“These bank routing codes,” I said, tracing my finger over the printed numbers.

“They point to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands.”

“They are registered under dummy corporations,” Sterling said.

“But look at the secondary signatories.”

I flipped the page and saw a name that made me freeze.

*Denise Richards.*

“Gregory’s new wife,” I murmured.

“She has her name on the holding accounts,” Sterling said.

“Gregory uses her to keep his own name off the active ledgers.”

“She manages the shell companies that pay out the bribes.”

I stared at her signature, written in a neat, looping script.

“Denise loves money, but she hates risk,” I said.

“She only married Gregory for the social standing and the estate.”

“If she realizes she is facing federal prison, she won’t stay loyal.”

“That is your leverage,” Sterling said, turning the truck onto the interstate.

We drove in silence for the next two hours as the fog began to clear.

The lights of the Sacramento skyline appeared in the distance, bright and cold.

We parked in a concrete garage two blocks away from the federal courthouse.