Chapter 6 - Victor Salazar Started TalkingVictor did not confess to murder.
His security office was locked.
His home was empty.
His phone went directly to voicemail.
That transformed him from an interesting name into someone investigators urgently wanted to find.
Meanwhile, Brandon hired one of the most expensive criminal-defense attorneys in Connecticut.
His public statement described the financial allegations as “a misunderstanding caused by internal accounting irregularities.”
His statement about the pool video was worse.
He called it “an unfortunate family prank between adults.”
That phrase became a headline.
FAMILY PRANK.
I stopped watching television.
Tuesday afternoon, Daniel called.
“We found the apartment.”
“What apartment?”
“Northshore Development Consultants.”
“The empty storefront?”
“No. Where some of its money went.”
He sent me an address in White Plains, New York.
A luxury apartment building.
Unit 8C.
The lease was held by a woman named Allison Grant.
I did not recognize the name.
Then Daniel emailed me a photograph.
I did recognize the woman.
I had seen her with Brandon.
Twice.
The first time was eighteen months earlier at a Hale Development holiday party.
He introduced her as a consultant.
The second time was six months later at a restaurant in Manhattan.
They were sitting in a booth.
Close.
Too close.
When I asked Brandon about it, he laughed.
“You’re jealous of a zoning consultant?”
I remember feeling embarrassed.
I apologized.
Now I stared at her photograph and felt nothing.
Not heartbreak.
Not yet.
Just clarity.
Bank records obtained by investigators showed Northshore had paid $8,700 per month toward Allison’s apartment for nearly three years.
It also paid her car lease.
Travel.
Furniture.
A $42,000 jewelry purchase.
Daniel called it what it appeared to be.
A mistress supported with diverted corporate funds.
The affair was almost boring compared with potential fraud and a suspicious death.
But emotionally?
That was the betrayal that cracked something open.
I had spent years wondering why Brandon seemed irritated by my presence.
Why business trips multiplied.
Why he stopped touching me unless we were around other people.
Why he accused me of being cold while disappearing for days.
There had been another woman.
Maybe several.
I sat at my parents’ kitchen table staring at the photo.
Mom sat beside me.
“You don’t have to be strong right now.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“You haven’t cried.”
“I cried three years ago.”
She frowned.
“What?”
I looked at her.
“Every time he made me feel like I was asking too much for wanting basic respect, I cried. Every time he canceled plans and said work mattered more, I cried. Every time his mother insulted me and he told me I was oversensitive, I cried.”
My voice finally shook.
“I think I’ve already cried for this marriage.”
Mom took my hand.
That afternoon, Allison Grant contacted investigators voluntarily.
By evening, she had an attorney.
By Wednesday morning, she was cooperating.
And apparently, Brandon had lied to her too.
He told Allison we had been separated for two years.
He claimed I refused to divorce him because I wanted access to Hale family money.
Allison believed him.
Mostly.
Until she saw the pool video.
Then she saw my wedding ring.
Then she saw the way Brandon called me his wife in interviews about Hale Foundation events.
Her attorney arranged a meeting.
I did not need to attend.
I chose to.
Allison walked into Daniel’s conference room wearing jeans and a beige coat.
She looked nervous.
So did I.
For several seconds, we simply stared at each other.
Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
I expected to hate her.
I did not.
Maybe because she looked ashamed.
Maybe because I finally understood Brandon had built separate realities around both of us.
“Did you know?”
“That he was married? Yes.”
That hurt.
She continued quickly.
“But he told me you were separated.”
“You never checked?”
“I did.”
She looked embarrassed.
“He showed me divorce papers.”
Daniel leaned forward.
“What papers?”
Allison opened a folder.
Inside were photocopies.
My name.
Brandon’s.
A petition for dissolution.
Even a signature that looked disturbingly similar to mine.
Except I had never signed it.
Daniel’s expression changed instantly.
“Where did these come from?”
“Brandon.”
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
I stared at the pages.
That signature was not just fake.
It was likely copied from a document I had signed.
“Can I see that?”
Daniel handed it to me.
I examined the date.
Then remembered.
Three days earlier, I had signed refinancing documents for our townhouse.
Brandon had copies.
“He forged my signature.”
Allison whispered, “I didn’t know.”
I believed her.
Then she told us something worse.
Brandon had given her expensive gifts and claimed the money came from his personal investment portfolio.
Several were actually purchased through Northshore.
She also traveled with him to Switzerland twice.
“Switzerland?” Daniel asked.
“Yes.”
“When?”
She gave the dates.
I knew one instantly.
Brandon told me he was in Denver.
“What did he do there?”
“Meetings.”
“With who?”
“I don’t know. I stayed at the hotel.”
“Which hotel?”
She named it.
Daniel wrote everything down.
Allison rubbed her hands together.
“There’s something else.”
Of course there was.
“Last year, he asked me to hold something for him.”
“What?”
“A key.”
She removed a small envelope from her purse.
Inside was a silver safe-deposit-box key.
My pulse accelerated.
“He told me if something happened to him, I should give it to his attorney.”
Daniel did not touch it.
“Which bank?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he say what was inside?”
“No.”
“Why are you giving it to us?”
Allison looked toward me.
“Because yesterday he called me.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me to destroy it.”
The room became completely still.
“Did he know investigators contacted you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Daniel asked, “Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
She hesitated.
“Not exactly.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Allison swallowed.
“He said, ‘People are getting scared and making stupid decisions. Don’t become one of them.’”
I knew that language.
It was Brandon’s specialty.
A threat without a threat.
Allison continued.
“Then he asked whether I still loved him.”
That almost made me laugh.
“What did you say?”
“I said I didn’t know who he was.”
For the first time, our eyes met without discomfort.
I understood exactly what she meant.
By Thursday, investigators traced the key.
A Swiss private bank had issued it through an affiliated safe-storage service in Manhattan.
A warrant followed.
Inside the box were six encrypted flash drives.
Two passports belonging to Brandon.
Forty-eight thousand dollars in cash.
And one handwritten notebook.
Most entries were coded.
Initials.
Numbers.
Dates.
But one page contained a sentence in Brandon’s handwriting.
VP — Porter handled. 10/14.
Dean Porter died October 14.
VP.
Victor?
Porter handled.
Investigators refused to speculate.
So did Daniel.
But nobody needed to explain why the room went silent.
That evening, police finally located Victor Salazar.
He was at Newark Liberty International Airport.
He had purchased a one-way ticket to Panama.
He never boarded the plane.
Federal agents met him at the gate.
May you like
And before midnight, Victor decided he wanted a lawyer.
By dawn, he decided he wanted a deal.
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