He needs the firm’s safety net more than you do, Julian, my father declared across the formal dinner table, cutting my monthly commission allocation by $14,500 to pay my ex-partner Marcus’s luxur...
The quiet hum of the fluorescent lights above us felt oppressive, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in my gut. Evelyn Ross, the senior forensic auditor, moved with a practiced efficiency that belied the tension in the air.
She pulled a small, silver thumb drive from her pocket.
“These aren’t firm records, Julian,” she said, her voice low. “I pulled them from a compromised server Marcus used for personal files. I did it over the weekend, off the clock.”
Her hand brushed mine as she passed it over. The metal was cool against my skin.
“Harrison Finch’s real estate valuation ledgers,” she clarified. “Encrypted, but I managed to crack them.”
I inserted the drive into my laptop, my fingers fumbling slightly. A folder appeared, labeled only with a string of numbers. Inside were dozens of files, each titled with a property address and a date.
“He wasn’t just careless, was he?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. The initial shock of the 1994 Founder Trust Clause had given way to a cold dread that Marcus’s actions ran deeper than incompetence.
Evelyn watched the screen, her gaze sharp. “See for yourself.”
I clicked on the first file: “45 Broad Street, Boston – April 2022.” The valuation certificate listed the property at $7.5 million. My eyes scanned the details.
“This is impossible,” I muttered, scrolling down. “We bought that building for $2.5 million in 2019. It hasn’t tripled in value in three years.”
Evelyn pointed at a line item. “Finch inflated the ‘market potential’ and ‘development rights’ by an average of 300% across the board. Look at the comparables he used – properties miles away, or ones with active, high-value commercial tenants we don’t have.”
I opened another file: “21 Seaport Lane, Boston – July 2022.” Listed value: $9.1 million. Actual firm acquisition cost: $3 million. The pattern was identical, the inflation staggering.
“He used these to secure loans against the properties, didn’t he?” I asked, a sick feeling spreading through my chest. “To extract cash?”
“Exactly,” Evelyn confirmed. “The banks, trusting Finch’s ‘expert’ opinion and the firm’s good name, lent against these inflated values. Marcus then siphoned off the difference.”
I stared at the screen, the figures blurring. Marcus wasn’t a bad investor who needed a safety net. He was systematically committing multi-million dollar loan fraud. My father, David, had been blind to this, or worse. The “market losses” were a carefully constructed lie.
“This isn’t just poor management,” I said, a new resolve hardening my voice. “This is a crime.”
Evelyn nodded, her face grim. “A very sophisticated one, Julian. And it ties the firm, and by extension, your family, directly to bank fraud.”
The weight of her words settled over me. This wasn’t about a commission anymore. This was about exposing a deep, dangerous rot at the heart of Brooks Asset Management.
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