Chapter 8 - THE MAN WHO MADE MY CAREERThomas Greer called me at 7:20 a.m.
I stared at his name for three rings.
Then answered.
“Casey.”
His voice sounded normal.
Warm.
Concerned.
The same voice that congratulated me after my first major conviction.
The same voice that told me I was ready for special counsel.
The same voice that sat beside me at Dad’s memorial service six years ago.
I suddenly remembered that.
He had attended.
At the time he was county legal counsel.
He knew Dad.
How had I forgotten?
“Thomas.”
“I heard about Eleanor.”
Mom.
He always called her by name.
My skin crawled.
“How is she?”
“Alive.”
“Thank God.”
I said nothing.
He continued.
“Helen has everyone in a panic. I’m hearing rumors she thinks there’s an internal leak.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It is.”
He paused.
“Casey, where are you?”
There it was.
Not how are you?
Where are you?
“I’m safe.”
“I need to see you.”
“Why?”
“Because this is getting out of control.”
I smiled despite myself.
“You sound like Senator Vale.”
Silence.
“Have you spoken to Martin?”
“Why would you ask?”
“He has a talent for inserting himself into crises.”
Interesting phrasing.
I leaned back.
“Thomas, did you know my father?”
The line went quiet.
“Of course.”
“How well?”
“Professionally.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Lie.
Dad had attended a fundraiser at Greer’s house once.
I remembered now.
Mom complained about the food.
“What’s this about?”
“Dad’s files.”
Another silence.
Too long.
“What files?”
I almost admired him.
“No idea?”
“Casey, your father has been dead six years.”
“Yes.”
“Grief can make old events look connected when they aren’t.”
There it was.
Mentally ill.
Unstable.
Episodes.
Different language.
Same tactic.
“Are you worried about me, Thomas?”
“I am.”
“Then don’t be.”
“Casey.”
His voice lowered.
“Tell Helen to slow down.”
“Why?”
“Because once this becomes public, there’s no controlling what happens.”
I looked at Rachel, who sat across from me recording through a secure system.
“Maybe it shouldn’t be controlled.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“No. You think you do because your mother is hurt.”
He was still trying to mentor me.
Still talking as if I were the young prosecutor he could redirect with a hand on the shoulder.
“Did Vale kill my father?”
Thomas inhaled.
I heard it.
Then he said, “I have no idea.”
“Did Enzo?”
“No idea.”
“Did Ames falsify Mom’s medical records?”
“Casey—”
“Did Judge Keene sell court orders?”
“You need sleep.”
I laughed softly.
That irritated him.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Your judgment is compromised.”
“Then why are you calling me instead of Helen?”
Silence.
He knew.
I knew.
The performance was finished.
His voice changed.
“Where are you?”
I disconnected.
Rachel exhaled.
“Enough for obstruction?”
“Not yet.”
“Enough to scare him?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
We did not arrest Greer immediately.
Helen wanted to watch him.
If he ran, he might lead us somewhere useful.
At 8:03, Greer left his home carrying a briefcase.
He drove to the Capitol parking garage.
Met Senator Vale.
Our surveillance team photographed both men getting into Vale’s vehicle.
No audio.
But thirty-two minutes later, Greer drove to a private bank.
He accessed a safe-deposit box.
When he left, the briefcase looked heavier.
State police stopped him three blocks away.
Inside were $430,000 in cash.
Two encrypted flash drives.
A passport under a different name.
And a photograph of me leaving Mom’s house six months earlier.
Greer asked for counsel.
He got one.
Vale called it harassment.
I stopped watching television.
At noon, forensic technicians decrypted the first drive.
Payment ledgers.
Names.
Judges.
Officers.
Doctors.
Inspectors.
County commissioners.
Bribes disguised as consulting fees.
Millions moved through shell companies.
The second drive contained surveillance.
My surveillance.
Photographs of me.
Mom.
Rachel.
Helen.
Officer Miller.
Even Colton.
Some dated years back.
One video showed Dad entering a diner two days before his death.
Across from him sat Thomas Greer.
I watched without sound at first.
Dad leaned forward.
Angry.
Greer remained calm.
Then audio restoration finished.
Dad’s voice came through.
“You told me to bring it to you because you said the state would protect me.”
Greer answered, “I’m trying to protect you.”
“No. You’re protecting Vale.”
My chest tightened.
Greer looked around.
“Henry, lower your voice.”
“You gave him my letter.”
“No.”
“Then how did Enzo know what was in it?”
Greer said nothing.
Dad leaned back.
“I trusted you.”
Greer’s expression changed.
For the first time, he looked ashamed.
Then he said something I would remember forever.
“You should go home and forget what you found.”
Dad stood.
“I raised my daughter not to look away from people like you.”
My throat tightened.
Dad continued.
“So I can’t.”
The video ended.
I left the room.
Not because I couldn’t handle evidence.
Because I could hear Dad’s voice.
Alive.
Angry.
Proud of me.
Six years after losing him, I had just heard him speak my name without saying it.
Rachel found me near the stairwell.
“He knew what you’d become.”
“I wasn’t even in public integrity then.”
“You were still a prosecutor.”
“He believed I’d do something.”
“You are.”
“Six years late.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should’ve.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn grief into arrogance.”
I almost snapped.
She continued.
“You think you should have been smart enough to solve a murder no one told you happened.”
That stopped me.
“You think because you’re good at your job, you were supposed to detect every lie in your own family.”
She stepped closer.
“That isn’t intelligence. That’s punishment.”
I looked away.
Rachel wasn’t gentle often.
When she was, it was usually devastating.
At 1:47 p.m., Dana asked to speak.
Not to investigators.
To me.
I refused.
She asked again.
Then threatened to reveal something about Dad.
Helen allowed a monitored conversation because I was now only a witness.
Dana entered wearing jail clothing.
No makeup.
No dramatic tears.
She sat across from me behind glass.
“You look tired,” she said.
“So do you.”
“You think you won.”
“No.”
That seemed to bother her.
“You should.”
“Why?”
“You finally get to be the hero.”
I stared.
“You’ve always wanted that.”
“Did you ask me here to psychoanalyze me?”
She smiled.
“Your mother never told you the truth about your father.”
I waited.
“She knew he was involved.”
“In what?”
“The land scheme.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Dana leaned closer.
“Your father made money too.”
I felt anger rise.
She saw it.
Enjoyed it.
“Check his bank accounts.”
“We have.”
“Offshore.”
“Dad barely used online banking.”
“Exactly.”
I said nothing.
She continued.
“Henry wasn’t some innocent whistleblower. He helped design the scheme. Then he got scared.”
“Why tell me this?”
“Because your mother knew.”
I watched her eyes.
She believed at least part of it.
“Where did you hear that?”
“My father.”
Irving Hale.
“Conveniently dead.”
“So is yours.”
I leaned closer.
“Your father participated in my father’s murder.”
For the first time, Dana’s confidence cracked.
“You can’t prove that.”
“We’re getting there.”
She sat back.
“Colton told you about the games?”
“Yes.”
“He tell you how much he lost?”
“Yes.”
“He tell you who paid his debts after Henry died?”
I froze.
“Who?”
Dana smiled.
“Your mother.”
I stared.
“Mom didn’t have that kind of cash.”
“No?”
Dana tilted her head.
“Then ask where it came from.”
That conversation ended twenty seconds later.
I returned to Mom’s secure room.
She was reading.
She took one look at me.
“You spoke to Dana.”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That you paid Colton’s gambling debt after Dad died.”
Mom slowly closed the book.
My heart sank.
“How much?”
“Sixty thousand.”
“Where did the money come from?”
She looked toward the window.
“Mom.”
“Your father left cash.”
“How much?”
“More than I expected.”
“Where?”
“The metal box.”
My stomach tightened.
“How much?”
“One hundred ninety thousand.”
Cash.
Dad.
Hidden.
Dana had not lied about that part.
“Why did Dad have it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask?”
“He was dead.”
“Did you tell police?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because there was a note.”
“What note?”
She looked terrified now.
“He said the money was dirty.”
I stared.
“He said if anything happened to him, I should never spend it.”
“But you used sixty thousand.”
“To save Colton.”
I stood and walked to the far side of the room.
Of course she had.
She had protected him even then.
“What happened to the rest?”
“Still hidden.”
“With Dad’s files?”
“Yes.”
I turned.
“Mom, we need it.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
“Where?”
She finally told me.
Not at the cabin.
Not at the house.
Not in a bank.
Dad had hidden the box beneath the floor of an abandoned maintenance shed on the old family church property.
Mom moved it there six days earlier after finding it.
Only she knew.
Until now.
Helen sent a team.
At 4:30 p.m., they recovered the box.
Inside:
Dad’s documents.
The remaining $130,000.
A ledger.
Photographs.
Two audio recorders.
And a handwritten notebook.
The first pages documented payments.
Dates.
Shell companies.
Land purchases.
My stomach sank.
Dad’s handwriting appeared beside several transactions.
Dana had been telling the truth.
At least partly.
My father had participated.
Then I reached the final pages.
His tone changed.
I agreed to help document the payments because Greer said the state needed evidence. I now believe Greer is compromised. I have kept copies of everything.
Dad had not joined the corruption.
He had gone undercover inside it.
Without authorization.
Without protection.
Trying to collect evidence.
The “dirty” cash was payoff money they had given him.
He preserved it rather than spend it.
Proof.
At the back of the notebook was a list of names.
Most we knew.
One we didn’t.
Bishop.
Just one word.
Bishop.
The Bridge?
No.
Greer was the Bridge.
Bishop appeared separate.
Dad wrote beside it:
Vale answers to him.
I stared at those words.
Senator Martin Vale—the man we believed sat at the top—answered to someone else.
Rachel searched databases.
No obvious match.
Then Mom spoke.
“Bishop isn’t a person.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
She stared at Dad’s notebook.
“It’s a building.”
“What building?”
“Your father used to call the old county courthouse the Bishop.”
“Why?”
“The stone tower looks like a chess bishop.”
My mind accelerated.
Old county courthouse.
Closed thirteen years ago.
Used for archived storage.
And located directly beside Blue Heron redevelopment land.
Helen sent officers immediately.
They entered the abandoned courthouse at 6:12 p.m.
In the basement they found a hidden office.
Active.
Not abandoned.
Servers.
Financial records.
Maps.
Surveillance equipment.
Photographs of judges, police, developers.
Blackmail files.
This was the true center.
Not Vale’s office.
Not Enzo’s station.
The Bishop.
Then investigators found a wall covered with photographs.
One face appeared over and over.
Martin Vale.
Some pictures dated thirty years back.
He had been monitored too.
Controlled.
On the center of the wall was a handwritten note.
NEXT SUCCESSOR: PETERSON
Beneath it was my photograph.
May you like
The plan had never been merely to stop me.
Someone wanted me to become part of the machine.
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