There.
I saw it.
“Hold,” I said.
The cloth lifted just enough. His fingers disappeared beneath it, not into the main box, but lower. A movement that didn’t match the shape of the cart.
“That’s not right,” I murmured.
We switched camera angles. Another view, lower, partially obscured by a floral arrangement. It showed the underside of the cart more clearly.
There had to be a second container on that cart attached to the lower shelf.
“Go see if the donation box had a false bottom,” I said to the security team member at my elbow. “Forward the footage and find out where that cart is right now.”
We followed the cart’s path through the evening. Each time it moved, each time staff repositioned it, then when it was no longer needed after the box was taken by Carly’s staff to the office and someone wheeled it away.
We tracked the cart’s final movement toward a service corridor where it was parked in a storage area.
“There,” I said. “That’s where it goes.”
I pulled out my phone, already dialing. “I need officers in the service wing. Storage corridor near the east elevators to secure a wheeled cart with a white cloth draped on it..”
As I ended the call, my gaze flicked back to the monitor. The gala continued uninterrupted on the screen while Lydia stood near the edge of the ballroom, shoulders squared, her expression composed despite the impatience as she tapped a finger against her dress.
She had stood her ground and while she didn’t like it, she was trusting me to see this through.
On the next monitor, I saw a police officer secure the cart. He called me on the phone. “I have the cart.”
“Pull back the cloth and check if there is a box on the bottom shelf,” I instructed.
On the screen, the officer followed directions, revealing a box.
“I want everything photographed, and videoed. Check to see if the money and donations are there,” I instructed.
“I have the box here,” the other officer I sent to get the box brought it into the monitoring station room. “It has a false bottom.”
“The box has envelopes in it. Donations for the charity,” the officer on the phone confirmed.
“Secure it,” I said. “Be careful of fingerprints. I want forensics called."
If we could get a fingerprint, with the video footage, we had a solid case.
As they worked, I took a step back and let the tension drain just enough for clarity to settle. Wickham hadn’t rushed or drawn attention to himself. He had relied on his charm and ability to talk himself out of almost any situation.
He wasn’t going to be able to talk himself out of this situation, I grimly decided. “Download a copy of all the footage from tonight.”
I headed back toward the front office where Wickham had been detained.
He was seated in a chair, ankles crossed, and hands folded neatly in his lap. He looked up as I entered, his smile polite and strained.
“Any progress?” he asked lightly.
“Yes,” I said.
I placed a tablet on the desk between us and turned it so he could see.
The footage played without commentary. His casual bump. His laugh as he distracted the security staff member. His hand slipped beneath the cloth, opening the false bottom and putting envelopes in the second box on the cart.
