I wonder how much his connections played into it. Assuming he’s even telling the truth. “They might have put a tail on you. Were you followed here?”
“I was careful not to be,” he answers, sounding less than certain.
He was less than careful about shielding his face from security cameras on the way in, and it didn’t look like he was trying to mask his gait, either, but there’s little point in chastising him over that. I freeze up as a waiter in black slacks and an old-style white button-down approaches, serves Brady a plate of what looks like a grilled Ryland mushroom over red rice, and walks away without a word. Another minute or two goes by as I look out over the floor, eyeing each person with paranoia and suspicion, trying to identify potential attackers while Brady starts on his food.
“So,” he says finally, “what are you going to do?”
“I’ve got no choice,” I tell him, “I’ll either crack this whole thing open, or I’ll die trying.”
He frowns at the morbidity of that. I think on some level he actually does like me, and the thought of my death is not pleasant to him. “How?”
“With proof?” The tremble in my voice reveals that I’m not certain I can get it.
“From where?”
“Those phantom cash withdrawals were made to cover up for calcium that’s going somewhere else,” I answer, voicing aloud the suspicions I explored over and over again in my mind on the walk over here, suspicions that lack answers. “Somewhere it shouldn’t be going.”
He sips his wine between bites of rice. “Where?”
“I think the question to answer first is why.”
“Why what?”
“Why is that money being laundered through a bank?”
He cuts a slice of the fat mushroom on his plate with his steak knife and forks it into his mouth. “You got me.”
“Why that bank? Why the main branch and not ATMs? Why cash withdrawals?”
“I’m still not following.”
“The Commerce Board—your bosses—are making those deposits.” I’m thinking aloud now, stating facts that seem important but haven’t quite gotten me to a conclusion yet, or even a working theory. “The books show that the money is taken out in cash. And it isn’t.”
“Right. That’s what I don’t get. It looks like the Commerce Board is laundering money to SCAPE, but why would they do that?”
“Where could it be going?” I’m hoping he has more of an idea than I do.
All he has is a guess. “Someone must be pocketing it.”
“That’s a lot of cash to pocket.” Playing out that scenario, I wonder aloud, “If someone was stealing money… that much money… would they be able to keep it secret?”
“Doubtful,” the Commerce Board’s newest Deputy Auditor admits. “I think I would have seen red flags about it myself on one of my auditing algorithms.”
A short silence passes between us as we both try to think these things through. “There’s a yearly currency shortfall of what, four to eight percent?”
“Yeah, it’s—” He stops himself, realizing what I’m suggesting. “Wait. Are you saying it’s being kept out of circulation entirely?”
It occurs to me that that is what I’m suggesting, as insane as it sounds. “Brady,” I ask, knowing that I’m treading on sensitive territory for him, “what does the Commerce Board do?”
“Governs extraplanetary trade, regulates the currency,” he replies, his expression blank. I say nothing, my mind working, looking for some reason to doubt my newest conspiracy theory. “No,” he says after a few seconds, between bites of food. “No. If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, it’s not possible. It’s just, just… It’s crackpot.”
“Someone in the Commerce Board knows about those fake employees. Someone put them on payroll and had them issued direct deposit stubs.”
“How do you know that?” he argues feebly.
“How else would they get there? And stay there?”
He frowns, unable to propose an alternate theory. Refilling his wine glass, he asks, poignantly, “So what are you looking for, Taryn?”
“Money being taken completely out of circulation, I guess.”
“Going where?” He swirls his glass and takes a thoughtful, pensive sip.
I consider it for a moment, staring at the rich, dark woodgrain of the table. The idea strikes me just as I say it out loud. “Off-world.” With a bit more certainty, I repeat it. “Off-world.”
He squints. “Calcium is practically worthless off-world.”
“Plenty of miners out in the asteroid belt and oort cloud. Pirates, too. Maybe they’re siphoning it out, reselling at markup.” That explanation doesn’t make any sense, and I know it. The handful of spacers in the middle and outer system have much easier ways of getting black market calcium, as the clearinghouse system can’t, and doesn’t, police them very thoroughly. If calcium is leaving Brink, it’s not because people elsewhere, even in-system, need it.
“Hmm.” Brady thinks on it for a second, running a hand through his neatly combed hair. “If it is going off-world, that could explain why SCAPE might be involved.” He leans closer, serious. “So how can I help, Taryn?”
Feeling suddenly tired, I let out a sigh. “This is a long shot, Brady. Not much more than a hunch. It’s not worth the risk, not for you.”
“I think I could get us into the spaceport,” he offers. “I can call in a favor.”
“Brady… I would feel responsible. If… if… ”
“So would I.” With precise, polite movements, he eats another slice of Ryland mushroom, sitting up straight, poised and collected. “So here we are.”
If calcium is going off-world, it has to be moving on a shuttle out of Oasis City. The spaceport is quite probably my last chance to exonerate myself, and I’ve got no way to get in on my own. I need the auditor’s help, but I’m torn by a storm of conflicting feelings of guilt and suspicion. “You know the risks involved in this, Brady.”
“I do.”
“So why? Why would you do it?”
“I could give you some glib answer or tell you it’s because I like you,” he says, taking a forkful of red rice. He washes it down with some wine, then sets both the glass and the fork neatly down on the table. “But the answer is because the numbers are wrong, and I’m the one that makes those numbers right. That’s what I do.” He shows me his hands, as though to prove he’s got nothing to hide. “And that’s it.”
I stare at him for a long moment, trying to read him. He does not have the look of an honest man, with his finely tailored, in-fashion suit and neatly combed hair and self-assured half smile. But I’ve come this far with him, and for whatever reason, he still claims to be on my side, even after my fight is objectively over, already lost.
More importantly, what choice do I have?
“You’re sure about this?”
“I’m an auditor. I’m never sure about anything.”
I take another glance around, suddenly feeling anxious again for some reason I can’t quite identify. “I don’t think we should stay here for too long.”
“Then let’s go.” He takes the cloth napkin off his lap, tosses it onto the table, and stands up, out of the booth.
He stares at me, waiting for me to go with him. Still unsure and on edge, I hesitate but rise to my feet. Following Brady toward the door, I try to keep as much distance as I can between myself and the strangers in their seats.
Something catches the corner of my eye, and glancing back, I see a man in a black sport coat slipping between tables, cutting across the restaurant and falling in just behind us. Brady doesn’t seem to notice. Did he sell me out? Tense with worry, I don’t dare run or even speed up, even as the man catches up to us with broad, calm steps. As we pass by the bar, he closes in, just arm’s length behind me.