Chapter 8: Patricia Holt
Patricia Holt's office was on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like old carpet and good coffee.
She was in her late fifties, small, with reading glasses pushed up on her head and the kind of stillness that comes from spending years in courtrooms where patience is the only currency that matters.
She read the documents without speaking.
She listened to the recording twice.
She read my father's letter and Vera's account of the voicemail.
When she was done, she took off her glasses and set them on the desk.
"Tell me something," she said.
"When Gerald offered you fifty thousand dollars, what did you feel?"
"Angry," I said.
"Good." She folded her hands.
"Because that number tells us exactly how frightened he is.
A man who has nothing to hide doesn't offer fifty thousand dollars to a woman he just met at a graveside."
"What do we do with the recording?"
"The recording is useful, but it's not the center of this.
The center is the email chain and the account records." She tapped the documents.
"This shows a parallel account that Gerald controlled, receiving transfers from the partnership fund over a period of eighteen months.
If we can match those account numbers to a registered entity, we have a paper trail that doesn't depend on anyone's testimony."
"And the email?
D.R.
— Dennis Rourke?"
"That's the more serious piece." She said it carefully.
"If what that email implies is accurate — and I want to be precise, because implication is not proof — then we are looking at something beyond financial fraud."
"My father didn't d*e of natural causes," I said.
She didn't flinch.
"That's what the email suggests.
Proving it is a different matter.
D*ath certificates can be challenged, but it requires a formal process.
Medical records.
A second opinion from a forensic specialist.
And it requires someone willing to open an investigation."
"Do you know someone?"
"I know several someones," she said.
"But I want to be honest with you.
This will not be fast.
And Gerald will fight.
He has money and he has connections and the moment he realizes you're not going to take his offer, he will come at you hard."
"I know," I said.
"Do you?" She looked at me steadily.
"He has already shown you he's watching.
He approached you at the grave.
He called you within hours of the service.
He knows where you live, presumably.
He will try to frighten you.
He may try to discredit you.
He may try to reach people around you."
"He can try," I said.
She studied me for a moment.
Then she picked up her pen.
"All right," she said.
"Here's what we do first."
She walked me through it methodically.
The account records would go to a forensic accountant she trusted — a woman named Carol who had testified in federal cases and whose name Gerald would recognize and not like.
The email chain would be authenticated.
Vera's voicemail would be preserved and formally documented.
My father's letter would be kept in Patricia's safe.
"And the sealed envelope itself," she said.
"The physical one.
Where is it?"
"At home."
"Bring it to me tomorrow.
Chain of custody matters." She made a note.
"One more thing.
Gerald's offer — the fifty thousand.
He'll follow up.
When he does, don't say no directly.
Tell him you're still considering it.
We need time."
"You want me to keep talking to him?"
"I want him to believe he still has options," she said.
"A man who thinks he has options doesn't do anything drastic."
I drove home slowly.
My phone buzzed at a red light.
A text from an unknown number.
*You should have taken the money.
This is your last chance to walk away clean.*
I screenshotted it and sent it to Patricia before I'd even pulled into my driveway.
Her reply came back in under a minute.
*Perfect.
Save everything.
May you like
Don't respond.
He just made our case stronger.*
