Chapter 26 #2
When I finally return to Chicago on Friday morning, Jules appears in my office doorway with two cups of coffee and a knowing smirk. “How was your business trip?” she asks, settling into the chair across from my desk like she’s a client.
I roll my eyes. “Learned a lot about … synergistic market opportunities.”
“Uh-huh. Did you have a fling while you were at the resort?”
The question catches me off guard, and I nearly choke on my coffee before recalling what she said to me in the elevator. “What? No. Definitely not.”
“Really? No attractive golf caddy girls throwing themselves at the handsome young executive?”
“It was a sausage fest.”
Shaking her head, she laughs. “While you were gone, I kept busy. Our version of Echo & Answer is as done as it’s going to be. All we have to do is swap it out tonight and we’ll have the real McCoy back by Sunday night.”
She taps her phone and slides it across my desk. I look at the photos on the screen of the forged copy next to the original, and I’m genuinely impressed. Her version is remarkably detailed, capturing not just the image but the texture and age of the real one.
“This is incredible work. What other hidden talents do you have?”
“I can yodel.”
“Is that so?”
“No, but let’s count on the fact that during the gallery’s opening hours of eleven to two on Saturday, no one inspects the piece too carefully.”
“If I recall, the lighting in that wing wasn’t bright enough for anyone to notice the subtle differences. I didn’t at first.”
“The odds are in our favor.”
I rub my thumb over the penny I keep in my pocket. “Let’s hope so.” But my mind immediately starts cataloging all the ways this could go terribly wrong. Security cameras we missed. Unexpected guard rotations. Someone deciding to examine the painting more closely. The copy not being a perfect match.
“We can’t overthink this,” Jules says, whether to herself or me, I’m not sure.
“If we get caught—”
She lets out a breath. “We won’t get caught.”
“But if we do, Jules, this isn’t just about losing our jobs. This is criminal. We could go to prison.”
She leans forward, her eyes serious. “If we do, we can just tell the judge and jury that it was a crime of passion.”
Considering that this whole thing is to find Lincoln’s lost love letters, I laugh. Then abruptly go quiet. “Jules, why are you helping me, aside from this unique skill set you seem to have?”
I’m about to make a joke about her committing forgery often, like a side hustle, when she looks abruptly away.
“Because maybe I want to believe in true love, too.”
Later that afternoon, alone in my office after everyone else has gone home, I find myself digging deeper into the files Jules had flagged earlier.
Something about the insurance valuations has been nagging at me, and with Dad’s cryptic warnings still echoing in my head, along with feeling like Drecken’s eyes are on me, I decide to do some investigating of my own.
The heaviness of dread drops my shoulders because someone has definitely been using company access and resources to make unauthorized decisions about insurance premiums and valuations.
The patterns are subtle but consistent—certain pieces appraised significantly higher than market value, insurance payouts processed without proper documentation, and claims approved by someone with executive-level access.
I tilt my head, studying one particular entry. Odd. I didn’t realize the Pedrosa piece was in our collection. I recall Dad going on and on about it last Christmas—how it was one of the most significant acquisitions in the company’s history.
But according to these records, we’ve had it for over a year. That doesn’t add up.
And the insurance valuation is nearly triple what comparable pieces have sold for at auction.
My stomach sinks as the implications hit me. Either someone is running an elaborate insurance fraud scheme using Meridian Holdings as cover or … or my father is more involved in this than I want to believe.
The thought makes me feel ill. Dad has always been ruthless in business, sure, but honest. At least, I thought he was honest. However, people change. Mom used to say he was different when they first met, before the company consumed his entire life.
According to her journals, the man she fell in love with wasn’t the one she was married to before she passed. I believe it broke her heart.
Maybe we never really knew him at all.
A soft knock on my door interrupts my spiraling thoughts. Jules appears in the doorway, concern pinching her pretty face.
“You’re working late,” she observes.
“Could say the same about you.”
“I was just finishing up some things before tonight.” She steps into my office and closes the door behind her. “You look pale. Maybe you ought to go boating with Bear Cub. Get some sun.”
“I just spent two days golfing. Also, it’s Bīri??. Anyway, he’s back in Latvia before—” I’m about to say before preseason training starts up again, but cut myself off.
“Is anything wrong?” she asks, the picture of innocence, never mind her criminal paintbrush skills.
I stare at her for a long moment, debating how much to tell her. She’s already risking everything to help me find those letters. How can I burden her with my suspicions about my own father? About my actual identity?
“Just work stuff. Nothing that can’t wait until Monday.”
“Good, because we should go get nachos.”
“Nachos?”
“Whatever is on your mind is nacho problem.”
My laugh is delayed. “Jules, that’s awful.”
“But it’s true, and it wiped that troubled look right off your face.” Then she slides into the chair across from my desk and fixes me with a penetrating stare, reminding me of when we really thought we hated each other.
“If you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, I’m going to stare at you until you crack. See that bare bulb above your head? It’s the last light you’re ever going to see.” She imitates a hard-hitting Chicago detective as she puffs on an invisible stogie.
Despite every instinct warning me to protect her from this mess, I find myself wanting to tell her everything. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Jules, it’s that she’s predictably unpredictable—and exactly the kind of person I want on my side when everything falls apart.
“How much do you know about insurance fraud?” I ask.
Her eyebrows raise. Her complexion is now pale. “More than I probably should. Why?”
I turn my computer screen toward her with the files I’ve been analyzing on display. “Remember those discrepancies you found?”
“The ones you told me in no uncertain terms to forget about?”
Lips pressed together, I nod with regret. “I followed a few leads and am worried there might be a traitor in our midst.”
“Dramatically intriguing.” She cranes forward and scans the content on the screen.
“Do you see what I see?”
Never mind a troubled look, her jaw hangs slack.