Chapter 3 - The Boardroom at Northbridge
By 8:30 AM on Monday, the executive conference room of Northbridge Solutions on the thirty-second floor of the Prudential Plaza was an arena of cold, methodical preparation.
The room smelled of roasted espresso, fresh printer toner, and the rain-washed wind howling off Lake Michigan through the glass curtain walls. Outside, the city was waking up under a heavy, charcoal sky, traffic crawling along Columbus Drive like lines of illuminated beetles.
Sitting around the twenty-foot frosted-glass conference table were six people:
Arthur Sloan, wearing a bespoke three-piece charcoal suit, his reading glasses perched low on his nose as he reviewed a thick red-leather legal binder;
Sarah Lin, our senior forensic auditor;
two junior litigators from Sloan’s firm;
my executive vice president of operations, Frank Varga;
and me.
I wore an impeccably tailored navy wool suit from Saint Laurent, an open-collared ivory silk blouse, and my dark hair swept back into an austere, razor-sharp chignon. My face was completely devoid of the exhaustion I had carried for forty-eight hours.
On the eighty-inch wall display, Sarah Lin was projecting a digital financial waterfall mapping out the last thirty-six months of Richard’s clinic accounts.
"The theft is mathematically absolute, Claire," Sarah reported, her stylus tracing a jagged red vector across the screen. "Over a three-year period, Dr. Mercer diverted a total of six hundred and fourteen thousand dollars from joint marital reserves into three secondary entities. Beyond the monthly consulting retainers paid to Alexis Montgomery, we’ve identified forty-two thousand dollars in luxury hotel folios in Cabo, Miami, and Scottsdale; two private jeweler invoices totaling twenty-six thousand dollars; and a twenty-eight-thousand-dollar lease down payment on a 2024 Lexus RX registered in Ms. Montgomery’s name."
Frank Varga let out a low, gravelly whistle from the corner of the table, his arms crossed over his chest. "The guy wasn't just cheating, Claire. He was operating a subsidized franchise."
"And the medical practice itself?" I asked, taking a slow sip of black coffee.
"Terminal," Sarah stated bluntly. "Mercer Orthopedic has ninety-four thousand dollars in outstanding vendor debt due to Medline and Stryker by Friday. Without the thirty-eight-thousand-dollar payroll buffer Claire canceled yesterday morning, the practice's account at Northern Trust sits at negative four thousand two hundred dollars. His five employees haven't been paid. The landlord on Michigan Avenue has already issued a formal ten-day cure notice for two months of unpaid commercial rent."
The glass double doors of the boardroom clicked open.
My executive assistant, Elena, stepped into the room, her eyes wide, holding an iPad against her blazer.
"Claire," Elena murmured, casting an uncomfortable glance at Arthur Sloan. "Dr. Mercer is in the lobby. He’s been down there since seven-forty-five. Security stopped him at the turnstiles because his building badge was deactivated under the weekend protocol, but he’s making an enormous scene. He’s demanding to see you immediately."
Arthur Sloan slowly removed his reading glasses, capping his fountain pen with a sharp, resonant click.
"Let him up, Elena," Arthur commanded quietly.
Elena looked at me for confirmation.
I nodded once. "Send him into Conference Room B, Elena. And tell building security to have two armed guards standing outside the corridor doors."
"Right away, Ms. Mercer," she said, quickly turning on her heel.
May you like
I stood up from the frosted-glass table, buttoning my navy jacket.
"Arthur, Sarah," I said, looking around the room at my team. "Bring the binders. It’s time to show Dr. Mercer the invoice for his affair."
