“Who owns the shell company?” Evelyn asked.
Caleb tapped his leather notebook against his knee. “The registration documents are blank, but the tax ID leads back to a bank branch in Boston.”
“We need to go inside,” Evelyn said, standing up. “Harrison is still in the ballroom.”
“Evelyn, wait,” Caleb said, catching her arm. “You can’t just confront him in front of three hundred people.”
“I am not going to the ballroom,” she said.
She walked back toward the service entrance of the hotel, her heels clicking against the stone tiles of the garden path. She bypassed the ballroom entrance and turned into the narrow service corridor behind the kitchens, where the air smelled of stale grease and industrial soap.
Harrison was standing near an exit door, talking to a man in a tuxedo.
“Harrison,” Evelyn said, her voice soft but absolutely clear.
The man in the tuxedo excused himself and walked away, leaving them alone in the harsh fluorescent light of the corridor.
Harrison turned, his brow furrowing as he looked at the tablet in her hand. “Evelyn, I told you, I’m busy tonight. What is this?”
