Chapter 3 - The Inspector Who Had No Right to Enter
"An inspection?"
Naomi nodded.
"Tamson says Birwood has been accused of misusing one of its residential properties."
I looked at her.
"Does the man have identification?"
"He showed the receptionist a business card."
"Government?"
"No."
"Then what kind of inspector?"
"He says he's an independent property compliance consultant."
Creswell was still on the phone.
I put him on speaker.
"Did you hear that?"
"Every word."
"What would you like me to do?"
"Don't let them into any restricted area. Ask for written authorization identifying who retained him and what he was hired to inspect."
I looked at Naomi.
"Please have security bring them to the public conference room."
"Both of them?"
"Both."
After she left, Creswell said, "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"You don't have to come."
"I know."
He paused.
"But somebody is trying to turn your home into an imaginary corporate investigation. I'd like to meet the imaginary investigator."
Despite everything, I smiled.
The conference room was on the second floor.
When I entered, Tamson was standing beside a man in a dark gray suit.
The man carried a leather portfolio and looked deeply uncomfortable.
"Renie," Tamson said.
"Tamson."
He gestured toward his companion.
"This is Martin Keller."
Martin stood.
"Ms. Fontaine."
He offered his hand.
I shook it.
"Your business card says you're a building consultant."
"That's correct."
"Who retained you?"
He looked toward Tamson.
"My understanding is that Mr. Fontaine's family is involved in a residential occupancy dispute."
"That wasn't my question."
Martin adjusted his tie.
"Mr. Fontaine asked me to conduct a preliminary assessment."
"Of what?"
"Space allocation, potential occupancy capacity, and possible compliance issues."
I sat down.
"At whose property?"
"The residence owned by Birwood Residential Holdings."
"And who authorized you to inspect Birwood's property?"
Silence.
Tamson folded his arms.
"You're making this difficult for no reason."
I turned toward Martin.
"Are you aware that Mr. Fontaine has no ownership interest, management role, leasehold, or occupancy right connected to that property?"
Martin looked surprised.
"He indicated that the home was part of a family-managed asset arrangement."
I watched Tamson's face.
"Did he?"
Tamson shrugged.
"It's complicated."
"No," I said.
"It's actually remarkably simple."
I placed the corporate ownership profile on the table.
Martin read it.
Then looked back at me.
"You're the sole shareholder?"
"Yes."
"And director?"
"Yes."
"And the home is occupied under a documented arrangement approved by Birwood?"
"Correct."
Martin closed his portfolio.
"Then I don't believe I have any reason to inspect it."
Tamson leaned forward.
"Hold on."
Martin looked at him.
"You told me your sister was an employee using company housing."
"She works for the company."
"I own the company," I said.
Tamson ignored me.
"We haven't established whether she's using it appropriately."
Martin glanced toward the door.
"Mr. Fontaine, that's not a matter for a building consultant."
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
"What did my brother pay you?" I asked.
Martin hesitated.
"A consultation fee."
"Did he provide documents?"
"A floor plan and some correspondence."
"May I see the floor plan?"
He opened the portfolio.
The first page was unmistakable.
My architect's final residential layout.
Including a revision made three months before construction finished.
A revision that had never appeared in any public record.
My pulse quickened.
"May I photograph that?"
Martin looked uncertain.
"I'd need to review my obligations to the client."
"Then please preserve it."
"Of course."
I slid my card toward him.
"My legal counsel will contact you."
Tamson laughed harshly.
"There it is."
I looked up.
"What?"
"Your big legal threats."
"Preserving evidence isn't a threat."
"You act like you're better than us because you have money."
Something about that sentence made the room unusually quiet.
Martin stared at his hands.
I looked at my brother.
"Yesterday, you insisted I didn't own the house."
He said nothing.
"Today, you're angry because I have money."
"You're twisting things."
"Which is it, Tamson?"
He pushed back his chair.
"You know what?"
I waited.
"Keep your precious mansion."
"That was always my intention."
"But when Mom gets hurt because of this, don't come running to me."
I felt that old pressure behind my eyes.
A threat wrapped in obligation.
Exactly the sort of sentence that had controlled me for years.
"What does that mean?"
He picked up his jacket.
"Ask her."
Then he walked out.
Martin remained seated.
After a moment, he cleared his throat.
"Ms. Fontaine, I apologize for the confusion."
"You had no way to know."
He looked at the door.
"May I offer a suggestion?"
"Certainly."
"You should ask your architect whether anyone requested copies of those plans recently."
I studied him.
"Why?"
"Because the files I received were accompanied by a note."
"What note?"
He hesitated.
"It said the documents came from someone who had helped finance the original build."
My stomach tightened.
"Did it identify that person?"
"Only as L. Fontaine."
Loretta Fontaine.
My mother.
I thanked Martin and escorted him out.
Then called our architect.
Graham Ellis answered from a construction site.
"Renee! Good to hear from you."
"Graham, I need a favor."
"Anything."
"Has anyone contacted your office asking for plans related to my home?"
A pause.
"Funny you mention that."
My heart sank.
"Who?"
"A woman called last Thursday."
"Name?"
"Loretta Fontaine."
"What did she say?"
"That she was your mother and needed copies for a family renovation discussion."
I closed my eyes.
"Did you send them?"
"Not from our office."
Relief flickered.
"Good."
"But she claimed she had an older copy and asked whether it was accurate."
"What happened?"
"I told her I couldn't discuss the plans without your permission."
I exhaled.
"Thank you."
"Renee, is everything okay?"
"Not entirely."
"Then there's something else you should know."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"What?"
"About six months ago, someone requested information from our old project archive."
"Who?"
"A former subcontractor named Warren Pike."
I knew the name.
Warren had worked on the original site preparation.
He had been terminated from the project after a dispute involving unauthorized charges.
"Why would Warren request my plans?"
"I don't know."
"Did you give him anything?"
"No. He had access to certain drawings while working on the project, though."
I stared at the blank conference-room wall.
Tamson had worked in contracting for years.
He knew Warren.
In fact, Warren had once been one of his drinking buddies.
I remembered them laughing together at a family barbecue.
"Thank you, Graham."
"Renee?"
"Yes?"
"If somebody is using your drawings without permission, I can provide the original project records."
"I may need them."
When I hung up, Creswell was standing in the doorway.
He took one look at my face.
"What happened?"
I told him.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he sat down across from me.
"Renee, this is no longer just about your family believing they deserve your house."
"I know."
"They've tried to gather confidential construction information. They've contacted your company, hired a consultant, and made allegations about your finances."
I stared at the table.
"Why?"
"That's what we need to find out."
He opened his laptop.
"I requested a preservation notice be sent to Hensley's office. Naomi is documenting every communication."
"Do you think Hensley knows what they're doing?"
"Not necessarily. Lawyers often receive incomplete or misleading instructions from clients."
"And if they lied to him?"
"He'll have to decide how to respond when he receives accurate records."
I nodded.
Creswell reached across the table.
"There's something else."
"What?"
"I ran a preliminary public-record search on Tamson's contracting business."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to understand his financial situation."
"He's struggling."
"He's doing more than struggling."
Creswell turned the screen.
A court filing appeared.
Tamson's company, Fontaine Contracting Services, had been named in a civil claim involving unpaid suppliers and disputed invoices.
The amount was larger than I expected.
Much larger.
I looked at Creswell.
"How much?"
"Just over four hundred thousand dollars is claimed."
My stomach dropped.
"Four hundred thousand?"
"That doesn't mean the full amount is owed. It's a disputed civil claim. But there are other problems."
He scrolled.
A registered security interest.
Two judgments against the company.
A notice related to unpaid business taxes.
I sat back.
"No wonder his work has been slow."
"His company may be having serious cash-flow problems."
I thought of the way Tamson had opened my kitchen cabinets.
The way he'd casually divided my rooms.
The certainty with which he'd described moving in.
Maybe the housing problem was real.
But maybe it wasn't the whole story.
"Does Mom know?"
"Possibly."
"And Rochelle?"
"Almost certainly."
I looked at him.
"Why are you so sure?"
"Because Rochelle has been asking questions about corporate ownership structures."
He studied my face.
"People don't usually do that when they're merely looking for a spare bedroom."
Before I could answer, my phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
RENEE, THIS IS WARREN PIKE. I HEARD YOU'RE ASKING ABOUT THE HOUSE PLANS. I THINK YOU NEED TO KNOW WHAT YOUR BROTHER ASKED ME TO DO.
A second message followed.
I DIDN'T KNOW HE WAS GOING TO USE THEM THIS WAY.
May you like
Then a third.
AND THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT THE BASEMENT THAT YOU NEED TO SEE.
