downtown address.
“Thank you,” Joseph says, his voice resonating with sincerity. “We’ll go there now, if that’s okay with you?”
She nods. “Like I said, I’ll be glad to be rid of it. It’s box number 211. Take everything you need.”
T HE STORAGE box is set up like an office space, albeit an extremely cramped, untidy, and depressing office space. One wall is piled high with archive-box files, which on a cursory glance all seem to be stuffed full of papers, folders, and files. More loose papers lie strewn across an ugly battered desk on which sits an old-style Mac computer. Legal manila files stand in teetering towers on either side of the desk, and there are open index files spilling yet more papers, newspaper cuttings, and printouts of spreadsheets all over the remaining floor space, taking up all four corners of the room.
“Jesus Christ,” Joseph breathes when he sees it all.
“You think we just hit the jackpot?” Ryan says.
“I think we have to get all this shit boxed up and shipped back to the office asap. And I think we’re not making that flight. I’ll call Estelle and get her to move our flights. You just get a start on it. We need everything. Everything , Ryan.”
It takes them five hours. They sort through as much as they can; Cartwright’s filing system is nonexistent or a tightly held secret known only to the dead man. A lot of the papers seem to be duplicates of stuff Ryan has already read, because he is already intimately familiar with the Operations team Cartwright led for nine years. But there’s a lot of new stuff in there too, stuff that has Joseph’s eyes narrowing and his eyebrows drawing together as he looks over it and sets it all aside into a file that he’s going to carry on board the plane with him. The rest will be shipped via UPS.
“Shit, look, look at this,” Ryan breathes as his gaze stutters over a stapled-together series of spreadsheets. Joseph looks up from his paper and comes over. He takes the pages from Ryan’s hands. Their fingers brush together, and Ryan feels the breath catch in his throat. Joseph is standing really close and he smells really good, and Ryan wants more than anything to grab hold of him, push him up against that desk, and press their bodies together. The thought sends a rush of heat through his body, up his spine and down to his tingling fingertips. He’s suddenly really aware of himself and his own body and just how on edge he’s been for the entire day, just how much his body has been craving Joseph.
He blinks and forces his attention back to the papers in Joseph’s hand. “It’s a series of transaction statements, all for consultancy fees relating to an acquisition,” he says. “The first one’s dated March 7, 2005. That was when the Penrose acquisition went through, right? I’m pretty sure that all the consultancy fees relating to that deal were accounted for in the books. Which means that whatever this is”—he taps the paper—“wasn’t mentioned in the official accounts.”
Joseph nods thoughtfully, leafing through the spreadsheets. He glances up at Ryan through his eyelashes.
Ryan tempers the grin threatening to spill over his face and sucks down his excitement as he says, “McNeil paid 300 million for Penrose, and there’s a clear record of all the consultancy payments he made in the accounts. There’s no record of this payment anywhere.”
“No, there isn’t,” says Joseph slowly. “You’re right. But unfortunately, this has no bearing on our case.”
“No, no,” says Ryan, thinking quickly, swallowing down his disappointment at Joseph’s easy dismissal. “But these kinds of accountancy discrepancies should be investigated. I mean, I’m no expert in corporate tax fraud, but that looks like an offshore account number to me. The IRS cleared McNeil of tax evasion years ago, but something like this might be enough to get them to run another audit on him?”
“Perhaps,” says Joseph, his tone
“Thank you,” Joseph says, his voice resonating with sincerity. “We’ll go there now, if that’s okay with you?”
She nods. “Like I said, I’ll be glad to be rid of it. It’s box number 211. Take everything you need.”
T HE STORAGE box is set up like an office space, albeit an extremely cramped, untidy, and depressing office space. One wall is piled high with archive-box files, which on a cursory glance all seem to be stuffed full of papers, folders, and files. More loose papers lie strewn across an ugly battered desk on which sits an old-style Mac computer. Legal manila files stand in teetering towers on either side of the desk, and there are open index files spilling yet more papers, newspaper cuttings, and printouts of spreadsheets all over the remaining floor space, taking up all four corners of the room.
“Jesus Christ,” Joseph breathes when he sees it all.
“You think we just hit the jackpot?” Ryan says.
“I think we have to get all this shit boxed up and shipped back to the office asap. And I think we’re not making that flight. I’ll call Estelle and get her to move our flights. You just get a start on it. We need everything. Everything , Ryan.”
It takes them five hours. They sort through as much as they can; Cartwright’s filing system is nonexistent or a tightly held secret known only to the dead man. A lot of the papers seem to be duplicates of stuff Ryan has already read, because he is already intimately familiar with the Operations team Cartwright led for nine years. But there’s a lot of new stuff in there too, stuff that has Joseph’s eyes narrowing and his eyebrows drawing together as he looks over it and sets it all aside into a file that he’s going to carry on board the plane with him. The rest will be shipped via UPS.
“Shit, look, look at this,” Ryan breathes as his gaze stutters over a stapled-together series of spreadsheets. Joseph looks up from his paper and comes over. He takes the pages from Ryan’s hands. Their fingers brush together, and Ryan feels the breath catch in his throat. Joseph is standing really close and he smells really good, and Ryan wants more than anything to grab hold of him, push him up against that desk, and press their bodies together. The thought sends a rush of heat through his body, up his spine and down to his tingling fingertips. He’s suddenly really aware of himself and his own body and just how on edge he’s been for the entire day, just how much his body has been craving Joseph.
He blinks and forces his attention back to the papers in Joseph’s hand. “It’s a series of transaction statements, all for consultancy fees relating to an acquisition,” he says. “The first one’s dated March 7, 2005. That was when the Penrose acquisition went through, right? I’m pretty sure that all the consultancy fees relating to that deal were accounted for in the books. Which means that whatever this is”—he taps the paper—“wasn’t mentioned in the official accounts.”
Joseph nods thoughtfully, leafing through the spreadsheets. He glances up at Ryan through his eyelashes.
Ryan tempers the grin threatening to spill over his face and sucks down his excitement as he says, “McNeil paid 300 million for Penrose, and there’s a clear record of all the consultancy payments he made in the accounts. There’s no record of this payment anywhere.”
“No, there isn’t,” says Joseph slowly. “You’re right. But unfortunately, this has no bearing on our case.”
“No, no,” says Ryan, thinking quickly, swallowing down his disappointment at Joseph’s easy dismissal. “But these kinds of accountancy discrepancies should be investigated. I mean, I’m no expert in corporate tax fraud, but that looks like an offshore account number to me. The IRS cleared McNeil of tax evasion years ago, but something like this might be enough to get them to run another audit on him?”
“Perhaps,” says Joseph, his tone
Similar Books
