Chapter 12 - The Lawyer Who Knew Too Much
At six the next morning, I called Daniel Price.
He answered immediately.
"Mara. I've been trying to reach you."
"Have you?"
"Of course. I heard about what happened at your father's house. Are you safe?"
I looked through the hospital window.
The sky was pale gray.
"Yes."
"Thank God."
I listened to his voice.
Friendly.
Concerned.
Professional.
The same voice that had guided me through the last several days.
"Daniel, I need to ask you something."
"Anything."
"Why is your name on a settlement agreement involving my father?"
Silence.
Then he said, "Where did you see that?"
My stomach tightened.
"Answer the question."
"Mara, this isn't something we should discuss over the phone."
"That's convenient."
"It's complicated."
"Then simplify it."
He exhaled.
"Your father approached my firm several months ago about resolving potential disputes involving Rachel."
"You knew Rachel was alive?"
"I knew there were unresolved questions about her legal status."
"Don't insult me."
"Mara..."
"You sat across from me while I told you I'd seen my sister alive. You acted surprised."
"I was surprised by some of the circumstances."
"Not by the fact that she was alive."
He said nothing.
I closed my eyes.
"Did you tell Dad I was investigating?"
"No."
I thought of the handwritten note.
Mara must never see this.
"Then why didn't you tell me you'd represented interests connected to him?"
His voice grew tense.
"Because I wasn't representing your father in the matter you brought to me."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"You're right. It doesn't."
For a moment, I heard what sounded like traffic behind him.
Then he said, "I made a terrible judgment call."
I stared at the floor.
"What did you do?"
"Your father offered Rachel a settlement through my firm. I was asked to help draft it. I didn't know the full extent of the allegations."
"Did you know Oliver had been kidnapped?"
"No."
"Did you know Dad was threatening her?"
"No."
"Then why did you write that I must never see the agreement?"
Another long silence.
"Because your father insisted the negotiations remain confidential, and I agreed to a provision I shouldn't have accepted."
I swallowed.
"How much was he paying you?"
Daniel didn't answer.
I almost threw the phone.
"How much?"
"Two hundred thousand dollars in legal fees and a contingent payment if the settlement closed."
I pressed a hand against my forehead.
Natalie's cousin.
The man she'd trusted to help me.
Had been financially involved with my father.
"I want every document you have."
"Mara, there are confidentiality issues."
"Then send them to Agent Foster."
He went silent.
"If you really didn't know about the kidnapping," I continued, "you should have no problem cooperating with the investigation."
Daniel spoke quietly.
"Your father has records that could destroy people who aren't criminals."
"What does that mean?"
"He kept files on everyone. Employees. Attorneys. Officials. People who made mistakes and trusted him with their secrets."
"Was he blackmailing you?"
Daniel didn't answer.
That was enough.
I ended the call.
Then I walked directly to Foster.
She listened to everything.
When I finished, she said, "You need independent counsel. Someone with no prior connection to the Bennett family or your father's businesses."
"I know."
"And don't send Daniel any additional information."
"I won't."
I sat down.
"How many people did Dad have working for him?"
Foster shook her head.
"We don't know yet."
But the expression on her face told me the answer might be worse than either of us wanted to imagine.
That afternoon, investigators obtained authorization to examine the portable safe recovered from storage.
I was present when Foster's team opened it.
Inside was a thick notebook wrapped in clear plastic.
A small digital storage device.
Several photographs.
And a sealed envelope addressed to Arthur Bennett.
Foster photographed everything before removing it.
The notebook contained handwritten entries stretching back more than twenty years.
Property addresses.
Dates.
Dollar amounts.
Initials.
Some entries were ordinary business expenses.
Others contained descriptions that made my stomach turn.
Inspection clearance — $18,000.
Safety complaint withdrawal — $42,500.
Witness cooperation — $65,000.
Then came an entry dated October 16, twenty years earlier.
The day before my hospitalization.
A payment of $75,000.
Beside it were two initials.
P.V.
Paul Voss.
The detective Rachel had accused of taking money from Dad.
Below that was another entry.
C. Bennett — hospital incident.
No amount.
Just one word.
Contained.
I stared at the page.
"What does that mean?"
Foster's expression was grim.
"We don't know yet."
Then she turned the page.
There was a photograph tucked between the sheets.
A teenage girl stood outside a warehouse.
She wore a red sweater.
Her face was turned toward the camera.
I recognized her instantly.
Me.
Sixteen years old.
Beside me stood a man I'd never seen before.
He wore a work jacket and held a camera.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written:
MARA AND THOMAS - OCTOBER 16.
I stared at the man's face.
Something shifted in my memory.
Rain.
A warehouse.
Someone shouting.
A car door slamming.
Then I remembered a name.
"Thomas."
Foster looked up.
"What?"
"Thomas Keene."
My voice trembled.
"He worked for Dad."
"How do you know?"
I pressed my fingers against my temples.
"He used to bring Mom flowers."
An image flashed through my mind.
A tall man with gentle eyes.
A work jacket that smelled of sawdust.
A boyish smile.
He'd sometimes come to our house when Dad was away.
Mom would laugh more when he was there.
As a child, I'd assumed he was a family friend.
Then I remembered the night I saw them together in our kitchen.
Mom crying.
Thomas holding her hand.
Dad standing in the doorway.
His face filled with hatred.
I looked at Foster.
"Who was Thomas Keene?"
She began searching her records.
A few minutes later, she stopped typing.
"Oh."
"What?"
She looked at me.
"Thomas Keene disappeared twenty years ago."
I gripped the table.
"When?"
She turned the screen toward me.
The missing-person report had been filed on October 18.
One day after I was admitted to St. Catherine's.
I stared at the photograph.
Then I remembered my father's voice from that night.
You didn't see anything.
And another voice.
Thomas.
May you like
Shouting.
Arthur, put the gun down!
