Chapter 3 - FORTY-THREE COMPLAINTSRichard slept less than two hours.
Men like him always did.
Power had taught him how.
“Mr. Sterling,” he said with a careful laugh, “I think we’re making something dramatic out of a misunderstanding.”
Richard looked at him.
“A misunderstanding?”
“Emily is exhausted. We had an unusually demanding service schedule.”
Emily lowered her eyes.
Malcolm continued.
“Everyone receives breaks.”
One of the supervisors behind him, Linda Hayes, nodded immediately.
“Of course.”
Richard noticed how fast she answered.
Too fast.
He also noticed the young dishwasher near the doorway looking at the floor.
“What’s your name?” Richard asked him.
The boy looked up.
“Caleb, sir.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Seven months.”
“Did Emily receive a meal break today?”
Caleb’s mouth opened.
Malcolm turned slightly toward him.
That tiny movement was enough.
Caleb’s face changed.
“I—I don’t know, sir.”
Richard looked from Caleb to Malcolm.
Then back.
Interesting.
“Everyone leave the kitchen except Emily.”
Malcolm stiffened.
“Sir, I really should explain—”
“Leave.”
The word was not loud.
It did not need to be.
Malcolm left.
Linda followed.
Caleb hesitated before disappearing.
Richard pulled out a chair at the staff preparation table.
“Sit.”
Emily remained standing.
“I’m fine.”
“You nearly fell into a counter.”
“I’m fine.”
Richard pushed the plate toward her.
“Eat.”
She stared at him.
“Sir?”
“The chicken.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
She gave no answer.
Richard sighed.
“My house. My chicken. My permission.”
Something almost like a laugh escaped Emily despite herself.
She sat.
Richard opened the refrigerator and found a bottle of water.
When he placed it beside her, she whispered, “Thank you.”
He stayed while she ate.
Not watching every bite.
Not asking questions.
Just preventing anyone from entering.
When she finished half the plate, color slowly returned to her face.
Richard sat across from her.
“Now tell me what’s happening.”
Emily’s fingers tightened around the water bottle.
“Nothing.”
“You haven’t eaten in more than a day.”
“That’s not your responsibility.”
“You work here.”
“Yes.”
“That makes working conditions here my responsibility.”
She looked surprised.
Richard almost laughed bitterly.
Apparently, the statement itself sounded unusual in this house.
“How long has Malcolm been refusing breaks?”
Emily hesitated.
“It isn’t only breaks.”
Richard waited.
She stared at her hands.
“He changes schedules after they’re posted. If somebody complains, they get the worst shifts. Sometimes double shifts.”
“Illegal overtime?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do people get paid for the extra hours?”
“Sometimes.”
Richard leaned back.
“Sometimes?”
“Hours disappear.”
There it was.
Not incompetence.
Not harsh management.
Potential theft.
“How many people?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
“Most of housekeeping.”
Richard’s expression hardened.
“Kitchen staff too?”
“I think so.”
“Security?”
“No. Mr. Voss doesn’t supervise them.”
That mattered.
Malcolm targeted workers beneath him whose wages were low enough that losing a job could destroy them.
People with children.
People with immigration paperwork.
People with debts.
People less likely to complain.
“Why hasn’t anyone come to me?”
Emily looked around the enormous kitchen.
“Sir, respectfully… people like us don’t come to people like you.”
The answer hit harder than Richard expected.
Blackridge Manor had thirty-two full-time employees.
Richard knew perhaps five names.
He traveled nearly two hundred days a year.
He hosted investors, politicians, charity boards, executives.
He paid an estate-management company to handle the house.
He believed that made him efficient.
Maybe it had simply made him absent.
“What happens if someone complains?”
Emily swallowed.
“Malcolm says he can make sure they never work at another private estate in Illinois.”
“Can he?”
“I don’t know.”
“But they believe him.”
“Yes.”
Richard studied her uniform.
A faint red stain marked one cuff.
“Are employees allowed to leave during breaks?”
“When we get breaks.”
“And meals?”
“Technically there’s staff food.”
“Technically?”
Emily gave a humorless smile.
“Malcolm started locking it after lunch.”
Richard stared.
“Why?”
“He said food costs were too high.”
Richard thought about the seventy-thousand-dollar wine order delivered that afternoon.
Food costs.
“Who has the key?”
“Malcolm. Linda.”
“Who approves estate expenses?”
“Mr. Voss.”
Richard’s jaw tightened.
Of course.
The manager who claimed workers were eating too much was also the manager controlling purchasing.
He stood.
Emily immediately looked worried.
“What are you going to do?”
“Find out how bad this is.”
Her face went pale.
“Please don’t tell him I said anything.”
Richard stopped.
“He cannot fire you.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“He fired Rosa.”
“Who’s Rosa?”
“A housekeeper. She complained about missing overtime. Malcolm said she stole jewelry.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because two days later Linda found the bracelet behind a guest-room dresser.”
“Was Rosa rehired?”
Emily shook her head.
“Malcolm said the accusation had already damaged trust.”
Richard felt anger settle in his chest.
Cold anger.
Much more useful than rage.
“Anyone else?”
“Teresa.”
“What happened?”
“She asked why her tips were smaller than the gratuity statement. Malcolm told her she had an attitude problem.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone.”
“Fired?”
“She quit after he cut her schedule to eight hours a week.”
Richard walked to the kitchen doorway.
Emily stood.
“Sir?”
He turned.
“You’re going home.”
Fear returned immediately.
“No. I can finish—”
“With pay.”
She stared.
“And tomorrow?”
“Come at your normal time.”
“What if Malcolm—”
“Malcolm will not be making personnel decisions tomorrow.”
Richard left the kitchen.
Malcolm waited near the dining room.
His smile had returned.
“Everything resolved?”
Richard looked at him.
“For tonight.”
Malcolm relaxed slightly.
That was useful.
Richard wanted him relaxed.
“Actually,” Richard added, “one thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Send me all staff payroll records for the last twelve months.”
Malcolm’s face changed for half a second.
Then the smile returned.
“Certainly.”
“And meal schedules.”
“Of course.”
“Expense records too.”
A longer pause.
“May I ask why?”
Richard smiled.
“No.”
Malcolm watched him walk away.
Ten minutes later, Richard entered his private study and called Sterling Meridian’s chief compliance officer.
“Rachel?”
“Richard? It’s almost nine.”
“I need a forensic payroll team at Blackridge by six tomorrow morning.”
Silence.
Then Rachel’s voice sharpened.
“What happened?”
“I think someone has been stealing from my employees.”
“How large?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Richard looked through the window toward the servants’ parking area.
Emily was walking toward an old blue sedan.
She stopped beside it, leaned against the door, and closed her eyes.
Even from fifty yards away, she looked exhausted.
Richard said quietly:
“And Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“Pull every complaint ever made against Malcolm Voss.”
Keyboard sounds.
Then Rachel went silent.
“Richard.”
“What?”
“There are complaints.”
“How many?”
Another pause.
“Enough that you’re not going to like this.”
Richard’s grip tightened around the phone.
May you like
“How many?”
“Forty-three.”
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