His Beautiful Alibi

The Man She Never Forgot

CHAPTER FIVE

The receiving supervisor’s email arrived at eleven forty-six the next morning, fourteen minutes before her deadline, and said almost nothing: Checked the binder. No signed sheet for the 9th. Still looking.

Almara printed it, wrote the time in the corner, and took it up to Isolde, who read it standing.

“So there are eleven crates I saw with my own eyes, a tracker that says they arrived, a carrier that says they arrived, and you.”

“I believe they arrived. What I can’t say is whether all eleven are there, whether what’s inside matches the manifest, or who accepted them. Those are separate questions, and nobody can answer any of them on paper.”

“And Monday morning is the cliff.”

“Which is why I want someone at Rhyse who can see their own system. Today. Not a dispatcher.”

Isolde was already typing. The reply took forty minutes. “Their operations director’s coming himself, with their CFO. Two o’clock, here.” She frowned. “Apparently the Aurelian’s their biggest hospitality contract, and the CFO doesn’t like paying for deliveries she can’t evidence. They’ve never done this before.”

* * *

At two, Room 304 smelled of coffee and dry-erase markers. Almara had a folder, a pen, and a printout of the page that said On file.

She heard him before she saw him. “Sorry we’re late. The lift on three has opinions.”

The voice was low and dry and amused, and she knew it the way you know a stair you’ve just missed in the dark. She kept her eyes on the folder. That gave her about three seconds to decide that voices were alike and cities were large. Then a woman in a charcoal suit came through the door with a laptop, followed by a man who stopped mid-sentence.

He looked much the same. Dark hair, combed once. The jacket was better, and there was a tie.

“Almara,” Damon said.

“You two know each other?” said Isolde.

“We’ve met.”

“Briefly,” said Almara.

“Damon Rhyse. I run operations,” he told the room, a shade too evenly. “This is Seraphine Cross, our CFO.”

Rhyse. Fourteen months of that logo on every document she’d touched, and she had never put the name to the man. She had never been given it.

Seraphine shook hands with both of them, pinned-back hair, no wasted movement. “I’ve read your emails,” she told Almara. “They were very clear.” It might have been a compliment. Almara couldn’t tell, and suspected that was deliberate.

Isolde’s phone buzzed. She swore under her breath. “Investors. Ten minutes, don’t start.” She left. Seraphine glanced at her laptop. “I need our payment system, and not on the hotel’s wifi. Five minutes.” She went out too.

Damon waited until the door closed. “Do you still have my shirt?”

It was such an odd place to begin that she nearly laughed. “I do. I took it by mistake. It ended up in my cardigan, and I didn’t realise until I was home.”

“I left my number at the Gilt Hour. For you.”

“I never went back.”

“I worked that out.”

“There was a watch in the pocket,” she said. His face changed, quickly. “Silver, a dent in the case, no initials. I couldn’t tell whose it was, so I kept it. It’s in a drawer, wrapped in a cloth.”

He shut his eyes for a second. “Thank you. It was my father’s.”

That was all he said, and she didn’t ask.

Isolde came back, then Seraphine. Almara laid it out in the order she’d given it to Isolde: the ninth, Dock B, eleven crates, status closed, a system summary where the signed sheet should be. “I’m not saying anything’s wrong. There are four questions. Did it arrive, are all eleven here, does what’s inside match the manifest, and who signed for it. Right now I can answer the first, partly.”

“Then let’s answer the second and third today,” Damon said. “Count the crates against the manifest this afternoon. If it’s all there, release the milestone and chase the paper after. The paper’s an admin problem. The equipment’s real.”

“A count tells us what’s in the room,” Almara said. “It doesn’t tell us who accepted it, or when, and the milestone says receipt confirmed. I’ll witness the count and sign for what we count. I won’t certify the confirmation.”

“That’s a narrower yes than the contract needs.”

“It’s the yes I can defend.”

Isolde looked between them. “Fine. I’ll have the count done by five.”

Seraphine hadn’t looked up from her screen. “Damon, Draven’s final-mile invoice for this delivery is in tonight’s payment run. They billed on the ninth against the same summary page. I’m pulling it.”

“It’s routine. They’ve been with us eight years. Pulling it means a phone call from Caspian Draven.”

“Then I’ll take the call. Routine is how things slide through. We don’t pay for a delivery I can’t evidence, and I don’t care how long we’ve worked with them.” She glanced at Almara. “Does that work for you?”

“It works.”

Damon turned to Almara. “Most people would have clicked approve. Why does this matter so much to you?”

“My name goes on the approval.”

“That’s a reason to be careful. It isn’t a reason to look like you’ve done it before.”

“It’s the only reason I’m giving in a business meeting,” she said evenly.

He studied her, then nodded. “Fair.”

Isolde went to arrange the count. The door shut behind her, and Damon said, quieter, “Almara. Why did you disappear?”

She drew a breath. She’d had two years to prepare an answer, and none of the versions seemed good enough.

“Damon,” said Seraphine, still reading. “You’ll want to hear this.”

He turned. Something in his face switched from one man to the other. “What is it?”

“Draven’s handset record for the delivery. Complete, signature captured, six-twelve a.m. on the ninth. The name field’s blank.”

Isolde had come back to the doorway with her phone in her hand. “Dock B doesn’t open until seven.”

“Handset clocks drift,” Damon said.

“They do,” said Seraphine. “Or the driver arrived early and somebody let him in by a door I don’t know about. Or the record’s simply wrong. I don’t know yet, and neither do you.”

“Is there another way in?” Almara asked.

“The service gate. It’s on a keypad,” Isolde said slowly. “The security contractor logs it, but they only keep thirty days.”

Almara did the sum. “The ninth was twenty-nine days ago.”

“Then somebody needs to ask for those logs today,” Seraphine said, “before tomorrow morning overwrites whatever they say.”

Nobody moved. Somewhere in the building, a record was about to be erased, and not one of them knew what was on it.