Page 70 of Dagger’s Shield

“How much of this can be proved?” he asked.

“The estates file yearly accounts with the public registry that show income. Anyone can request a copy for a fee.”

“Let’s do it.”

I started with the largest producers in the region, and as I’d anticipated, their sales hit record highs starting the same year Valais’ did.

“What we can’t determine is whether their payables are equally suspect.”

“We should be able to prove Valais’ are fraudulent,” Dagger said.

“You’re right.”

“Where do we start?” he asked.

“History.” I sorted the payables by the date of each supplier’s first invoice. The cooperage we had bought barrels from for three generations showed a first invoice older than my father. Several others were equally old. Six suppliers were not. All six had billed Valais for the first time in the year the Fontenay deal was signed.

“As far as hiding fraud, whoever did this didn’t even try,” I muttered.

“Whoever?” he asked.

“Rémy, and you’re right to challenge me on it. With him being in control of Valais’ financials, then at the very minimum, he has to be in on it.”

The next step was to determine where the money went when the additional payments were made.

The estate’s records showed the account each payment was sent to. I lined the six suppliers up and read the numbers side by side.

“Two of them are paid into the same account,” I said. “Our books show where we sent it. We need Hornet’s help with who collects it on the other side.”

I sent him everything I had and what information we were looking for. His answer came within the hour. Give me a day.

Hornet’s message came through overnight. Have answers. Twelve hundred your time. Somewhere you can talk.

We told my mother we had errands in Beaune and drove to the cottage.

“What have you got for us?” Dagger asked when Hornet appeared on the screen at the designated time.

“Your six accounts all belong to one company in Geneva. Who owns the company, I can’t see. Paper directors. That’s the wall I hit.”

“Then, we have nothing,” Dagger said.

“You have one thing. That company sends a payment out every quarter, and it has for nine years. It goes to a numbered account in Geneva, and the numbered account has a name on it. Bertrand Valais.”

Dagger copied the number onto a pad while Hornet read it out.

“Any other name on the account?” he asked. “Withdrawals? Transfers out?”

“None. The money goes in and stays.”

When the video call ended, neither of us said anything for a minute.

“How are you doing?” Dagger asked.

“No differently than I have been since I found the first photo of my father with the man who most likely gave the order to bomb a building I was in.”

The following morning, Dagger drove my mother and me to Dijon for her appointment at the cancer clinic. When her name was called, he squeezed my hand and said he’d be in the waiting room if I needed anything.

The oncologist, Dr. François Fauchon, introduced himself, and we did the same. Then he suggested we begin with an examination. He pressed his fingers to my mother’s neck, under her jaw, and above her collarbone, asking each time if she felt any pain. She answered no to all.