Chapter 5 - The Federal Prosecutor Who Knew My Wife Before I Did
Assistant U.S. Attorney Claire Bennett arrived at my office on a Thursday morning wearing a charcoal suit and carrying a thin leather briefcase.
She was thirty-nine, with auburn hair, intelligent gray eyes, and the composed manner of someone who had learned that powerful men were often most dangerous when they felt cornered.
Two federal agents accompanied her.
Rebecca sat beside me.
Gabriel remained near the window.
Claire didn't waste time with introductions.
"Mr. Walker, we need to discuss your wife."
"Is she safe?"
Claire placed her briefcase on the table.
"That depends on how you define safe."
I leaned forward.
"Do you know where she is?"
"I know she has requested that certain people stop attempting to locate her."
"Is she working with you?"
Claire studied me.
"Before I answer anything, I need to establish something."
"What?"
"Are you prepared to accept that your wife has the legal right to leave you?"
The question struck harder than I expected.
"Yes."
"And that she has the right to speak to investigators without your permission?"
"Yes."
"And that her safety may require you to remain uninformed about her location?"
I stared at her.
Every instinct I'd developed over decades told me to demand information.
To insist.
To use my influence.
To make someone cooperate.
Instead, I looked down at my hands.
"Yes," I said quietly.
Claire waited.
Then she opened her briefcase.
"Anna contacted our office before she disappeared. She asked about reporting financial crimes and whether she could obtain legal protection from potential retaliation."
Rebecca leaned forward.
"Was she threatened?"
"She believed she might be."
"By whom?"
Claire looked at me.
"Victor Sloane."
My jaw tightened.
Claire continued.
"She brought us copies of documents relating to Eastern Maritime Holdings and several Walker-affiliated shipping companies."
"Did she implicate me?"
"She raised concerns about transactions authorized under your signature."
I felt Gabriel turn toward me.
"That's impossible," I said.
Claire opened a folder.
"These are your signatures."
I examined the documents.
They appeared genuine.
But I hadn't authorized several of the transfers.
Rebecca reviewed them.
"Some are electronic approvals. Those credentials could have been compromised."
Claire nodded.
"That's one possibility."
"Victor controlled the accounting division," I said.
"He did."
"You know that?"
"We've suspected it for years."
I looked up.
"Then why haven't you arrested him?"
"Because suspicion isn't proof."
She paused.
"And because witnesses connected to Victor have a habit of disappearing."
I thought of Thomas Hayes.
Michael Rourke.
My father.
And now Anna.
"Is she a witness?" I asked.
Claire chose her words carefully.
"Your wife has provided information. I cannot discuss her precise status."
I sat back.
"Then tell me about your father."
Her expression changed.
"Charles Bennett?"
"Yes."
"What do you know about him?"
"He was supposed to meet Richard Walker the night my father died."
Claire looked toward the agents.
Then back at me.
"My father was a federal investigator."
"I know."
"He spent eight years building a case involving maritime corruption, organized crime, and public officials who accepted payments to protect illegal shipments."
"Victor."
"Among others."
"What happened to him?"
Claire was silent for a moment.
"He disappeared eleven years ago."
My chest tightened.
"The same night Richard died?"
She nodded.
"His car was found abandoned near the Westchester property. There was no body."
I stared at her.
"So your father disappeared while mine supposedly suffered a heart attack."
"Yes."
"Why wasn't that connected publicly?"
"Because the investigation was sealed, and my father's disappearance was initially treated as a possible voluntary departure."
I shook my head.
"That doesn't make sense."
"No," Claire said. "It doesn't."
For the first time, a small crack appeared in her controlled expression.
"My mother spent seven years believing he'd abandoned us. She died before I could prove otherwise."
The room fell silent.
Claire closed the folder.
"I became a prosecutor because I wanted to understand what happened to him. Eventually, I learned that he had been investigating Victor Sloane."
She looked directly at me.
"Then I discovered your father's connection to the same case."
I remembered the recording.
Richard's frightened voice.
His reference to an unknown witness.
"Claire, I have something you need to hear."
Rebecca looked sharply at me.
I ignored her.
"There's a recording from my father."
Claire's expression didn't change.
But her hands became still.
"What recording?"
"One he concealed before his death."
I glanced at Rebecca.
She nodded reluctantly.
We played it.
Claire listened without interrupting.
When Richard named Victor as the man responsible for Thomas Hayes's death, one of the federal agents wrote something down.
When he mentioned the unidentified witness, Claire leaned forward.
And when the recording ended with my father's statement that meeting Anna hadn't been an accident, she closed her eyes.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Claire said, "I need a copy."
"You can have it."
Rebecca looked surprised.
I understood why.
The Nicholas Walker she knew would have negotiated for something in return.
Information.
Immunity.
Access to Anna.
Instead, I handed over the recording because three families had suffered while men like me protected our secrets.
Claire stood.
"Mr. Walker, I need to ask another question."
"Go ahead."
"Did you know your father intended to testify against Victor?"
"No."
"Did you know he had arranged a meeting with my father?"
"No."
"Did you know Victor was using your wife to monitor her sister?"
I swallowed.
"No."
She watched me closely.
"Are you telling the truth?"
"Yes."
"Then you've spent a great deal of your life not knowing what was happening around you."
I almost smiled.
The observation was humiliating.
It was also correct.
After Claire left, Rebecca sat silently for several minutes.
Finally, she said, "You may have just exposed yourself to federal prosecution."
"I know."
"Some of those transactions were approved by your office."
"I know."
"You need to understand the consequences."
I looked toward Anna's photograph.
"I'm beginning to."
That evening, I drove alone to Brooklyn.
I parked near the old bookstore where Anna and I had met.
The storefront had changed.
The faded wooden sign was gone.
Carrow Books was now a small café with exposed brick walls and bright windows.
I entered without security.
A young woman behind the counter asked what I wanted.
"Coffee."
"What kind?"
I almost laughed.
For years, someone else had ordered my meals, scheduled my appointments, and anticipated every preference.
I couldn't remember the last time a stranger had asked me a simple question without already knowing the answer.
"Black," I said.
I sat at a table near the window.
Fourteen years earlier, Anna had stood on a ladder near that same wall.
I remembered her laughing.
I remembered telling her that architecture sounded like an impractical career.
I remembered her challenging me.
"Why?"
"Because it's difficult to succeed."
"Everything worth doing is difficult."
I'd fallen in love with her courage.
Then spent fourteen years trying to make her less courageous.
My phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
I answered.
"Nicholas?"
Anna.
I closed my eyes.
"Hello."
"Claire told me you gave her the recording."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it belongs in an investigation, not in my safe."
Silence.
Then she asked, "Are you at Carrow Books?"
My eyes opened.
"How do you know?"
"I used to go there every year on the anniversary of the day we met."
I looked around.
"Every year?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"After the third year, yes."
I remembered.
I'd stopped celebrating the anniversary of our first meeting because Victor called it sentimental.
Anna hadn't.
She continued.
"The owner told me they were closing six months ago. I went one last time."
"Anna—"
"I stood in the architecture section. Do you remember?"
"Of course."
"I was holding a book about affordable housing design."
I swallowed.
"Yes."
"After we married, I enrolled in evening classes. I wanted to finish my degree."
"I remember."
"You asked me to stop."
"I know."
"You said it wasn't safe for me to travel into the city twice a week."
"I know."
"Then you bought me a greenhouse."
I stared at my coffee.
I had believed the greenhouse was a magnificent gift.
She'd thanked me for it.
I'd never understood why she cried afterward.
"Nicholas," she said, "I don't hate you."
Her words made my eyes burn.
"But I don't know how to be your wife anymore."
I pressed my hand against my forehead.
"I understand."
"No, I don't think you do. You keep searching for the man who took me away from you. But nobody took me. I walked out."
"I know."
"And I don't want to come back."
The words landed heavily.
I forced myself to speak.
"Then don't."
Silence.
She seemed startled.
I continued.
"If coming back means losing yourself again, don't come back."
For a long time, I heard only her breathing.
Then she asked, "Do you mean that?"
"Yes."
"What about the reporters?"
"I'll tell them you're alive and have chosen to live privately, if that's what you want."
"And your men?"
"I'll call them off."
She exhaled.
"You should have done that weeks ago."
"You're right."
I had never said those words to her so easily.
Perhaps because I'd spent too long trying to win every argument.
Anna's voice softened.
"There's something else you need to know about the night your father died."
I straightened.
"What?"
"Evelyn found a letter Catherine wrote before she died."
"To whom?"
"Your mother."
I looked toward the window.
"What did it say?"
"That Charles Bennett wasn't the only person scheduled to meet Richard that night."
"Who else?"
Anna hesitated.
"Someone Richard thought he could trust."
"Victor?"
"No."
"Who?"
She took a slow breath.
"Gabriel."
The café suddenly seemed very quiet.
I stared at the phone.
"My brother?"
"He was twenty-seven then. Old enough to know what he was doing."
"Anna, Gabriel loved our father."
"I know."
"Why would he be at that meeting?"
"We don't know."
"Does Claire know?"
"She does now."
I looked toward the street.
For the first time in years, I remembered Gabriel's behavior after our father's death.
He'd been unusually distant.
He'd refused to discuss the final hours.
He'd told me he couldn't bear to revisit the hospital.
And Victor had taken him away for three weeks after the funeral.
Supposedly to help him recover.
Anna spoke again.
"Nicholas, please don't confront him alone."
I closed my eyes.
"Why?"
"Because someone has already tried to stop Evelyn from talking."
My heart began pounding.
"What happened?"
"Her car was followed yesterday. Someone broke into her old apartment."
"Are you safe?"
"Yes, for now."
"Where are you?"
She didn't answer.
I immediately regretted asking.
"Forget I said that."
Another silence.
Then she whispered, "I'm glad you finally understand why I had to leave."
The line disconnected.
I sat alone in the café until darkness fell.
When I returned to the mansion, Gabriel was waiting in my office.
He stood beside my father's portrait, holding a glass of whiskey.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"Brooklyn."
He nodded.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
"Victor called me."
I stopped.
"What did he want?"
May you like
Gabriel looked directly at me.
"He says Anna is about to get us all killed."
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