“I know the type,” Miller said, sliding the paper into a black plastic binder under his keyboard. “We had a guy like that try to push past us last winter. Claimed he was the patient’s personal doctor.”
He tapped the corner of my mother’s photo with his pen. “This one is your mother?”
“Yes,” I said.
“We get this sometimes,” Miller said. “Don’t worry. They won’t get past the elevator bay.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Take care of your girl,” he said, turning back to his puzzle.
I walked out into the cold night, the steam rising from the street grates in white plumes. I stood on the corner for ten minutes, watching the yellow cabs pass, before I headed back inside to sleep on the vinyl chair next to Maya’s bed.
At nine o’clock the next morning, Julian’s conference room was freezing.
A woman in a gray wool suit sat at the end of the long table, a black leather folder closed in front of her.
“David, this is Special Investigator Vance from the state banking commission,” Julian said, not offering me a seat before he spoke.
I nodded to her and sat down.
Vance did not smile. She opened her folder to reveal a stack of signature cards and corporate ledger prints.
“Mr. Miller,” she said, using my last name. “We flagged an account at Brooklyn Union Bank that was opened five weeks ago under your business name, Miller Engineering Associates.”
“I only bank with Chase,” I said.
“We know,” Vance said. “But this account was opened using your federal tax identification number and your professional engineering license.”
She slid a document across the polished wood table.
It was an application for a commercial line of credit for seventy-five thousand dollars.
My signature was written at the bottom in thick blue ink, a perfect imitation of the loop I used on my payroll checks.
“Who is the co-signer?” I asked, my voice tight.
Vance pointed to the line directly below mine.
“The secondary guarantor is listed as Eleanor Miller,” she said.
I stared at my mother’s name, written in her sharp, elegant script.
“She signed this?” I asked.
“It was notarized at a branch in Queens,” Vance said. “The notary is currently being questioned.”
“Did you ever lease a property at eighty-two Northern Boulevard?” Vance asked.
“No,” I said. “That is an industrial park. I have never done business there.”
“A payment of twelve thousand dollars was sent to a firm called Queens Concrete and Supply from that account,” Vance said. “Do you know them?”
“No,” I said. “We do not do concrete procurement. We only write the design specifications.”
Julian leaned forward, his hands flat on the table.
“This goes far beyond a stolen vacation fund, David,” he said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“A commercial line of credit requires an asset audit,” Julian said. “If Mark used your company credentials to back these loans, he had to provide active contracts to prove cash flow.”
“I have three municipal contracts,” I said. “They are public record.”
“And they are now tied to an unauthorized account that is forty thousand dollars overdrawn,” Vance said.
I looked at Julian, but his face was completely blank.
“If the state regulatory board sees an active fraud investigation on your license, they will suspend your engineering credentials immediately,” Julian said. “You will not be able to sign off on any projects.”
“How do we stop it?” I asked.
“We have to open your entire corporate ledger to the state,” Julian said. “Every contract, every invoice, every personal bank transfer you have made in the last five years.”
“That will take weeks,” I said.
“It will take as long as it takes,” Vance said. “And if we find that you had any knowledge of this account before today, the state will file its own charges.”
She took a single sheet of paper from her folder and laid it in front of me, alongside a black ballpoint pen.
“This is the authorization for a full forensic audit of Miller Engineering Associates,” Julian said.
I picked up the pen, its plastic cold in my fingers.
My hand hovered over the signature line.
