Chapter 7: The Third Name
I stepped into the hallway and called her.
"The man in the photograph," Patricia said, "is Gerald Foss.
He's a notary and document broker with a history of preparing instruments for clients who need paperwork that moves faster than the legal process normally allows."
"Meaning fraudulent documents."
"Meaning documents that exist in a gray area until someone looks closely.
He's been investigated twice.
Never charged." She paused.
"If Margaret used him to prepare the forged trust signature page, he's the link between her and Daniel that we've been missing."
"Can you connect him to the trust document?"
"I'm working on it.
The notarization stamp on the signature page — I had a colleague look at it this morning.
The registration number traces back to a notary license that was suspended eighteen months ago.
Foss's license was suspended eighteen months ago."
I leaned against the wall of the hospital corridor.
"So the document is fraudulent on its face."
"The moment a forensic document examiner confirms the stamp, yes.
I've already arranged one for this afternoon." Patricia's voice was controlled but I could hear the energy underneath it.
"Austin, this is no longer just a civil fraud matter.
The forged signature, the suspended notary stamp, the coordinated transfers — we are looking at criminal charges.
For Daniel.
Potentially for Foss.
And depending on what your mother tells the police today, potentially for her as well."
"She still hasn't asked for a lawyer?"
"As of an hour ago, no.
The detective on the case called me this morning.
Your mother has been talking.
She believes that if she explains her reasoning — that she was protecting you from Irene — the charges will be reduced."
"Is she right?"
"She assaulted a pregnant woman and participated in an attempted robbery.
No.
She is not right." A pause.
"But the more she talks, the more she gives us."
I looked through the window in the corridor door at Irene in her bed, her hands resting on the blanket, her eyes closed.
"What do I need to do?" I asked.
"Give a full formal statement today.
Bring the original folder.
And send me the contact information for your uncle — I want his account of the past three months documented before Daniel's lawyer starts building an alternative narrative."
"I'll call him now."
"One more thing," Patricia said.
"Daniel's attorney has already contacted my office.
He's proposing a civil resolution.
A settlement.
He wants this handled quietly."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him my client wasn't interested in quiet." She said it without inflection, as a fact.
"But I wanted you to know the offer exists.
Some people in your position would take it."
I looked at the photograph of Gerald Foss still open on my phone.
The stack of documents on the restaurant table.
The careful, unhurried posture of a man who had done this before.
"What happens to Foss if we go criminal?" I asked.
"He becomes a witness or a defendant.
Either way, he talks.
And when Foss talks, we find out how many other documents he prepared for this arrangement."
"Then we go criminal," I said.
"I was hoping you'd say that," Patricia said.
"I'll see you at three o'clock.
Bring the folder and your uncle."
I hung up and stood in the corridor for a moment.
Then I went back into Irene's room.
She opened her eyes when I came in.
"Well?" she said.
"The man in the photograph is named Gerald Foss.
He forged the notary stamp on the trust document.
Patricia is connecting him to Daniel today." I sat back down beside her.
"They're going to offer a settlement.
Daniel's lawyer already called."
Irene's expression didn't change.
"What did you say?"
"I said no."
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she reached out and took my hand again, and this time she didn't say anything at all.
She didn't need to.
Outside in the corridor, a nurse was pushing a cart past the door.
A phone rang somewhere down the hall.
The ordinary sounds of a hospital morning continued around us, indifferent and steady.
And in the quiet of that room, something that had been broken between us for eight months began, very slowly, to knit itself back together.
But in the pocket of my jacket, my phone buzzed once.
A message from a number I didn't recognize.
*Mr.
Wentworth.
You don't know me.
But I know what Daniel Marsh did to your company — because he did the same thing to mine.
May you like
I have documentation.
I've been waiting for someone to go first.*
