By early afternoon, federal agents in New York were searching for Peter Harlan and Jonathan Pierce.
Rebecca remained in Boston under questioning.
Her attorney had arrived and advised her to say almost nothing.
She followed that advice.
The discrepancy bothered me.
Why travel with Peter and Jonathan to New York, then return before dawn to carry out a board scheme that Peter already knew had been compromised?
Unless she had not gone willingly.
Or she had returned for something more important than the transaction.
Foster would not speculate.
I did anyway.
At one fifteen, Victor’s attorney requested another conversation.
This time the government wanted it.
Victor was brought into an interview room with counsel present.
I watched remotely.
He looked twenty years older than he had the previous morning.
No tailored jacket.
No confidence.
Just a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and shadows beneath his eyes.
Foster began with Jonathan Pierce.
“Do you know him?”
Victor laughed bitterly.
“Apparently everyone does.”
“How long?”
“Twenty years.”
“Did he represent the fund?”
“Yes.”
“Did he negotiate your agreement?”
Victor stopped.
“What agreement?”
Reed had been right.
The reaction was immediate.
“The agreement you signed after Andrew Morrow’s death.”
Victor looked toward his attorney.
His attorney said, “Do not answer.”
Victor ignored him.
“Where did you get that?”
“We don’t have it.”
His shoulders lowered slightly.
“But Peter may.”
The relief disappeared.
“What?”
“Jonathan left a note.”
Victor whispered something obscene.
“What is in that agreement?” Foster asked.
“You already know.”
“I want your version.”
Victor stared at the table.
“It was supposed to protect me.”
“From prosecution?”
“From Reed.”
“How?”
“They paid me.”
“Five million?”
“Yes.”
“In exchange for silence.”
“In exchange for giving up claims.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
“Did you know the fund was laundering money?”
“Eventually.”
“Did you participate?”
“Yes.”
“Did Andrew?”
“At first.”
“Then?”
“He wanted out.”
“What happened?”
Victor rubbed his face.
“He started collecting records.”
“Like Claire.”
His eyes lifted toward the camera.
He knew I was watching.
For one uncomfortable second, I remembered the man I married.
Not the fraudster.
Not the adulterer.
The man who once sat beside me during my mother’s surgery and held my hand for six hours.
Then he looked away.
“Andrew was better than I was.”
Nobody responded.
Victor continued.
“He decided he would go to regulators.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I was scared.”
“Of Reed?”
“Of everyone.”
“Jonathan?”
Victor hesitated.
“Yes.”
That surprised Foster.
“Why Jonathan?”
“Because Jonathan knew how to make things disappear.”
“Money?”
“Documents. Problems.”
“People?”
Victor looked up.
“I don’t know.”
“Andrew died.”
“I know.”
“Did Jonathan kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Reed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Peter?”
“Peter wasn’t involved then.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I didn’t meet Peter until years later.”
That contradicted nothing yet.
Foster changed direction.
“Why did you marry Claire?”
Victor’s face tightened.
“What does that have to do with Andrew?”
“Answer.”
His attorney objected.
Victor spoke anyway.
“Because I loved her.”
From the observation room, I felt nothing.
Or almost nothing.
“Did Reed arrange your meeting?”
“No.”
“Did you know who Claire was beforehand?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know about her Ashford holdings?”
“I knew her family was connected.”
“Did you know she owned forty-eight percent?”
“Not then.”
“When did you learn?”
“Five years ago.”
“How?”
“Jonathan.”
My hands went cold.
Not Reed.
Jonathan.
“When did Jonathan tell you?”
“At a dinner.”
“Why?”
“He asked whether Claire had ever discussed selling.”
“What did you say?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“He told me what she owned.”
“Did you tell Claire?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Victor looked toward the camera again.
“Because I knew she had kept it from me.”
I almost spoke to the screen.
I had not kept it from him.
He had never cared enough to ask.
Foster continued.
“Did that make you angry?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because we were married.”
“And you believed you were entitled to know.”
“Yes.”
“Entitled to control it?”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
Foster noticed.
“When did that change?”
Victor stared at the table.
“After Reed came back.”
“Through Jonathan?”
“Yes.”
“Did Jonathan tell Reed about Claire?”
“I think so.”
“Did Jonathan propose using your marriage to gain access?”
Victor hesitated.
Then nodded.
The movement was almost imperceptible.
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
Not because I had not suspected it.
Because hearing it confirmed transformed suspicion into history.
“What did you say?”
“No.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
“And later?”
Victor’s voice dropped.
“Later I needed money.”
Forty million dollars could apparently rewrite a man’s principles.
“What was the plan?”
“Temporary control.”
“Using Claire’s incapacity?”
“Eventually.”
“Who suggested that?”
“Jonathan.”
Not Peter.
Not Reed.
Jonathan Pierce.
Daniel’s partner.
My attorney’s colleague.
A man who had sat at my wedding.
Foster asked, “Did Jonathan know Claire’s trust provisions?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know you were successor trustee?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever intend Claire to die?”
Victor looked straight toward the camera.
“No.”
“Did anyone suggest it?”
His eyes changed.
That was enough.
“Who?”
He did not answer.
“Victor.”
“Jonathan.”
The observation room became silent.
“What did he say?”
“That permanent incapacity would simplify things.”
“Permanent incapacity meaning death?”
“He never used the word.”
“What did you understand?”
Victor closed his eyes.
“That.”
“Did you agree?”
“No.”
“Did you tell Claire?”
“No.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“Daniel?”
“No.”
“Anyone?”
“My mother.”
Eleanor had not mentioned that.
“When?”
“Last year.”
“What did she say?”
“To get away from Jonathan.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Victor laughed once.
“Because by then he had everything.”
“What does that mean?”
“My fraud.”
“Evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Your debt?”
“Yes.”
“Affairs?”
“Yes.”
“Drugging Claire?”
“That came later.”
“You still chose to do it.”
Victor looked sick.
“Yes.”
I hated him most when he told the truth.
Lies were easier.
Truth forced me to confront the fact that Victor had known exactly when each line appeared and crossed it anyway.
Foster asked about the tea.
Again, Victor denied it.
“Who had access to the house?”
“Staff.”
“Jonathan?”
“He had been there.”
“Peter?”
“No.”
“Rebecca?”
“No.”
“Could Jonathan enter without Claire knowing?”
Victor paused.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Guest code.”
I turned toward Daniel.
He looked horrified.
“Who gave it to him?”
Foster asked.
“I did.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“Was it changed?”
“I don’t know.”
I did.
No.
We had never changed it.
Another ordinary oversight turned sinister.
“Why would Jonathan drug Claire before you had agreed to the incapacity plan?”
Victor’s face changed.
“I didn’t know he did.”
“We don’t know either.”
“If he did…”
He stopped.
“What?”
“He was pushing me.”
“How?”
“He kept saying Claire’s health was becoming unreliable.”
I stared at the screen.
Jonathan had created the problem before proposing the solution.
He may have poisoned me, then pointed out my symptoms to Victor as justification for emergency planning.
“How long?”
“Months.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Eventually.”
“Because you saw Claire dizzy.”
“Yes.”
“And then you decided to reproduce the symptoms yourself.”
Victor closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
There it was.
The first poisoning planted the narrative.
Victor performed the second.
The scheme recruited him through evidence someone else manufactured.
He was manipulated.
And still responsible.
Both things could be true.
Foster returned to the old agreement.
“What clause are we missing?”
Victor frowned.
“What?”
“Reed said it protected you financially. Jonathan’s note says Peter has the original. Why is everyone afraid of it?”
“Because of the annex.”
“What annex?”
Victor’s attorney whispered something.
Victor shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“What is in it?”
“Names.”
“We know.”
“Not just names.”
“What else?”
“Beneficial ownership.”
Reed had omitted that.
“Of what?”
“The offshore entities.”
Foster leaned forward.
“Entities still operating?”
“Some.”
“Containing money?”
“Probably.”
“How much?”
Victor shook his head.
“Back then? Hundreds of millions.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could be more?”
“Yes.”
“Who legally controls them?”
“That’s the problem.”
“What problem?”
Victor looked toward the camera.
“The annex created survivorship rights.”
I did not understand.
Daniel did.
He leaned closer.
“Oh, God.”
“What?”
He answered quietly.
“If one participating beneficial owner died or became disqualified, control shifted among the remaining signatories.”
“Meaning?”
“The document could determine who controls old offshore assets today.”
Foster asked Victor the same thing.
He confirmed it.
Andrew died.
His interest shifted.
Other participants died over two decades.
Their rights shifted.
The original agreement had become more valuable with time.
“Who remains?” Foster asked.
Victor named several people.
Reed.
Jonathan.
Victor himself.
Two men I did not know.
And one deceased participant whose rights were disputed.
“Peter isn’t listed?”
“No.”
“Then why does he want it?”
“To control the people who are.”
Blackmail.
Hundreds of millions in hidden assets.
Evidence of old crimes.
A document connecting everyone.
Peter had spent years learning where the bodies were buried without ever becoming one of the owners.
Now he possessed the map.
At two twenty-three, New York agents located Jonathan Pierce.
Not Peter.
Jonathan.
He was found unconscious in a hotel room near Bryant Park.
Alive.
No obvious wounds.
A drinking glass sat beside the bed.
Foster immediately ordered toxicology.
I thought of tea.
Wine.
Victor twenty years earlier.
The same method.
“Peter?” I asked.
“Gone.”
“Agreement?”
“Not found.”
“Rebecca?”
“Still claims she knows nothing.”
“What about Jonathan?”
“Hospital.”
“Will he live?”
“Doctors think so.”
I looked at Daniel.
His face had gone gray.
For all Jonathan may have done, twenty-two years of friendship did not disappear in one investigation.
“Go,” I told him.
“What?”
“New York.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You’re my attorney, not my bodyguard.”
“Claire.”
“Daniel, go find out whether your friend is going to live.”
He looked toward Foster.
She nodded.
“We have Claire covered.”
He resisted another minute.
Then left.
At three ten, toxicology came back preliminary.
Jonathan had been exposed to the same class of sedative found in my stored blood sample.
Not proof of the exact compound yet.
But close.
Someone had used the old method again.
Someone who knew the history.
Peter?
Possibly.
But then another fact arrived.
Hotel surveillance showed Jonathan entering his room alone at seven twelve the previous evening.
At seven forty, someone delivered room service.
Tea.
The server was identified.
A woman.
Not hotel staff.
She used a stolen uniform and left through a service exit.
The camera captured part of her face.
Foster enlarged the image.
I knew her.
Not personally.
From photographs.
One of the women Olivia had shown me.
The woman from Victor’s Chicago apartment.
Her name, according to Olivia’s notes, was Natalie Brooks.
Victor’s other mistress.
I stared at the image.
“What does Natalie have to do with Peter?”
Foster answered.
“We’re going to find out.”
Before she could call Olivia’s attorney, another agent entered.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“We checked Natalie Brooks.”
“And?”
“There is no Natalie Brooks.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“The identity is fabricated.”
“Who is she?”
“We ran facial recognition against older records.”
Foster read the result.
Then looked at me.
“Her real name is Natalie Morrow.”
The surname struck first.
Morrow.
“Andrew Morrow?”
Foster nodded.
“His daughter.”
The daughter of the man who died twenty years ago had spent months pretending to be Victor’s mistress.
And last night, she had poisoned Jonathan Pierce.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: Andrew Morrow’s Daughter Had Spent Years Getting Close to Victor, and What She Wanted Was Not Money or Revenge Alone
My Husband Thought One Cruel Message Would Leave Me Penniless, but He Had No Idea What I Had Already Prepared
Part 11 of 22
