Chapter 10: The Truth About Friday
The meeting with the state attorney's office was on a Wednesday morning, in a conference room with bad lighting and good coffee.
Patricia sat beside me.
Across the table were two investigators — a woman named Sasha and a man named Tom — and a senior attorney from the financial crimes division whose name I didn't catch and didn't need to.
They had already seen the documents.
Patricia had sent them the previous week.
"We've been able to verify the shell company," Sasha said.
"The transfers match.
We've also pulled Gerald Marsh's financial records going back fifteen years, and there are patterns that are consistent with what your documents show."
"What does that mean for the case?" Patricia asked.
"It means we have enough to open a formal investigation," Tom said.
"What we don't have yet is the medical piece."
"Dennis Rourke," I said.
"Yes." Sasha looked at me carefully.
"We've requested Thomas Calloway's medical records from the hospital.
We've also asked for the d*ath certificate and the admitting physician's notes from that night." She paused.
"Dennis Rourke retired four years ago.
He's currently living in Florida."
"Can you reach him?"
"We can," she said.
"Whether he talks is a different question."
"He might," I said.
"If he thinks Gerald is already going down."
Tom made a note.
"There's something else," I said.
I looked at Patricia.
She nodded.
I told them about Vera.
About the voicemail.
About my father's letter.
Sasha leaned forward.
"He left a voicemail saying he was frightened and that he'd found something?"
"Yes.
She never deleted it."
"We'll need to speak with her," Tom said.
"And we'll need that voicemail preserved through proper channels."
"She's willing," I said.
"She's been waiting years for someone to ask."
After the meeting, Patricia and I sat in her car in the parking garage.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Strange," I said.
"Like I've been carrying something very heavy for a long time and someone just offered to help me set it down.
But I haven't set it down yet."
"Not yet," she agreed.
"But soon."
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
"This is Dennis Rourke," the voice said.
"I got a call this morning from a state investigator.
Before I speak to anyone officially, I need to talk to you first."
I looked at Patricia.
She was already reaching for her notepad.
"How did you get this number?" I asked.
"Gerald gave it to me," he said.
"Years ago.
He said if anyone ever came asking questions, I should call you and remind you what's at stake for your family."
"I don't have a family," I said.
"He miscalculated."
A long pause.
May you like
"I've been waiting for this call for eleven years," Dennis Rourke said quietly.
"I just didn't know it would be you making it."
