Page 62 of Boardroom Sins

I wait. Afon inches closer, the shears catching light.

“The bones were old,” the man continues. “Eighteen years deceased, maybe more. Female. Middle-aged.”

“Go on.”

“I did what you paid me to do, sir,” the man stutters, eyes pleading. “I logged it as unidentified and filed the paperwork wrong on purpose. I made sure it would sit in the backlog and no one would ever be the wiser.”

“And then what happened?”

His eyes dart to Afon, then back to me.

This is the pivotal moment. His first answer to this question was a lie, and that’s what brought him here. It remains to be seen if he’s foolish enough to make the same mistake twice.

Ochoa’s chin sags to his chest. “A reporter called. From theTimes. She said she was working on a story, cold cases, missing persons, some shit like that, and she’d gotten a tip. She asked about any recent Jane Does.”

My jaw bears down. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing! I swear. I told her I couldn’t discuss active cases. That’s it.”

I tap a thoughtful finger to my lips. “That’s not what I heard. Afon, is that what you heard?”

Afon shakes his head. “No, sir, it’s not.” He reaches again for his shears…

Ochoa starts to wail again. “Okay. Okay! She offered me money. A lot of money. More than—” He stops himself.

“More than I paid you,” I finish.

He nods. A few spastic, pathetic little jerks of his head.

“What did you give her?”

“Just the date and the location where they found the remains. That’s all,” he swears. “I didn’t give her a name. There was no name to give even if I wanted to!”

I stand up. My knees pop. Fucking hell, I’m getting too old for this shit.

“And the bones,” I continue. “Where are they now?”

“Still at the morgue, in cold storage. Nobody’s claimed them. Nobody’s even asked about them except the reporter.”

I eye him carefully. “You’re certain?”

“Yes. I check the logs every day. Nothing.”

I look at Afon, who raises an eyebrow.

“Please, please, God, please!” Ochoa begs. “I told you everything. I won’t talk to anyone else. I’ll lose the paperwork completely. I’ll make the whole thing disappear!”

“You should have done that from the start,” I intone coldly from where I stand above him.

The miserable wretch coughs into his lap, eyes downcast. “I know. I know! I’m sorry, Mr. Lazarev. But please…”

I turn away from him. The concrete walls of the basement are sweating condensation. The single bulb overhead drones like a mosquito is trapped in the glass.

Eighteen years.That’s how long I’ve kept this buried. And now, because of a few idiots with a jackhammer and this fool of a morgue tech, some reporter is sniffing around, asking questions that could unravel everything.

I think about Elena. Not her face or her voice, though—I can’t bear to reflect on the parts of her I knew.

I just remember her in the red dress.