Chapter 6 - The Forged Signature
Naomi had spent half her career believing her mother had become bitter because architecture was a brutal profession.
Now she wondered whether Denise Brooks had been bitter because someone had stolen her name.
She sat in the conference room at Ellison Rowe while her managing partner, Henry Ellison, compared two files on a wall monitor.
One contained Denise's refusal letter.
The other contained a certification approving substantially identical work.
Henry removed his glasses.
“This is serious.”
Naomi folded her arms.
“That's an understatement.”
“The metadata says the digital certificate was issued from the project administrator's account.”
“Who was project administrator?”
Henry looked uncomfortable.
“You already know.”
“Say it.”
“Eastwell Construction.”
Naomi closed her eyes.
The same company bidding today.
Henry turned away from the screen.
“We need counsel.”
“We also need to inform Marcus.”
Henry hesitated.
Naomi noticed.
“Why are you hesitating?”
“Because Whitmore Development invited us to bid on three other projects.”
She stared at him.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am explaining the firm's exposure.”
“My mother's signature was forged.”
“Allegedly.”
Naomi stood.
“Don't.”
“Naomi—”
“Don't turn this into a sentence designed to protect an insurance policy.”
Henry looked ashamed.
She gathered her laptop.
“If this firm buries it, I'll resign.”
“No one said anything about burying it.”
“You just started measuring the truth against future contracts.”
Henry rubbed his forehead.
“I will call counsel.”
“Today.”
“Yes.”
Naomi left.
When she reached the sidewalk, Marcus was waiting.
Not in the Lamborghini.
In a dark sedan with a driver.
His wheelchair sat beside him.
Naomi approached.
“You didn't have to come.”
“Yes, I did.”
She looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because when you called, you sounded like someone had rewritten part of your childhood.”
That answer nearly broke her.
She looked away.
Marcus gestured toward a nearby plaza.
They moved to a bench.
Naomi showed him the forged certificate.
Marcus read silently.
“I'll give this to Aaron.”
“Henry is informing our counsel.”
“Good.”
Naomi studied him.
“Do you think your father ordered it?”
Marcus did not answer immediately.
“That possibility exists.”
She appreciated that he didn't defend Thomas automatically.
Marcus continued.
“But the certificate came from Eastwell.”
“Which Whitmore may have controlled.”
“Yes.”
Naomi sat back.
“We need the audit trail.”
Marcus nodded.
“I can subpoena it if litigation starts.”
“You sound like you expect litigation.”
“My family owns Manhattan real estate. We expect litigation when the elevator is slow.”
She laughed despite herself.
The moment of relief didn't last.
Marcus looked toward the street.
“My mother knew about Denise's complaint.”
Naomi turned.
“How much?”
“I don't know yet.”
“You haven't asked?”
“She avoided my calls last night.”
Naomi understood family avoidance.
“My father used to leave the room whenever I asked why Mom stopped getting large projects.”
Marcus looked at her.
“You think he knew?”
“I think everybody knew pieces.”
“And nobody knew enough.”
“Or nobody wanted enough.”
The sentence stayed between them.
Marcus's phone rang.
Camille.
He answered on speaker.
“Tell me something good.”
Camille said, “I found Dad's personal ledger.”
Marcus straightened.
“What ledger?”
“He tracked unofficial payments during the renovation.”
Naomi felt her pulse jump.
“Payments to who?”
Camille continued.
“One entry says E.W. consulting, four hundred eighty thousand.”
“Eastwell?”
“Maybe.”
Marcus asked, “Anything about Denise?”
“Yes.”
Naomi stopped breathing.
Camille's tone softened.
“There are three payments marked D.B. settlement.”
Naomi stood.
“What?”
“Sixty thousand total.”
“I never saw that money.”
Camille said carefully, “Could your mother have received it?”
“No.”
“You're sure?”
“My mother was behind on the mortgage when she died.”
Marcus looked at Naomi.
“What happened to the payments?”
Camille answered.
“That's what gets strange. The checks weren't made to Denise Brooks. They were made to Brooks Design Consulting.”
Naomi frowned.
“My mother never had a company by that name.”
Marcus's eyes narrowed.
“Then somebody created one.”
Camille continued.
“I checked state records. Brooks Design Consulting existed for eleven months.”
“Owner?”
“Samuel Brooks.”
Naomi froze.
Her father's name.
Marcus watched her face.
“Naomi?”
She could barely speak.
“My father.”
Camille went silent.
Naomi took the phone.
“Send me the registration.”
“I will.”
The call ended.
Naomi stared across the plaza.
Her mother had fought the Carter project.
Her father had apparently created a company using their family name.
And sixty thousand dollars in settlement money had flowed through it.
Marcus spoke gently.
“We don't know what it means.”
Naomi stood.
“I do.”
“You don't.”
“My father took money.”
“We don't know that.”
“He never told me any settlement existed.”
“Maybe Denise didn't know.”
“That makes it worse.”
She walked away.
Marcus followed at a respectful distance.
“Naomi.”
She stopped.
“You need to let me be angry.”
“I am.”
“No. You're trying to solve it.”
Marcus fell silent.
She turned toward him.
“Sometimes people don't need fixing.”
The words struck him.
Naomi immediately regretted their implication.
Marcus glanced at his wheelchair.
She shook her head.
“That wasn't about your disability.”
“I know.”
“Marcus—”
“I know.”
His expression remained calm.
“That doesn't mean it didn't land.”
Naomi closed her eyes.
“I'm sorry.”
He nodded.
“Thank you.”
The exchange was small, but something changed between them.
Not romance.
Trust.
Honesty without perfection.
Naomi's phone rang.
Her father.
She stared at the screen.
Marcus saw the name.
“You don't have to answer.”
“Yes,” Naomi whispered. “I do.”
She accepted the call.
“Dad.”
Samuel Brooks did not say hello.
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His first sentence confirmed more than Naomi wanted to know.
“You found the Bellmont payments, didn't you?”
