He closed the folder.
“I’ll meet Natalie,” he said. “But we do it on our terms. You stay close, keep a record of everything, and if I don’t call by noon, you take the files to someone who can’t be bought.”
Victor nodded reluctantly.
Agrippa turned off the kitchen light. The papers remained on the table, pale rectangles in the darkness. Somewhere out there, Malcolm Rourke believed the old secrets still belonged to him.
By morning, Agrippa intended to learn how many people had helped him keep them.
At ten forty-five the next morning, Agrippa Fisher parked three blocks away from the address the anonymous caller had provided. The building stood between a shuttered pharmacy and a small accounting office, its faded sign advertising a business that had closed years earlier. A narrow alley ran along one side, ending at a metal gate covered in rust.
He checked his phone.
No new messages.
Victor had insisted on following him, but they had agreed to stay separated. Victor waited in a café across the street, carrying copies of the old contracts and instructions to contact a lawyer if Agrippa failed to check in by noon. Agrippa disliked the arrangement. He disliked even more the fact that it was necessary.
Before leaving home, he had told Larry that he needed to handle an old work matter. He had not mentioned the envelopes, the surveillance car, or the stranger who had asked about his school schedule.
Children deserved to feel safe in their own homes.
Agrippa had promised himself that no matter what happened, he would keep that promise to his son.
At precisely eleven, a woman stepped out of the building.
She was in her early fifties, with short brown hair, a dark coat, and a leather bag clutched tightly beneath one arm. She scanned the street before looking directly at Agrippa.
“You came alone,” she said.
“Not exactly.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Agrippa continued. “But I’m not going to pretend I have no questions.”
“Then you should start by asking why I agreed to meet you.”
“Why did you?”
“Because Malcolm Rourke has started making mistakes.”
The woman turned and walked toward the alley. Agrippa followed at a cautious distance.
“My name is Natalie Brooks,” she said. “I was the senior accounts manager for Rourke Promotions for almost eight years. I handled contracts, sponsorship payments, travel expenses, and fighter purses. I knew where every dollar was supposed to go.”
“And where it actually went?”
Natalie stopped beside a side entrance and unlocked the door.
“Come inside.”
The room beyond was small and cold. Old filing cabinets lined one wall, and a folding table stood beneath a dusty window. Natalie closed the door, checked the lock, and placed her bag on the table.
“Your final championship contract was worth considerably more than you received,” she said.
“I know some of the money went missing.”
“Not some. Almost forty percent of the total compensation was diverted through a chain of shell companies. Some of the transfers were disguised as management fees. Others were recorded as medical expenses, travel reimbursements, or promotional costs that never existed.”
Agrippa remained silent.
Natalie opened her bag and removed a thick folder.
“I objected when I first noticed the discrepancies. Malcolm told me the figures were temporary adjustments. He said the money would be reconciled after the championship event. Then I found the same company names appearing in several fighters’ accounts.”
“Other fighters?”
“Three that I can prove. Possibly more.”
“Why didn’t you go to the authorities?”
“I tried.”
She placed a photocopy on the table. It was a letter addressed to a financial investigator, followed by a document confirming that the investigation had been closed for insufficient evidence.
“Malcolm found out before anyone contacted him,” Natalie said. “My office was searched. My computer disappeared. The investigator handling the case was reassigned. A week later, Malcolm told me that if I wanted to keep my family safe, I should stop asking questions.”
Agrippa looked at her carefully.
“Did you stop?”
“I stopped asking him.”
Natalie reached into the folder and removed a photograph of the black notebook.
Agrippa felt the room become unnaturally quiet.
It was the same notebook shown in the anonymous message. The silver wolf on its cover had been scratched near one corner, and a strip of dark tape ran along the spine. He remembered buying it at a stationery shop before his final training camp.
“You’ve seen it,” he said.
“I held it in my hands.”
“When?”
“The night before your championship fight. Malcolm had asked me to prepare a final reconciliation of the event’s accounts. He wanted me to verify that the bonuses had been paid and the medical expenses approved. While I was in his office, I saw the notebook inside an open drawer.”