Chapter 3: The Corrupt Ledger Keeper

Abigail’s words about Arthur Finch being “easily swayed by money and fear” resonated with me as I walked toward his office building a few days later. The autumn air was crisp, but a cold knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. The address Abigail had given me was for a small, unassuming brick building tucked between a busy haberdashery and a dusty bookstore. Finch’s office was on the second floor, announced by a faded brass plaque.

I knew approaching him directly would be risky. Philip would have eyes everywhere.

As I hesitated on the sidewalk, pretending to admire the window display of vintage hats, a black Cadillac Seville, immaculately polished despite the grimy street, slowly cruised by. It double-parked down the block from Finch’s building. A hulking man in a dark suit emerged from the passenger side. His presence was like a sudden drop in temperature. He had a scarred face and eyes that seemed to take in everything without ever focusing directly.

Carmine “The Collector” Rossi. Abigail had shown me an old newspaper clipping with his name and a blurry photo from a decade ago. He was rumored to be the syndicate’s local enforcer. The sheer brazenness of his presence, right outside Finch’s office, was a clear message.

He didn’t look at me, but I felt a prickle on my neck, an instinct telling me to be invisible. I ducked into the haberdashery, pretending to browse, watching through the narrow window. Rossi entered Finch’s building, his broad shoulders filling the doorway.

This wasn’t just Philip’s panic anymore. This was the syndicate’s.

I decided to wait. Finch would have to leave eventually. Hours crawled by. I nursed a single cup of coffee in a diner across the street, constantly scanning the windows of Finch’s office and the street below. The Cadillac remained parked, a silent, menacing sentinel.

Finally, just as dusk began to paint the sky orange, Rossi emerged from the building. He glanced around, his eyes sweeping over the street with chilling thoroughness, before returning to the Cadillac. The car pulled away, disappearing into the evening traffic.

I waited another ten minutes, my heart pounding. Then, Arthur Finch, a man who seemed to embody the word “nervous,” practically scuttled out of the building. He was slight, with receding hair and glasses that seemed too large for his face. He clutched a worn leather briefcase tightly against his chest. He looked around frantically, then started walking quickly, almost running, down the street.

I followed him, keeping my distance. He was heading towards a bus stop, clearly agitated. I decided to confront him there, before he could vanish into the anonymity of the city.

“Mr. Finch?” I called out softly as he reached the bus stop, making sure no one else was close enough to overhear.

He jumped, spinning around, his eyes wide with fear. He recognized me instantly. His face went pale.

“Mrs. Reynolds?” he stammered, clutching his briefcase tighter. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you, Mr. Finch,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and firm. “About Frontier Logistics. And the audit.”

He cast a frantic look around, as if expecting Rossi to materialize from the shadows.

“I don’t know anything, Mrs. Reynolds,” he insisted, his voice reedy. “Philip has everything handled. It’s all routine.”

“Routine?” I scoffed softly. “With Carmine Rossi waiting outside your office for hours? Nothing about this is routine, Mr. Finch.”

His eyes darted back to the spot where the Cadillac had been. He looked utterly terrified.

“He’s just… checking in,” Finch mumbled, sweat beading on his forehead. “Standard business calls.”

“Standard business?” I pressed, stepping closer. “My daughter Lily is dead, Mr. Finch. And her trust fund has triggered an audit that everyone is desperate to bury. What exactly is Philip doing with Frontier Logistics?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His hands trembled on the briefcase.

“I can’t… I really can’t say anything,” he whispered. “You don’t understand the kind of people Philip is involved with.”

“I think I’m starting to,” I countered. “Abigail Croft told me Philip was running black market wartime contracts through Frontier Logistics. Is that true?”

Finch flinched as if struck. His gaze flickered, a guilty confession in his eyes. He swallowed hard.

“It’s… it’s complicated,” he finally managed, his voice barely audible.

“Complicated how?” I pushed. “Is it money laundering? Is it diverted military supplies?”

He started to shake his head, then stopped, his eyes darting to a bus approaching in the distance. He was desperate to escape.

“Look, Mrs. Reynolds,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “I’m just an accountant. I do what I’m told. But this… this is big. Bigger than Philip. Bigger than anything you can imagine.”

“Brenda Hayes,” I said, hitting him with the name. “Where is she? Was she involved in Frontier Logistics too?”

His eyes widened further. He took a nervous step back.

“Brenda was… she was more than just a secretary,” he blurted out, a panicked confession slipping past his lips. “She knew everything. She was the one… she handled the payouts. The cash. The records. She was a key player.”

A key player. Not just a secretary. It was another devastating piece of the puzzle. Philip’s affair, if it was even an affair, was a cover for something far more sinister. Brenda hadn’t just been a convenient scapegoat. She was deep in this.

“The payouts?” I asked, trying to get more out of him before the bus arrived. “Payouts to whom? The syndicate?”

He looked horrified that I had said the word aloud.

“I can’t say anymore!” he cried, his voice shrill. “They’ll kill me! They’ll kill us all!”

The bus rumbled to a stop in front of us. Its doors hissed open. Finch made a desperate move to get on.

“Wait!” I urged, reaching out, but he recoiled.

“Philip’s lawyer,” he hissed, his eyes darting to mine, his face a mask of terror. “He called me this morning. Said if I talked to anyone… anyone at all… they’d have me disbarred, ruined. And the others… they’d do worse.”

He gestured vaguely over his shoulder, as if Carmine Rossi was still lurking. His words confirmed it. Philip was using every lever he had, both legal and illegal, to silence anyone who could talk.

“What others, Mr. Finch?” I demanded. “Who else is involved?”

But he was already scrambling onto the bus, pushing past a startled passenger. He found a seat by the window and hunched down, avoiding my gaze. The bus pulled away, carrying him and his terrified secrets into the night.

I was left on the sidewalk, the cold wind whipping around me. Finch’s panicked confession confirmed Philip’s deep entanglement with a criminal syndicate, using Frontier Logistics to launder profits from stolen military supplies. Brenda, far from being an innocent bystander, was a central figure, a “key player” handling illicit cash. But Finch was too terrified to reveal more. The subtle threats from Rossi, the explicit legal threats from Philip’s lawyer, and Finch’s own fear had locked him down. I had a deeper understanding of Philip’s operations, but no closer to understanding Lily’s death, and no solid proof to take to authorities. I needed something more concrete. Something irrefutable.