Vince shot him a look.
I opened the folder and removed the first document.
“This is the printer log from 6:12 this morning.”
I slid it toward Dante.
The meeting had been called because confidential schedules, attorney communications, and transfer documents had been leaked to a rival crew and then to the police.
Vince had blamed Dante’s longtime attorney, Martin Shaw.
An accusation packet had appeared on Dante’s desk before sunrise, complete with copied emails, banking records, and a statement from an unnamed source.
Martin had been taken away two hours earlier.
Not by police.
By men loyal to Dante.
“It shows Vince printed the accusation packet at 6:12,” I said.
Dante studied the page.
“So?”
“The email supposedly exposing Martin did not arrive until 6:47.”
The room changed.
Not loudly.
No one gasped.
No one cursed.
But shoulders stiffened.
Eyes shifted.
Men who had leaned back now sat forward.
Vince stood.
“She altered it.”
I placed a second page on the table.
“This is the audit trail from the printer server.
The file was created under Vince’s account last night at 11:38, revised at 2:14, and printed at 6:12.”
“Anyone could use my account.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“Which is why I brought this.”
The next page showed the security-camera still from the copy room.
Vince stood beside the printer, face visible, silver watch reflecting the overhead light.
His chair slammed backward.
“This is ridiculous.”
Dante raised one finger.
Vince stopped talking.
I removed another document.
“This is the forwarding rule attached to Dante’s executive email.
Every message containing the words schedule, counsel, transfer, meeting, or dock was automatically copied to an outside address.”
Dante read the address.
“Who owns it?”
“The account was opened with a prepaid card, but the recovery number ends in 4418.”
Every man at the table knew Vince’s phone number.
Dante finally looked at his cousin.
Vince spread his hands.
“Numbers can be spoofed.”
I nodded.
“That’s what I thought you’d say.”
I turned over the next page.
“The recovery request was approved from your home Wi-Fi at 1:03 a.m.
yesterday.
The router’s serial number matches the equipment registered to your townhouse.”
Vince’s face lost color.
He pointed at me.
“She’s been spying on us.”
“No,” I said.
