Chapter 2 - THE CAMERA ABOVE TABLE TWELVE
Daniel did not let me panic.
He also did not tell me not to.
Important difference.
I stared at camera dome near ceiling.
Small.
Black.
Ordinary.
“What do you mean they don’t control it?”
“The Grand Oak upgraded surveillance after an insurance dispute. New system is independent cloud vendor. The alcove still has one legacy camera on internal network.”
“And someone moved you to table twelve.”
“Yes.”
“Which has the newer camera.”
“Yes.”
“So why would they want that?”
“I said theory, not answer.”
Good.
He called restaurant manager back.
“Who can access camera twelve footage?”
“Corporate security vendor. General manager. Police with request.”
“Legacy alcove?”
“Internal server. Management IT.”
Daniel nodded.
“Preserve both.”
Manager left.
I rubbed my palms against dress.
“Daniel, I work in a bookstore.”
“I know.”
That annoyed me.
“How?”
“Your friends said your name. I looked you up after you sat.”
“While talking to me?”
“No. Before library room. Public website.”
“Okay.”
Good.
“Do not have me investigated.”
“I won’t without asking, unless there is immediate safety threat.”
The qualifier bothered me but was honest.
“What counts immediate?”
“Someone outside your home with a weapon.”
“Fine.”
Then:
“Why forty-seven million?”
Daniel’s expression changed.
“Do you really want answer?”
“Yes.”
“You may regret knowing.”
“That is not your choice.”
There.
He nodded.
“Right.”
He explained.
Brooks Maritime had acquired a regional freight operator called East Harbor Logistics eight months ago.
During integration, external consultants reviewed:
vendor contracts,
legacy debt,
customs exposure,
insurance liabilities.
Halpern & Vale handled part of financial diligence.
Jason worked on subcontracted analytics.
Three weeks ago, a treasury manager noticed cash sweeps from four reserve accounts.
Forty-seven million total.
Not one transfer.
Dozens.
Each under thresholds that triggered executive review.
Money moved through:
fuel vendors,
maintenance contractors,
port consulting,
then offshore structures.
“Why do you need mafia for that?” I asked.
Daniel almost smiled.
“You don’t.”
“Then why are you involved?”
“Because company is mine.”
“Legitimate?”
“Mostly.”
I stared.
“Mostly is not reassuring.”
“No.”
There.
“At least one contractor also handles things that do not appear in annual report.”
“Illegal things.”
“Yes.”
No romance in answer.
Good.
“Are you laundering?”
His eyes held mine.
“Some of my businesses have historically moved money that should not have moved.”
Historically.
Careful word.
“Currently?”
“We are unwinding structures. Not finished.”
I looked away.
This man was dangerous.
Not rumor only.
He was also telling me instead of sanitizing.
That did not make safe.
Just honest.
“Why is Jason part?”
“Unknown. His login reviewed reserve architecture during acquisition.”
“Could he steal?”
“Access alone no.”
“But knowledge.”
“Yes.”
Then waiter returned.
We ordered because apparently people still eat during conspiracy.
I chose pasta.
Twenty-nine dollars.
Criminal.
Daniel ordered fish.
When waiter left, I asked:
“What do pictures prove?”
“Maybe nothing.”
“Jason specifically asked for reaction if you reached inside jacket.”
“Yes.”
“He expected something.”
“Maybe he wanted image of me threatening you.”
My stomach dropped.
A photo:
mafia boss reaches into jacket.
Terrified woman.
Scandal.
“Why?”
“If I were under pressure from regulators or board, image of coercion could matter.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
There.
“Because missing money?”
“Partly. Because I’m trying to separate legal companies from criminal crews my father left.”
That got me.
“Your father?”
“Died six years ago.”
“And you inherited.”
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t you just stop doing crimes?”
He laughed once.
Not mocking.
“Simple question. Complicated answer.”
“Try.”
So he did.
Some clubs relied on illegal gambling.
Some shipping contracts depended on intimidation.
Security men did work that crossed legal lines.
Politicians had received money through intermediaries.
Closing everything overnight could trigger:
layoffs,
retaliation,
criminal exposure,
people destroying records.
“That sounds like justification.”
“It is explanation.”
Good.
“Difference matters.”
“I know.”
“I’m not asking you to approve.”
“I don’t.”
“I assumed.”
That almost made me smile.
Then my phone buzzed.
Olivia.
I DIDN’T KNOW. PLEASE CALL.
Then another.
JASON ISN’T ANSWERING.
I showed Daniel.
“Do you want me to call him?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You sound relieved.”
“I do not want you warning anyone.”
Fair.
Then a text from unknown number.
EMILY, YOU NEED TO LEAVE GRAND OAK NOW.
My blood went cold.
Daniel saw my face.
“What?”
I showed.
He did not touch phone.
“Do you recognize number?”
“No.”
“Screenshot.”
I did.
Another message:
THIS IS NOT A DATE. YOU ARE BEING USED.
I laughed bitterly.
“Little late.”
Daniel did not.
“Do you want to leave?”
I looked at windows.
Snow outside.
Restaurant crowded.
“I don’t know.”
“Then we don’t move yet.”
We.
I noticed.
“Can your security trace?”
“Not without legal process if spoofed. They can document.”
“Police?”
“Do you want?”
I thought.
Threat vague.
No explicit violence.
Still.
“Yes.”
Daniel nodded.
He asked the manager to contact Boston police and report the threatening messages in connection with the possible fraud investigation.
Good.
No secret crew.
A detective arrived forty minutes later.
Plain clothes.
Daniel’s reputation made him visibly cautious.
He introduced:
Detective Maya Torres.
She looked at me first.
“Ms. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Your phone stays with you. I’ll photograph screen with permission.”
“Okay.”
She did.
Asked:
Who knows you’re here?
Friends.
Jason.
Bookstore coworker maybe.
Olivia.
Daniel gave reservation logs to manager for preservation.
Torres said:
“Mr. Brooks, I’m going to need your cooperation.”
“You’ll have counsel by morning.”
She looked annoyed.
He added:
“And records now where management owns them.”
Better.
Then food arrived during police interview.
Absurd.
My pasta got cold.
Detective asked about Jason.
I explained breakup.
Affair.
His work.
“Full name?”
“Jason Miller.”
Daniel’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
I asked.
“Jason Cole Miller?”
“Yes.”
“Middle name?”
“Cole.”
Daniel looked at detective.
“One of our diligence files lists J. Cole Miller.”
There.
Same.
Torres wrote.
Then restaurant security called manager into hall.
He returned pale.
“Mr. Brooks.”
“What?”
“There’s a package under your original alcove table.”
Everything stopped.
Detective Torres stood.
“Do not touch it.”
Good.
Restaurant evacuated section.
Because the package was unidentified, police treated it as a possible explosive until the bomb squad cleared it.
Guests moved out calmly.
Daniel looked at me.
“Now we leave.”
I nodded.
No argument.
Outside, snow hit my face.
His security car waited.
I stopped.
“I’m not getting in if I don’t know where.”
“Fair.”
He said:
“Police asked us to remain nearby for statements. Hotel across street has conference room. You can go there with Detective Torres.”
Better.
I went with detective.
Daniel separate.
No cinematic kidnapping prevention.
The package turned out not explosive.
Inside:
a burner phone.
A flash drive.
An envelope.
Addressed:
DANIEL BROOKS.
The flash drive contained copies of internal East Harbor financial records.
And one photograph.
Me.
Behind register at Maple Street Books.
Taken that morning.
That was when I stopped believing I had wandered into Daniel’s problem by accident.
The police interview ended after midnight.
Before leaving, Detective Torres asked one more question.
“Ms. Carter, did Mr. Miller ever know passwords to your email, banking, cloud storage?”
My stomach tightened.
“He knew my old Wi-Fi password.”
“Anything else?”
“Maybe laptop PIN when we lived together.”
“Change everything.”
“I will.”
Daniel said nothing.
Good.
Torres continued.
“Turn on multifactor authentication. Review recovery emails. Don’t use security questions he can guess.”
Normal advice.
Terrifying because it was normal.
When she left, Daniel’s attorney stayed long enough to explain preservation requests.
Then Daniel and I stood in hotel hallway.
He said:
“I can have someone—”
I looked.
He stopped.
“Right.”
“What were you going to say?”
“Have someone audit your devices.”
“That sounds invasive.”
“It can be.”
“Do I need it?”
“If Jason had old access, probably wise.”
I thought.
“Can police recommend vendor?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll ask Torres.”
“Good.”
There.
He was learning faster than I expected.
Then:
“Where are you going?”
“My hotel.”
“Which?”
I stared.
He lifted both hands.
“Sorry.”
I almost smiled.
“You’re bad at this.”
“Very.”
I stepped toward elevator.
“Daniel.”
“Yes?”
“Why did your staff believe I was coming?”
“The message used internal introduction format.”
“What does that mean?”
“My events coordinator gets occasional private guest notes from office. Name, time, who arranged.”
“So someone knew your social protocol.”
“Yes.”
“Elliot?”
“Possibly.”
“Julian?”
“Possibly.”
“You?”
“Apparently not.”
Good.
Then I asked:
“Do women often just get delivered to your dinner?”
His face changed.
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because that sounded very organized.”
“It’s for business introductions too.”
“Okay.”
A pause.
Then he said:
“For what it’s worth, I almost canceled when I got the note.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like being set up.”
I laughed.
“Neither do I.”
“Common ground.”
The elevator arrived.
I stepped inside.
Daniel did not follow.
Good.
He stayed in hallway while doors closed.
That small restraint mattered because the entire night had been built by people making choices for me.
Friends.
Jason.
Whoever changed reservation.
Daniel’s first real contribution was not rescuing me.
It was stopping at the elevator.
Letting the door close.
The next morning, Detective Torres called before I had coffee.
The package’s burner phone contained only one outgoing draft never sent.
DB TAKES BAIT.
I sat on hotel bed.
“Who wrote it?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Bait is me.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t say maybe to be nice.”
Torres sighed.
“Yes. Probably you.”
There.
I looked at my hands.
Not because I felt helpless.
Because anger needed somewhere to go.
“Was I supposed to get hurt?”
“No evidence of that.”
“Humiliated?”
“Yes.”
“Used?”
“Yes.”
Good.
Ugly truth better than soft language.
Then she said:
“Mr. Brooks gave us access to reservation logs voluntarily.”
“That’s good?”
“It is useful.”
“Do you trust him?”
Torres paused.
“I trust evidence.”
Excellent answer.
I wrote it down.
Because apparently one blind date had turned me into person who kept investigation notes.
At breakfast downstairs, I ordered coffee.
Bad.
I drank anyway.
I considered deleting Olivia’s contact.
I hovered.
Did not.
Not yet.
Deleting was a choice too.
May you like
I wanted to make it after anger stopped deciding everything.
That was new for me as well.
