Chapter 5 - Eleven Million DollarsElena Ruiz chose a diner in Culver City.
Not Belgrave.
Not my house.
Not Arthur’s office.
She arrived wearing sunglasses after dark.
That told me enough.
She was thirty-four, a single mother according to David, and had worked in Belgrave accounting for five years.
She sat across from Arthur and me without ordering food.
“I could lose my job.”
“Yes,” I said.
She looked startled.
Most people expect reassurance.
I prefer accuracy.
Arthur leaned forward.
“If there’s wrongdoing, the board can protect you.”
Elena gave him a tired smile.
“Boards protect themselves.”
Again, accurate.
“What did you mean by eleven million?” I asked.
She opened a canvas tote.
Inside was a laptop.
She did not hand it to us.
Instead she opened spreadsheets.
“Belgrave has three sets of financial reporting.”
Arthur stared.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
She clicked.
“One for management. One for the board. One for lenders.”
Arthur’s face reddened.
“I receive monthly statements.”
“The board version.”
“What differs?”
“Debt.”
She showed us.
Belgrave officially disclosed fourteen million dollars in secured debt.
The management ledger showed eighteen-point-six.
The lender files showed nearly twenty-five.
Arthur whispered, “How?”
“Special-purpose entities.”
My pulse increased.
“Names?”
“Belgrave Hospitality Services. Fairway Property Management. BCC Capital Partners.”
“Owned by?”
“On paper, different LLCs.”
“Beneficial owners?”
She looked at Arthur.
“I don’t know all of them.”
“But?”
“Mathis family entities appear in two.”
Arthur leaned back.
“So the club owes money to companies Charles controls?”
“Partly.”
“That can be legal,” I said.
Elena nodded.
“If disclosed.”
“Was it?”
“No.”
She opened another sheet.
“Several loans were used to cover operating shortfalls.”
“Why are there shortfalls?”
“Membership is stable. Events are profitable.”
She looked directly at me.
“Because money is leaving.”
Mathis Consulting.
Related vendors.
Management fees.
Real estate advisory fees.
Vehicles.
Travel.
Foundation expenses.
One payment caught my eye.
REDWOOD STRATEGIC — $1,250,000.
“What is Redwood?”
“I couldn’t find any real operations.”
“Address?”
She showed me.
Beverly Hills office suite.
Arthur took out his phone.
“I know that building.”
Virtual offices.
Another shell.
Then Elena showed us the worst document.
A draft purchase agreement.
Buyer: Pacific Crest Development.
Seller: Belgrave Country Club Property Holdings.
Purchase price: $62 million.
Property: twelve acres along the western boundary.
Arthur went pale.
“That land includes the ninth fairway.”
“Yes.”
I thought of the green stretching behind the luncheon.
“How can Charles sell club property?”
“He can’t alone.”
“Member vote,” Arthur said.
“Two-thirds.”
Elena shook her head.
“The agreement assumes approval by an affiliated ownership committee.”
Arthur stared.
“What ownership committee?”
“There isn’t one.”
I leaned closer.
“Unless they create one.”
Elena nodded.
“Management has been preparing restructuring documents.”
“Restructuring what?”
“The club.”
She opened another file.
Belgrave would transfer land into a new property company.
Members would receive nonvoting recreational rights.
Voting control would move to investors.
A private member-owned club would become something closer to a commercial resort.
“And Charles?” I asked.
Elena clicked.
Proposed management equity.
Mathis Family Holdings: 18%.
There it was.
Money.
Power.
Property.
The oldest story in California.
“How does Kristin fit?” Arthur asked.
“Pacific Crest retained Mathis Consulting.”
“How much?”
“Success fee of three percent.”
I calculated.
“One-point-eight-six million.”
Elena nodded.
Arthur swore.
“So she gets nearly two million if the land sells.”
“And her father gets equity.”
“Yes.”
I sat back.
The luncheon shove finally made complete sense.
Kristin had not simply disliked me.
Arthur had invited a seventy-five-year-old accountant onto the property precisely when a hidden land transaction depended on financial secrecy.
She had recognized me.
Provoked me.
Created a public incident.
Then someone tried to blackmail me into withdrawing.
“Who knows you have these files?” I asked.
Elena looked frightened.
“Nobody.”
“Incorrect.”
Her face changed.
“What?”
“Somebody always knows when data is copied.”
Her hands began trembling.
“I used my personal drive.”
“From what computer?”
“Accounting office.”
“Logged into your account?”
“Yes.”
Arthur closed his eyes.
“Elena.”
“I know.”
“Go home,” I said.
She stared.
“Delete nothing.”
“Okay.”
“Do not access company systems again tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because if they notice, they may accuse you of stealing.”
“I did take copies.”
“Which is why you need an attorney.”
She looked panicked.
“I can’t afford—”
“I know someone.”
Grace Holloway had represented me in a business dispute fifteen years earlier.
I called her from the diner.
She agreed to speak with Elena immediately.
As we stood to leave, Elena grabbed my wrist.
“There’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“Mr. Mathis asked me yesterday how old you were.”
Arthur and I exchanged a look.
“What exactly did he say?”
“He said, ‘That accountant Arthur uses—the elderly Black woman. How old is she?’”
My jaw tightened.
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I didn’t know.”
“And?”
“He said Kristin would.”
I felt cold.
Kristin had not discovered my identity on the lawn.
Her father had asked about me before the luncheon.
The shove had been planned at a family level.
Arthur whispered, “We need the video.”
“Yes.”
Then my phone buzzed.
This time the message contained no threat.
Only a photograph.
David leaving Charles Mathis’s office.
Timestamp: forty minutes earlier.
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