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Her spine straightens. “You spoke to Rick.”

Birdie looks between us. “Why did you speak to him privately?”

“Because I didn’t intend to discuss possible bank fraud in front of employees or clients.” I retrieve my phone and put it back in my pocket. Privacy also let me apply pressure if Whitmore proved uncooperative. I no longer work for the Bratva, but I haven’t forgotten how quickly a man becomes honest when fear replaces courtesy. “Rick manages Connor’s department. I wanted to know whether Connor had reported the loans to him.”

“What did he say?” Cassie asks.

“He claimed Connor was probably ill, though he admitted he hadn’t spoken to him.”

“That’s what he told us.” Cassie rubs her palms over her skirt. “He never said Connor called in sick or that anyone at the bank had heard from him.”

Rick gave me the same explanation without offering a reason to believe it. I look at Cassie. “Did he acknowledge knowing about our dinner?”

Her eyes narrow. “He didn’t seem to know Connor met with you Tuesday night. He only said you’re a client of the bank and that he couldn’t discuss any accounts. When I pressed him, he suggested Connor may have met with you about business.”

I sit back and consider the implication. Rick’s response matches what he told me. If his surprise was genuine, Connor arranged our dinner without telling the man who supervised him.

“He told me the same thing,” I say. “He claimed Connor never mentioned me or a meeting.”

Birdie places both hands around her wineglass without lifting it. “Maybe he really didn’t know.”

“I don’t think he did,” Cassie replies, chewing on the inside of her lip.

Her answer confirms what I already suspected. Connor concealed our meeting because he didn’t trust his manager with what he had discovered.

“Do you think Rick knows where Connor is?” Cassie asks, her fingers tightening around the chain.

“I think his lack of concern deserves scrutiny. That isn’t the same conclusion.” I hold her eyes before she can turn suspicion into certainty. “We need proof before confronting him.”

“You sound like Connor,” she mutters, sitting back.

“On this point, he was correct,” I reply, and she releases a breath through her nose.

She reaches for the small purse hanging from the back of her chair and removes her phone. Her thumb hesitates above the screen before she opens a folder of photographs and slides the device across the table.

“We found Connor’s planner in his apartment,” she says. “I photographed the pages that mentioned Dragorin Vineyards.”

The phrasing is careful. She doesn’t say where the planner is now, and I don’t ask. If she’s protecting the original, pressing her will only make her guard it more fiercely.

I examine the first photograph. Connor’s compact handwriting surrounds loan numbers, abbreviated vendors, and amounts. VHL appears twice, followed by D. Morozov and a Seattle telephone number.

“VHL,” I say, enlarging the photograph. “Vintner Hospitality Logistics.”

Cassie moves her chair closer to see the screen. Her shoulder comes within inches of mine, bringing back the memory of her trapped between my arms downstairs. “You know the company?”

“It was added as a vendor six months ago. We found invoices from it this morning for services no department requested.” I swipe to the next photograph. “The payments were divided beneath our senior approval limit.”

Birdie leans across Cassie. “How much money?”

“More than seventy thousand dollars over six invoices,” I answer, returning my focus to the screen.

Cassie looks from the phone to me. “You discovered that today?”

“Hours after someone cut power to the barrel wing and part of production,” I tell her.

Her face tightens. “The extra security tonight wasn’t for private guests.”

“It served both purposes,” I answer, although her concern is plainly not for the guests.