Chapter 4 - Unit Seventeen
The storage building sat three miles from the foundation's downtown offices, wedged between a tire shop and a bakery that sold cinnamon rolls by the dozen. A faded plastic Santa leaned against the gate, his smile cracked by the cold.
Malcolm went with Candace and a property representative. Isaiah wanted to come, but Malcolm asked him to stay with Nia and Pearl.
“This is your mother's history,” Malcolm told him. “You get to know what we find. You don't have to walk into every ugly room with me.”
Isaiah studied his face. “You gonna actually tell me?”
“Yes. Even if it makes me look bad.”
The manager checked the access ledger. A woman presenting Denise's license had visited on three occasions in six months. The manager remembered her dark glasses and cream-colored coat.
“Mrs. Reed?” Malcolm showed a photograph of Simone.
The manager hesitated. “That looks like her.”
He allowed the visitors to inspect the unit under the applicable account procedures. Shelves held Christmas decorations, payroll folders, a broken office printer, and boxes marked FOUNDATION—DONOR RECEIPTS. In the back stood a steel cabinet with its lock missing.
Candace photographed the empty drawer.
“Someone took what mattered.”
At the storage office, the manager produced a visitor log showing that somebody had paid to extend Unit Seventeen's lease for another year. The payment card was attached to a foundation expense account, yet the mailing address belonged to a shuttered youth center. Its former director had left town shortly after Denise died.
Candace made a note rather than guess what it meant. Malcolm called the director's old number. A recorded message gave no forwarding details, but the voicemail greeting was still Denise's voice: “If you're asking about donations, leave a name and a way we can call you back.”
The sound nearly took Malcolm's knees out from under him. He had forgotten that his sister recorded the center's phone system as a favor.
“Do you need a minute?” Candace asked.
“No. I need her not to be the only person who kept track.”
He wrote down the number. Later it would give the auditors another place to request records, but for that moment it was simply a voice he wasn't ready to lose again.
Malcolm found a child's drawing stuck between two boxes. Nia had drawn four people holding hands under a sun. One was labeled MAMA. Another was UNCLE MAL, much taller than the rest. The paper smelled faintly of smoke.
He turned it over. Denise had written: If Warren says the December inventory doesn't exist, tell him the children saw it.
“What inventory?” Candace asked.
Malcolm remembered a holiday drive Denise organized before the fire. Hundreds of donated coats and toys had been scheduled for distribution at a public-housing community center. Then a warehouse electrical fault destroyed what the foundation claimed was the entire shipment.
But Malcolm remembered Denise calling him the night before.
“The donations aren't here,” she had said. “Someone moved them.”
He had answered, “Talk to Warren. I'll deal with it after my meeting.”
There had been no after.
In the next carton they found inventory tags and photographs of sealed shipping containers. Each had been stamped with the foundation logo. Beside them lay invoices from a private resale company. The charity gifts had not burned. They had been sold.
Candace's phone rang. The foundation's outside accountant, Jerome Baptiste, had found corresponding deposits to Harmony House Consulting.
“That's donor fraud,” Malcolm said.
“It's evidence of possible fraud,” Candace corrected. “We'll document it properly.”
In the final carton, beneath a roll of ribbon, Malcolm found a digital voice recorder. Its battery was dead. He gave it to Candace without trying to power it on.
At home, Nia was sitting on the kitchen floor decorating a cardboard gingerbread house with pearl-shaped candies. She wore clean leggings and a blue sweater Mrs. Jackson had found in a closet. The child's relief at being allowed to eat the roof decorations was both funny and painful.
“Uncle Mal, I made you a door.”
“That's good planning.”
“People can come in if they ask nicely.”
He sat beside her. “And if they're not nice?”
“We lock it.” She thought again. “Unless they're sad.”
Isaiah handed Malcolm a cup of tea. “Tell me.”
Malcolm showed him the drawing and explained the missing donations. He did not show him every accusation or speculate about his mother's death.
“So Mom caught them stealing Christmas presents?” Isaiah asked.
“It looks that way.”
“Why'd she die?”
“I don't know yet.”
“That never stops people from saying things about her.”
Malcolm nodded. “Then we're going to stop repeating what we can't prove.”
That night, a technician recovered part of the recorder's contents. Denise's voice filled Malcolm's study, bright and unmistakable.
“Warren, I'm not signing a false inventory. These families waited all year.”
Warren answered, “You're confused. The board authorized the transfer.”
“Show me the minutes.”
A chair scraped.
“Don't make me choose between the foundation and you, Denise.”
“You already did.”
The recording cut off, then resumed several minutes later. A different voice spoke. Simone.
“Let me help you get the children somewhere safe.”
Denise's answer was almost lost in static.
“If you mean it, bring Malcolm. Not Warren. Not your security people. Malcolm.”
Malcolm swallowed. Denise had asked for him specifically.
He checked the recording date: December 18, the night before the fire. His calendar showed a fundraising dinner. Simone had told him Denise was too sick to attend.
May you like
A message flashed on Candace's laptop. The recorder contained one additional file, named CHRISTMAS MORNING. Its metadata was dated three days after Denise's funeral.
Somebody had used her recorder after she was buried.
