“Nobody found a pattern. And no name was attached. That’s all that matters.”
“Nobody found one yet.” Cassandra let that sit for a beat. “I’m not saying you did anything wrong. The work was clean. I’m saying the timeline on leaving was right.”
She was right, and that was the irritating part. The work in Seattle had been clean. The execution, the exposure, the exit—all of it had gone exactly the way it was supposed to. But exactly the way it was supposed to still meant packing up her apartment in two days and driving to a new city where she didn’t knowanyone, didn’t know the streets, didn’t know which coffee shop had decent Wi-Fi.
Starting over was part of the job. Fallon just wished it didn’t always feel like a penalty for doing the job well.
“Okay, Boston is a fresh start. So tell me about the new project. What have you found?”
Cassandra’s voice shifted. Still easy, still her, but focused now. The sound of a second keyboard came through. She always kept two machines running.
“The client’s name is Malcolm Prescott. Sixty-one. Lives in Beacon Hill, one of those old brick townhouses on Mount Vernon Street. Made his money in private equity, but the interesting stuff is on the consulting side.”
“Interesting how?”
“He runs a firm called Ridgeline Advisors. On paper, they do financial restructuring for midsize companies. Corporate turnarounds, debt management, that sort of thing. Sounds very responsible.”
“But.” There was always a but. That’s what kept Fallon in business.
“But in practice, they strip assets, gut pension funds, and leave the employees holding nothing. I’ve tracked seven companies in the last twelve years they’ve done this to. Same playbook every time. He gets brought in as a consultant, recommends a restructuring plan, shuffles the money through a series of holding entities, and the company folds within eighteen months.”
“Seven companies.”
“Seven that I’ve confirmed. There might be more. His firm has consulted on at least a dozen, but the paper trail gets harder to follow the further back you go.”
“And the employees?”
“Lose everything. Pensions, stock options, severance packages. Every time.”
“And he walks away clean.”
“Again, every time. Two civil suits over the years, both settled out of court with NDAs. One SEC inquiry that went nowhere because his attorneys buried it in procedural challenges until the commission moved on. The people he hurts don’t have the money to match his legal team, and he knows it. That’s part of the playbook, too.”
Fallon pressed her thumb into the side of her knee where something had been tight since the gala four days ago. Multiple hours on her feet in heels, and her body was still sending her the invoice. “Give me a specific.”
“A packaging plant in Ohio. Been open forty years, couple hundred employees, most of them lifers. Prescott got brought in as a restructuring consultant. Within six months, he’d moved the entire retirement fund into a subsidiary he controlled, then dissolved it. Two hundred people ten years from retirement, and he pulled the rug out from under every one of them. The kicker: his consulting fee was north of four million dollars.”
Fallon was quiet for a moment. Cassandra didn’t fill the silence. She knew what that quiet meant.
“He qualifies,” Fallon said.
“He definitely qualifies.”
“What’s his schedule look like?”
“Predictable. Not married. He’s at his Beacon Hill place most of the week. Weekends, he’s got a second home on the Cape, Chatham, right on the water. He’s on the board of two charities: the Boston Arts Alliance and something called the Harbor Light Foundation. Galas, fundraisers, donor dinners. He’s deep in the circuit.”
“Security at the house?”
“Residential-grade system. Monitored by one of the big national companies, but nothing custom. No cameras on the interior, just entry points and motion sensors on the ground floor. No personal detail. He’s got a housekeeper who comes three days a week, Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and she’s usually gone by two. No live-in staff.”
“Access points?”
“Still mapping those. The townhouse shares walls on both sides, so approach options are limited on the lower floors. But there’s a service alley behind the row, and the third floor has a window that faces a flat roof on the adjacent building. I’ll have measurements and sight lines for you by next week.”
“What’s in the house?”
“This is where it gets good.” Cassandra’s voice lifted the way it did when she’d found something she was proud of. “He’s a collector. Art, mostly. Contemporary and early twentieth century. A few mid-century pieces that are worth real money, but the crown jewel is a Boldini sketch he bought at a private auction in New York last year. Appraised at three hundred and twenty thousand. He guts pension funds and buys art with the proceeds.”
