“He’s listed as the agent of record on all these articles of incorporation.”
“I never heard that name, and I’m pretty sure I never heard Wendell mention him,” Riley said. She took out her own smartphone. “Let’s Google him … what was that name again?”
“Samuel Gordon. Spelled like it sounds.”
Riley typed the name into the search engine and frowned down at the phone.
“He was a lawyer in Wilmington.”
“Was? Did he get disbarred?”
“Worse. He’s dead. I’m looking at his obituary. He died six months ago. At the age of eighty-two. I think you better make copies of all those corporation documents.”
“I’m on it.”
Riley went back to searching the desk drawers. The contents were nothing unusual or very interesting. Until she opened the bottom right file drawer.
A pair of tan-and-white golf shoes sat atop a stack of envelopes. She lifted the shoes out and looked at them. Wendell’s, undoubtedly. His feet were unusually small for a man, a size seven, and wide—he wore a D width, which meant most of his shoes had to be custom ordered. She set the shoes on the desktop.
The entire bottom drawer was filled with unopened mail. Riley scooped up a handful of envelopes. They all had those telltale windows. Bills. Utility bills, credit card bills. And there were official-looking letters from the same source. Coastal Carolina Bank. Dozens of missives from that bank. Dunning letters.
Riley exhaled slowly. “Parrish. I think you better look at this.”
31
Parrish picked up a handful of envelopes and let them drift down onto the desk blotter like oversize pieces of confetti. “Wonder what this is all about?”
“Only one way to find out,” Riley said. She grabbed an envelope and started to rip.
“No!” Parrish snatched the envelope away. “That’s tampering with the U.S. mail. For sure, that’s a federal offense. You can’t open any of these.”
“Watch me,” Riley said. “According to those articles of incorporation you found, I’m CEO of every one of the companies this mail is addressed to. Wendell’s dead. I’m not. It’s as simple as that.”
“I doubt the sheriff is going to see it like that,” Parrish said. “Or that baby-faced FBI agent.”
Riley fixed her with an annoyed glare. “When did you get to be such a rules follower?”
“When I was sworn in to the bar,” Parrish said. “I happen to have an aversion to prison.”
“And I have an aversion to homelessness and poverty,” Riley shot back. She opened the top desk drawer and withdrew a wicked-looking brass letter-opener. “Now. Are you in or are you out?”
Parrish knew she’d been overruled. Again. “God help me. I’m in.”
She picked up a stack of envelopes and began sorting them into piles. “Let’s at least get a system going. Five different companies. Five different piles. We’ll put them in order by date, oldest to newest. Put the bills in one stack, the notices from the bank in another. Got it?”
* * *
It took them an hour to sort all the pieces of mail. “There must be a couple of hundred bills and notices here,” Parrish said. “Some of them are postmarked as long as a year ago.”
“I know,” Riley said. She gathered up the first batch of bills and sat cross-legged on the floor. “I’ll start with St. Mary’s Holdings.”
“And I’ll do Sand Dollar,” Parrish said, taking the desk chair Riley had vacated.
Riley slit open the first envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper. She furrowed her brow as she read the fine print. “It’s an overdue payment notice. From Coastal Carolina Bank. There’s a loan number, and a balance of three million. Jesus! Do you suppose I’m liable for all this debt?”
“Hopefully not. You didn’t sign any loan documents and, from what I can tell just glancing at what we’ve seen so far, the indebtedness is corporate, not personal. But again, I mostly don’t know what the hell I’m talking about here.” Parrish held up the notice she’d opened. “Mine is an overdue payment notice from the same bank. A loan number, and a balance of one point three million.”
For the next hour the room was quiet except for the sound of envelopes being opened.
At some point, Parrish walked into the reception area and came back with an adding machine. “Good idea,” Riley said. “I suck at math. There’s a calculator in that top desk drawer there. Hand it to me, will you?”
The women began tapping away at their respective keyboards, unconsciously setting up a cadence that made the room sound like a busy