Chapter 8 - The Mathis FamilyThe police found no sign of forced entry.
Someone had used a keycard.
Belgrave logged every keycard access.
Conveniently, the relevant access report had been deleted.
Less conveniently for whoever deleted it, the building system vendor maintained remote records.
David’s attorney requested preservation.
Grace smiled when he told her.
“Everyone thinks deletion means disappearance.”
“People who don’t understand accounting,” I said.
“Or computers.”
By then, Charles had stopped speaking to Arthur except through email.
Kristin had stopped pretending the luncheon was accidental.
Her lawyer now described it as “mutual escalation.”
That phrase amused me.
I had been on the ground before anything became mutual.
The full security footage arrived three days later.
Grace, David, Arthur, and I watched it in her office.
There I was.
Navy lace.
Silver-white hair.
Raspberry tart.
Kristin approached from behind.
She looked toward the terrace camera.
Then she shifted her path.
One deliberate step.
Her hip drove into me.
I fell.
She laughed.
The audio captured everything.
“Oops! Haha! Watch out!”
Then me rising.
Walking toward her.
The slap.
The dress.
The table.
Ugly.
All of it.
I watched myself and felt no pride.
That surprised Arthur.
“You regret it?”
“Yes.”
“Even knowing she planned it?”
“Especially then.”
“Why?”
“Because I gave her exactly what she wanted for thirty seconds.”
Grace nodded.
“That answer will help if this ever reaches court.”
“I’m not saying it for court.”
“I know.”
The video did something else.
After David escorted me away, Kristin walked toward her father.
Audio from the nearby camera picked up a fragment.
Charles said, “What the hell did you do?”
Kristin answered, “What you wanted.”
Then Charles:
“Not like that.”
We replayed it.
David whispered, “He knew there was a plan.”
“Yes.”
Not necessarily the shove.
But something.
That evening, someone unexpected called.
Diane Mathis.
Kristin’s mother.
I had seen her at club events but never spoken beyond pleasantries.
“Mrs. Fallon?”
“Yes.”
“I need to talk to you.”
Apparently every frightened person in Los Angeles now wanted a private meeting.
She chose the garden courtyard of a hotel in Beverly Hills.
Diane Mathis was sixty-one, elegant, thin, and exhausted.
She did not order anything.
A pattern.
“My daughter hates you.”
“That seems established.”
Diane almost smiled.
“She doesn’t know you.”
“That rarely prevents hatred.”
She looked at me carefully.
“Charles has spent three years telling her you were dangerous.”
That surprised me.
“Me specifically?”
“Not by name at first.”
“Then how?”
“The accountant Arthur Bell trusted.”
I sat back.
“How long has Charles known Arthur might investigate?”
“Years.”
“Years?”
Diane nodded.
“The foundation payments began as smaller reimbursements.”
“For what?”
“Kristin’s business.”
“Why?”
Diane’s eyes filled.
“Because Kristin was drowning.”
Not literally.
Financially.
Mathis Consulting had failed almost immediately.
Kristin leased a Century City office she could not afford.
Hired employees before obtaining clients.
Bought luxury travel in the name of networking.
Charles covered bills.
Then hid the support through club and foundation invoices.
“Why?”
Diane laughed bitterly.
“Because Charles cannot tolerate a Mathis failing publicly.”
There it was.
Family drama at the root of financial crime.
Not hunger.
Image.
“How much personal money did he give her?”
“Over a million.”
“And foundation money?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Kristin know?”
“At first, no.”
“Later?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
“And she continued.”
Diane nodded.
“She told herself it was compensation for work.”
“Was there work?”
“Some.”
“Worth millions?”
“No.”
She looked away.
“What about the land sale?”
Diane closed her eyes.
“I begged Charles not to do it.”
“So you know.”
“Yes.”
“Why sell?”
“To cover debt.”
“Whose?”
She looked at me.
“Everyone’s.”
That answer chilled me.
“What does that mean?”
“Charles borrowed against the club to support other investments.”
“Personal investments?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“But enough that he needs the land sale.”
“Yes.”
“And Kristin gets a success fee.”
“Yes.”
“Why tell me?”
Diane’s face collapsed.
“Because my son found out.”
“Kristin has a brother.”
“Evan.”
I had heard the name.
Thirty-two.
Commercial real estate analyst in San Francisco.
“He confronted Charles yesterday.”
“And?”
Diane whispered, “Charles threatened to cut him out of everything.”
“Everything meaning?”
“The family trust.”
I studied her.
“So Evan is ready to talk.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Evan is ready to disappear.”
“What?”
“He sent me one text this morning.”
She showed me.
MOM, I FOUND THE ORIGINAL DEED FILE. DAD LIED ABOUT THE LAND. DO NOT SIGN ANYTHING.
Then nothing.
“When did you last speak?”
“Yesterday.”
“Have you called police?”
“He’s thirty-two.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Diane looked terrified.
“I don’t think Charles hurt him.”
“Neither do I.”
“But?”
“I think Evan found something worth frightening powerful people.”
I read the message again.
Original deed file.
Dad lied about the land.
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The missing eleven million was suddenly no longer the deepest secret.
The land itself was.
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