visible files, the main ledgers, the obvious emails.

But a forensic accountant knows that data is like a footprint in the mud; even
if you sweep the surface, the compression of the soil remains.

I sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by printed spreadsheets, my eyes
burning as I traced the digital brushstrokes of Marcus’s masterpiece. I looked
for the ghost transactions.

“Here,” I rasped, my voice hoarse. I stabbed a red pen into a printed
spreadsheet. “Look at this, Celeste.”

Celeste leaned over my shoulder, adjusting her glasses. “What am I looking at?
It just looks like a standard clearinghouse transfer.”

“It’s a bounce,” I explained, the thrill of the hunt making my pulse race. “He
sells a fake bronze statue for three million dollars to a company called Aegis
Art Holdings. Aegis transfers the money from a bank in Geneva. But look at the
routing history of the Geneva account. The funds didn’t originate there.”

I pulled up another sheet, tracing a line with my fingernail. “The money
originated from an encrypted account in Macao, bounced through the Caymans, sat
in Geneva for twenty-four hours to look legitimate, and then landed in Vale’s
corporate account. From there, Marcus takes his 20% ‘commission’ for
facilitating the sale, and routes the remaining 80% to a private holding
company.”

“And who owns the holding company?” Celeste asked, her breath catching.

I typed a series of commands into my laptop, bypassing a rudimentary firewall. A