Page 162 of Devil Mine

After weeks of work, I narrowed it down to a few dozen transactions I felt comfortable classifying as being shady for a variety of reasons. They were all made to vendors who either claimed not to have been paid or whose services I couldn’t trace. Some of them were also made on dates when I knew Thiago was out of the country because he’d been in Rome looking for me. Finally, they were also all payments handled by one accountant. From the digging I’d done, that man, Jorge Diaz, seemed to be based back in Colombia. That in it of itself was odd – all of the cartel’s UK finances went through London-based accountants. The fact that these transactions weren’t was clear proof that they were dodgy in some way.

I hadn’t told Thiago about this discovery yet. I knew that the moment I did, he’d take a ‘kill first and ask questions later’ approach which, while I’m sure would be very effective, wouldn’t give us the answers of who was behind this. The accountant was just the money mover, but someone else was calling the shots and putting this plan into action.

Someone close.

Last night, Thiago told me that he was being called away from London this evening to meet with a new supplier. It’s not the first time we’ve been apart obviously, but it is the first time since we got married that he’s traveling and isn’t in the same city. I don’t know why, but something about that gives me anxiety. I have no reason to be wary and yet the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end knowing he isn't immediately close by if I need him.

To distract myself, I’m pouring over those remaining documents to get to the bottom of who is behind all this. There has to be a trace somewhere, I refuse to believe whoever did this could cover their tracks entirely.

I’m on my third hour staring at this paperwork and I’m starting to get cross eyed.

Time for a well deserved break.

I pick up my phone and head into the kitchen. It’s late, so the staff has either gone home or to bed, leaving me alone for the night.

My stomach rumbles loudly. My cooking abilities stretch about as far as making a semi-decent grilled cheese, so that’s what I set out to make. I consider calling Thiago but then think better of it. He’s probably in a meeting, working, and the last thing he needs is his wife bothering him.

So I call the next best person.

“Hello, hot stuff,” Dagny answers, in a bra and nothing more. “Oh God, there’s a pan in your hand. What culinary atrocity are you about to unleash on that poor, unsuspecting husband of yours?” She pauses to think about it. “Actually, I take that back. Give him food poisoning, he deserves it.”

“First of all, I’ve cooked things for you in the past that you liked–”

“I was understudy for the lead role in my senior year play, believe me, I pulled on that experience to get me through.”

“Secondof all, he’s not here. He’s traveling for work.”

“Out shooting some more innocent bystanders perhaps?” She laughs when she sees the look on my face. “I’m kidding, Tessie. They’re so easy to make, it’s hard for me to pass up.”

“You’re entitled to a lifetime of jokes on the subject.”

She snorts. “You should have told me you were alone tonight, I would have come over for a sleepover.”

I pause mid-flip of my grilled cheese and it lands on the counter.

“Wow, if I’d recorded that you could have gone viral.”

“Is it too late for a sleepover?”

Her face falls. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I wish I’d known earlier. I have that bridal client coming to the store next week so I’m prepping some initial designs for her to react to.”

“Send them to me when you’re done, I’d love to see them.” I pick the sandwich off the counter and take a bite. “Delicious,” I say, sticking my tongue out at her.

“I will! Are you still going through the financial reports?”

“Slowly but surely.”

“Find anything good?”

“I think so. I just can’t findwhoyet.”

“You will.” Her tone is easily confident. “People get cocky and then they get lazy, especially when they think they’re getting away with it.”

Something about her words makes me realize that I’ve been narrow minded in my search. The answer isn’t going to live solely in a financial report. I need to look where people are much more likely to mess up – email.

“Dags, I’ve got to go.”

Her mouth flattens sympathetically. “It’s the grilled cheese isn’t it?”

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