I THREW HER HUSBAND'S THINGS INTO THE STREET—THEN SHE SHOWED ME WHO HE REALLY WAS

Maureen Price had worked for the Perrone family for nineteen years. She used to slip candy into Paulie's desk drawer when he stayed late checking tenant repair requests. If she was frightened enough to send me a warning, something was badly wrong.

I called from the curb. She answered in a whisper.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“At the office. Kent's people are here collecting files.”

“They don't work for us.”

“They say Dennis authorized it. There's a courier with boxes.”

“Stop them.”

“I can't physically stop them, Viktor. And I am not risking my job because you ignored my emails for six months.”

The truth came so sharply that I couldn't speak for a second.

“Make copies of what you can lawfully access for our records,” I said. “Don't delete or alter anything. I'm coming.”

Before leaving Ash Street, I found Nora on the third-floor landing. Her apartment smelled of coffee and furniture polish. A pot of yellow chrysanthemums stood by the window. Paulie's jacket hung from a hook beside the door, like a man might walk in from the cold and put it on.

“I need to know what he was working on,” I said.

“He was trying to keep people in the building safe.”

“I mean before the accident.”

“So do I.”

A maintenance notebook lay on the table, its corners worn. Nora didn't let me touch it. She opened it herself and showed me page after page of leaking pipes, broken exit lights, and complaints about the rear stairwell. Paulie had written tenant names beside every item and dates beside every call he'd made.

Halfway through, one entry stopped me: MARCH 3—VIKTOR PROMISED WE'D WALK IT TOGETHER.

“I never promised that,” I said.

“Maybe you don't remember.”

“I would remember.”

She turned the page and pointed to the time of the call: 8:14 p.m. It was the night I'd had two drinks at a business dinner and told Paulie, over the phone, that I'd look into the repairs. I remembered now how relieved he'd sounded.

“I said I'd look,” I whispered. “I didn't say when.”

“He heard the part he wanted to believe.”

Nora shut the notebook. “Please leave, Viktor.”

At the downtown office, Maureen met me beside the printer with a folder of reports.

“These are the versions I can identify,” she said. “The first is from an independent building inspector Paulie hired. The second was uploaded by a contractor working with Kent's redevelopment company.”

The first report recommended closing the stairs immediately. The second described the handrail as cosmetic damage. The photographs accompanying it showed freshly painted railings and intact treads.

“They fixed it?” I asked.

“Look at the address on the wall sign.”

I leaned closer. The photographs came from 1163 Ash Street, a building across the road. Different brick. Different entrance.

“Somebody switched the pictures.”

“Yes. And after that, your company paid $86,000 for repairs the tenants say were never performed.”

My anger landed first on Kent. Then it turned painfully toward me. The invoices had been approved by a sign-off process I designed to make my life easier. Maureen had requested a second approval threshold for large work orders. I'd rejected it as bureaucracy.

“Did Paulie know about the invoices?”

“He was asking about them when he died.”

“There are fourteen occupied units,” Maureen said. “Not just Nora. Some have been there twenty years.”

“Why is the presentation saying otherwise?”

“Because the buyers will pay more if the tenants leave.”

I reached for the conference door. Maureen caught my arm.

“Don't go in there furious. If you accuse Kent without preserving the records, he'll say you don't understand the finances. And right now, you don't.”

For the first time that day, I listened.

We copied the legitimate corporate records I was authorized to see, noted where the originals were stored, and called the company's outside counsel to advise on preserving evidence. She warned us against secretly taking anyone's private communications and told me to stop any new destruction of records.

At three o'clock Kent stepped out, wearing a camel coat that probably cost more than Nora's monthly rent.

“Viktor,” he said warmly. “How's the move-out coming?”

I kept my voice steady. “Which move-out?”

“All of Ash Street. We're clearing the units before closing. You approved the plan.”

“I approved a feasibility review.”

He laughed softly. “You're splitting hairs. The lender isn't.”

“Did you order Dennis to archive Nora's lease?”

He studied me, calculating. Then he leaned close enough that Maureen couldn't hear.

“You owe more than you think,” he said. “If this deal falls apart, the bank will take your father's last building. I'd hate for you to lose it the way you lost Paulie.”