The late-night diner glowed like a greasy beacon in the Chicago night, rain streaking the windows. Julian Ruiz, usually impeccably dressed, sat hunched over a lukewarm coffee, looking like a teenager caught out past curfew. He was Chloe’s junior analyst, a young man with sharp eyes and a nervous habit of biting his lip.
“Look, Arthur,” Julian started, stirring his coffee with a tiny plastic spoon, “Chloe’s tough, I get it. But she’s also incredibly loyal. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her team.”
He fidgeted, avoiding my gaze. I pushed a printout of the physical ledger page across the worn Formica table. It was the page detailing the illicit transfers, the numbers stark and undeniable.
“Take a look at this, Julian,” I said, my voice low. “Specifically, these two line items.”
He glanced down, then picked up the paper, his brow furrowing. He recognized the account numbers. His eyes scanned the small print, tracing the transfers, then snapping to the final column.
“This can’t be right,” he murmured, his face draining of color.
He pointed a trembling finger at the bottom lines. “$2 million? Transferred into… my departmental budget? An offshore shell corporation?”
His voice was barely a whisper. He looked up at me, his eyes wide with dawning horror. The implication hung heavy in the air. Chloe hadn’t just framed me; she was creating layers of fall guys.
“This is the same ‘toxic debt’ she moved to my pension fund,” I explained calmly. “Except she diversified. Spread the risk.”
Julian’s hand clenched, crumpling the paper slightly. He cleared his throat, but no sound came out. The bustling diner, with its clatter of plates and cheerful conversations, felt strangely distant.
“She… she told me it was a routine reallocation for a new expansion project,” Julian stammered. “A temporary placeholder.”
His gaze sharpened, a flicker of something desperate entering his eyes. He understood. He wasn’t just Chloe’s loyal analyst; he was an accessory, possibly implicated for millions.
“She’s planning to throw me to the wolves, isn’t she?” he asked, the words raw. “Just like you.”
I simply held his gaze. The twist was clear on his face. He saw his future: a federal investigation, a ruined career, perhaps even jail time.
“I have the physical original,” I said, patting my briefcase. “And a strong feeling about who notarized the backdated ‘adjustments’ for her.”
Julian looked at the ledger, then back at me. A single bead of sweat trickled down his temple, even in the cool diner. His loyalty to Chloe had just evaporated.
“Gregory Krenshaw,” Julian stated, his voice tight. “He’s Chloe’s guy. Independent accountant. He handles all the ‘creative’ bookkeeping for her expansion projects.”
He swallowed hard. “What do you need me to do, Arthur?”
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