Webb
Seth
Daniel had Marcus Webb's financials on my desk within thirty-six hours, which told me either he'd worked through the night or he'd found something urgent enough to skip sleeping over.
Given the expression on his face when he walked in, I guessed the latter.
"Tell me."
"Webb's personal accounts are clean. Aggressively clean." Daniel dropped into the chair across from me. "Too clean for a man with his spending habits. He's got a boat slip downtown, a second property in the hills, membership at three different clubs. None of it traces back to declared income."
"Offshore?"
"Cayman shell company. Took me most of the night to find the thread, and I only found it because whoever set it up got sloppy on one transfer eight months ago." He slid a printout across the desk. "One payme
