Page 57 of Kilo's Edge

I pointed at them. “And money is power,” I said. “It clicked around two in the morning. If he’s not worried about going to prison, maybe he’s worried about money.”

Flir was already muttering to himself as his eyes scanned over the page.

Ruck sighed. “Great, he’s going to be doing that all day.”

“Going through the numbers?” I asked. “He’s pretty fast-”

“No,” Ruck interrupted. “The muttering. I always know when he’s done our books for the month because he mutters to himself for at least four to five hours afterward.”

I chuckled at that.

“It’s a pattern,” Flir said, looking up at me.

“Huh?” I asked, looking over at the other guys. They just shrugged.

“There’s a pattern here.”

“Okay,” I replied, drawing out the word.

But he wasn’t listening to me anymore. There was a deep frown etched into his forehead as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and started punching numbers into the calculator function.

“Just let him go,” Ruck said. “When he can’t do it in his head, then you know it’s big.”

“Want coffee?” Bolo asked, getting up and pouring himself another cup.

“Yeah, thanks.” I took the cup he handed over and sat back in my chair. I’d stayed up most of the night, once Camila had fallen back asleep, to pour over that file. I was relieved that I didn’t have to try to go through those fucking numbers. If it was left up to me, my hunch would forever go unsolved. I wasn’t a whizwith numbers the way Flir was. I wasn’t a moron, but he was on a totally different level, or spectrum, than most people.

We sat and talked, drinking our coffee, while Flir tackled the books. Ruck was looking more alert by the minute and far less grumpy. It took a little over an hour before Flir looked up at me. “Four million, seven hundred and twenty-three dollars. And seven cents.”

“What?” I asked him, blinking at the number.

“That’s how much Camila’s father stole from Kruzman.”

“What?” we all asked this time, shocked.

“See?” Flir said, sliding the book over to me and stabbing his finger down at a number. “It’s a pattern,” he repeated. “Anytime a number ends in three, he skimmed some off the top. Made exactly point zero three percent of that transaction disappear.”

I stared down at the numbers. I didn’t see shit. “He stole from Kruzman...a fraction of a percent at a time?”

Flir nodded and grinned down at the book. “Fucking smart. He didn’t do anything so overt that Kruzman would notice immediately. He stole from him slowly over the years. And here?” He pointed again. “These numbers aren’t accounting numbers.”

“What are they?” I asked, squinting down at them.

“Each of these numbers is a ‘minor mistake’. If you subtract seven from the odd numbers and three from the even? They’re a routing and account number.”

“Was this guy your long lost cousin?” Ruck asked.

Flir just blinked at him, too absorbed with the numbers to get the joke.

I looked up at Flir, my mouth dropping open. “You’re telling me that you know where this money is?”

He nodded. “That routing number belongs to a local bank in Philly.”

“You know the routing numbers of banks?” Bolo asked.

Flir rolled his eyes. “I looked it up, asshole.”

Bolo muttered something under his breath and went back to drinking his coffee.

---