It does not go to a black market bookie. It goes to a private holding company that owns the Vanguard Men’s Health Institute. I frowned, trying to make sense of the name. A men’s health clinic.
Why would Derek be funneling sixty thousand dollars a year into a clinic through offshore shell companies. If he had a legitimate medical condition, he has premium executive health insurance. He would just use his regular medical provider and write it off. Exactly, DeAndre said, leaning forward so our eyes met.
You only hide medical payments through shell companies if you are terrified of the diagnosis ever becoming public. Especially if you are a man completely obsessed with his macho, alpha male image. So, I dug deeper. I used some specialized forensic software to cross reference the payment dates with the clinic’s internal billing system.
DeAndre reached into the manila envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. It looked like a printed screenshot of a highly secure medical file. He placed it carefully on top of the ledger, right over the highlighted transactions. I am sorry to be the one to show you this, Caroline, he said, his tone softening just a fraction.
But you need to know exactly who you are dealing with. You need to understand the depths of his lies. I picked up the paper. It was a diagnostic medical summary dated fifteen years ago.
The patient name was clearly printed as Derek Foster. The medical jargon was dense, but my eyes locked onto the final clinical conclusion. Severe bilateral epididymitis resulting from an untreated infection at age twenty. The prognosis was typed in bold, undeniable letters.
Azoospermia. Complete, irreversible sterility. Zero viable sperm count. The air in the hotel room seemed to vanish.
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