The digital signatures at the bottom of the page were rendered in raw hexadecimal code.

“I don’t see Tony’s name here,” I said, cold sweat running down the back of my neck.

“Look at the routing prefix on the third line,” Victor said, leaning over the desk to point a dry finger at the paper.

“Zero-four-nine-two,” I read aloud.

“That was Tony’s personal administrative code back when we ran the docks together,” Victor said.

He coughed, a dry, hacking sound that he tried to smother with his sleeve.

“Every transaction I approved used zero-one-one-eight,” he continued. “Tony generated that execution order from his private terminal in the old corporate suite.”

I stared at the numbers on the paper.

I had memorized the file on my brother’s death ten years ago when I first joined the bureau.

The signature on the copy in the federal database had been scrubbed, but the routing prefix was identical to this one.

“He set you up,” I said, the realization settling like lead in my stomach.

“He wanted me to take the blame if the feds ever dug up the grave,” Victor said.