists bumps Butch. “Good work, bro.”
Trent sighs heavily, rubbing at his chest. “Thank Christ. Can you recover it?”
“I found it a minute ago, man,” Butch quips, with agitation. “Besides, repossession is Chase’s forte. He’s better at retrieving funds from offshore accounts.”
“You mean stealing it,” Trent says flatly, staring hard at our group.
We stare back, saying nothing to incriminate ourselves.
To my surprise, Trent’s face morphs into a wide smile. “As long as we retrieve the cash for our clients, I don’t care how it’s done. This is fabulous news.”
My brothers laugh, but the celebration is premature.
My brows pull in tight when I see the total amount in the account. “Something’s off.”
“What do you mean?” Ziggy asks, leaning in to look at the account details displayed on the monitor.
“The funds aren’t nearly enough. Simone hasn’t finished her investigation, meaning the predicted number is bound to be higher than what’s here if we include the Oldani account.”
Trent stiffens. He looks at me with wide eyes. “The Oldani account was one I handled.”
“When was the last time you checked the balance?”
“A week ago—I check it like clockwork. The funds were all present.” He swallows thickly, yanking his tie loose. “Ooooh, this is bad. Really bad.”
“You knew the Oldani account was a front to hide the Bianchi mob’s dirty money.” It’s not a question. Based on how nervous Trent got when he heard the name Oldani, it’s obvious he knew who the name was tied to.
Trent’s lips thin. “Pretty hard to forget a man holding a gun to my head, ordering me to do this for his boss or have a bullet put in my skull.”
Damn, that’s shit luck.“Who approached you? Luca or Lorenzo?”
He swallows, his face going green. “Luca.”
“When did he approach you?”
“Last June. Luca didn’t bother hiding who his boss was—he was confident he was untouchable.”
