Page 103 of Down Knot Out
I settle back into my chair, the wool pooling around me as I return to my research for living options.
As I browse a small studio near the docks, my phone rings. My pulse ticks up a notch as Richard Moss, the private investigator I hired, flashes across the screen.
I answer. “Sterling.”
“Mr. Sterling, it’s Moss. I have an update on the financial investigation.”
I lean forward, the blanket slipping from one shoulder. “What did you find?”
“I tracked payments from Inspector Davidson’s account to a shell company called Northeastern Development Consulting. The transfers align with your inspection delays.”
My pulse jumps. “How much?”
“Fifty thousand. Paid in three installments. One before your first inspection was postponed, another forty-eight hours before the second delay, and the third the day before your most recent cancellation.”
I scribble down the company name, denting the paper with the pressure of my pen. “What do we know about Northeastern Development?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.” Paper rustles on his end. “The company was registered eighteen months ago through a maze of blindintermediaries. Corporate address traces to a mail forwarding service in Portland. No website. No business filings. Nothing public.”
“Someone created it for this,” I mutter.
“That’s my read. Whoever did this is good. They buried the trail, but I dug deeper than they went.”
I sit up straighter. “Go on.”
“One of the intermediary firms reused an agent ID that ties back to a parent company called Redwater Holdings.”
I frown. “Redwater?”
“Out of Nevada. They specialize in offshore setups, real estate laundering, and crisis asset protection.”
I lean back, the blanket sliding further down my arms. “Any connection to names we’ve discussed?”
“Nothing direct. But this kind of setup takes planning. Whoever’s behind it started months before you even broke ground.”
A hard knot forms in my stomach. Someone with foreknowledge of our plans set this up in advance. Not to disrupt us, but to destroy us.
“Send me everything. Bank records, company filings, and transfer dates. All of it.”
“Already encrypted and heading to your secure inbox. And Mr. Sterling?” Moss’s voice lowers. “Becareful. Whoever built this isn’t only well-funded. They’re patient. They won’t stop until they get what they want.”
When the line disconnects, I push my laptop aside and return to the site plans spread across my desk. Cabin placements. Utility runs. Access roads. Dock facilities. Every detail represents months of planning, thousands in permits, and millions of dollars in labor.
How did it become a battlefield?
I uncap a red marker, and the chemical bite fills the air. The tip hovers over the blueprint as I locate the timber storage area, the quiet corner of our construction site that nearly became a crime scene today.
I circle it.
The mark covers more than storage. It touches the trail between cabins two and three, and the access road where deliveries come in. If the timber had gone over at the wrong time…
If the crew hadn’t been on break…
If Chloe hadn’t gotten Quinn out of the way…
I exhale, steadying my hand. An injury would’ve triggered an OSHA investigation. This would’ve been our third major incident. Automatic shutdown. Heavy fines. Permanent permit loss, if they found violations.
I add more red.
