Chapter 7: The Partner
Marcus Hale arrived at the Sterling Group offices at nine-fifteen, the same time he always did, in the same dark coat, with the same unhurried walk.
He nodded to the receptionist.
He took the elevator to the executive floor.
He was halfway to his office when Richard's assistant stepped into the hallway.
"Mr.
Sterling would like to see you," she said.
"Now, if possible."
Marcus smiled.
"Of course."
He found Richard behind his desk.
Whitfield was seated to the left, a legal pad open in front of him.
A second man Marcus didn't recognize sat to the right — younger, with a laptop and an expression that gave nothing away.
Marcus looked at the arrangement.
His smile stayed in place.
"James," he said pleasantly.
"Didn't know you'd be here."
"Sit down, Marcus," Richard said.
Marcus sat.
He set his phone face-up on the desk — a habit, Richard had always assumed, of a man who liked to appear available.
Today it read differently.
"I'll get to it," Richard said.
"Last night at 3:47 a.m., a transfer of two hundred and forty thousand dollars was initiated from my household account to an account registered in your name.
It was blocked by a fraud alert.
I'd like you to explain that."
Marcus didn't move.
"I'd also like you to explain," Richard continued, "what Diana meant when she told you on the phone last night that the accounts were still set up the way you discussed."
A pause.
Marcus looked at Whitfield.
Then at the younger man with the laptop.
"Who is he?" Marcus asked.
"Forensic accountant," Whitfield said.
"He's been reviewing Sterling Group transactions since seven this morning."
Something shifted behind Marcus's eyes.
Not panic.
Something more disciplined than panic.
A recalculation.
"Richard," he said.
"I think there's been a misunderstanding."
"Then clear it up."
"Diana called me last night.
She was upset.
She asked me to hold some funds temporarily — as a personal favor.
I agreed without thinking it through.
That was poor judgment on my part and I should have called you immediately.
I'm sorry."
"Two hundred and forty thousand dollars," Richard said.
"As a personal favor."
"She said she needed liquidity.
That you two were having difficulties and she wanted a safety net."
"And you didn't think to call me."
"She asked me not to.
She said it would make things worse." Marcus spread his hands.
"I should have called you anyway.
I know that."
The younger man turned his laptop around.
On the screen was a spreadsheet — rows and columns, dates going back nineteen months.
"These are fourteen transfers," the accountant said, "totaling approximately one point three million dollars, moved from Sterling Group subsidiary accounts through a series of holding entities and ultimately into an account jointly controlled by Diana Sterling and Marcus Hale.
The earliest transfer was nineteen months ago."
The room was very quiet.
Marcus looked at the screen for a long time.
"I want my attorney," he said.
"That's your right," Whitfield said.
"I'm not saying anything else."
"That's also your right," Richard said.
He leaned forward.
"But I want you to understand something, Marcus.
I'm not angry.
I'm not going to sit here and perform anger for you.
What I am is finished.
Eleven years.
You were at my wedding.
You knew Sophie when she was three years old." He paused.
"And while you were helping my wife plan to ship my daughter out of the country, you were also helping yourself to one point three million dollars of my company's money."
Marcus said nothing.
"I just want you to know that I know," Richard said.
"All of it.
And I want you to know that before your attorney gets here."
Marcus stood up slowly.
He straightened his jacket.
He picked up his phone.
"I built half of what this company is," he said.
"You'd have nothing without the Singapore deal."
"I know," Richard said.
"That's in the record too."
Marcus walked to the door.
He stopped with his hand on the frame.
"She told me you'd never look," he said.
"She said you trusted too easily.
That you were always too busy to notice."
Richard looked at him steadily.
"She was right.
Until she wasn't."
Marcus left.
The forensic accountant closed his laptop.
Whitfield made a note on his legal pad, tore the sheet off, and slid it across the desk to Richard.
On it was one word: *Enough.*
Richard folded it once and put it in his pocket.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his assistant.
*Mrs.
May you like
Sterling's attorney just called.
She's requesting a meeting.*
