Chapter 6 - THE TESTThe court-appointed neuropsychologist was named Dr. Miriam Shah.
She did not care that I had been a general.
That immediately made me like her.
“Today,” she told me, “your résumé is irrelevant.”
“Good.”
“Your reputation is irrelevant.”
“Even better.”
“And if you try to outsmart the assessment, I will notice.”
I smiled.
“I definitely like you.”
She did not smile back.
Three hours later, I liked her considerably less.
She tested memory.
Language.
Problem solving.
Visual processing.
Executive function.
Attention.
Orientation.
Judgment.
She gave me strings of numbers to repeat backward.
Stories to remember.
Shapes to recreate.
Situations to analyze.
At one point she asked me to name as many animals as possible in sixty seconds.
“Is there a prize?”
“No.”
“Disappointing.”
“Begin.”
By the end, I was exhausted.
That frightened me.
Age teaches you that fatigue can masquerade as failure.
One missed word becomes a warning.
One misplaced set of keys becomes a prophecy.
I had spent months refusing to let Daniel define my mind, yet sitting in that office, I discovered that some part of me had begun asking the same question.
What if he was right about something?
Not the violence.
Not the money.
But what if I really had changed?
Dr. Shah noticed my silence.
“What are you thinking?”
“That I hate being tested.”
“Most people do.”
“I used to enjoy tests.”
“Why?”
“Because I expected to win.”
That finally made her smile.
“Age has a way of introducing uncertainty.”
“You say that like you’ve met it.”
“I’ve met hundreds of people who have.”
She closed the file.
“I’ll submit my report to the court.”
“You won’t tell me?”
“No.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
I stood.
My knees felt older than seventy-one.
Before I reached the door, she spoke.
“Mrs. Parker.”
I turned.
“Being tired is not the same as being impaired.”
That was all she gave me.
It was enough.
Outside, Rachel waited.
“How did it go?”
“I am now intimately familiar with every animal beginning with the letter C.”
“That well?”
“Ask me about capybaras.”
She laughed.
Then her expression became serious.
“We need to talk.”
“Harbor Point?”
“Yes.”
We drove to her office.
A forensic accountant named Miguel Santos waited in the conference room.
I had recruited Miguel twenty-six years earlier when he was a young IRS analyst who could see patterns in financial records the way musicians hear notes.
Now he had gray in his beard and his own investigative firm.
“General.”
“Don’t start.”
He hugged me anyway.
“I heard you got old.”
“So did you.”
He grinned.
Then opened his laptop.
“What your son built is messy.”
“Messy means incompetent or deliberate?”
“Both.”
A chart appeared.
At the top sat Daniel Parker Holdings.
Below it, twelve entities branched outward.
Development firms.
Management companies.
Consultancies.
Equipment leasing operations.
Some legitimate.
Some dormant.
Some nearly empty.
Miguel highlighted transfers.
“Daniel borrowed from one company to cover another. Then borrowed again to cover the first.”
“A circular financing structure.”
“Exactly.”
“How long?”
“At least three years.”
“Fraud?”
“Not necessarily at first. Bad business can look ugly without being criminal.”
“And then?”
He clicked.
A red line appeared.
“Harbor Point.”
The $740,000 transfer from my foundation entered one Daniel-controlled company.
Forty-eight hours later, portions moved into three others.
Then $310,000 disappeared into repayment of personal guarantees.
“He stole charitable funds to pay his debts,” I said.
“Yes.”
“How was my signature obtained?”
“We traced the document metadata.”
Rachel leaned forward.
“It was created on a laptop registered to Vanessa.”
I closed my eyes.
“And submitted?”
“From their home network.”
I looked at Rachel.
“That’s enough for charges.”
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t we gone to the district attorney?”
Miguel answered.
“Because there’s more.”
He opened another file.
“Your foundation wasn’t the only source.”
Three elderly investors appeared on the screen.
Margaret Cole, age seventy-eight.
Franklin Bishop, eighty-two.
Lillian Graves, seventy-five.
All had invested with Daniel.
All had transferred large amounts within the previous two years.
“Did they lose money?”
Miguel’s expression was grim.
“Two of them lost nearly everything.”
“And Daniel?”
“Claimed the projects failed.”
“Did they?”
“Some funds never reached the projects.”
I felt suddenly cold.
“How much?”
“At least $1.9 million.”
“Where did it go?”
“His companies.”
Rachel looked at me.
“There’s a pattern.”
The guardianship petition stopped looking like desperation.
It began looking like method.
“Were these people declared incompetent?”
Miguel shook his head.
“But all three gave Daniel financial power of attorney.”
“How?”
“Margaret Cole was a family friend. Franklin invested through Daniel’s club. Lillian was referred by someone at a charity.”
I stared at Vanessa’s name on the corporate chart.
“The neurological foundation?”
Rachel nodded.
“We’re checking.”
A terrible possibility entered the room.
“What if Daniel and Vanessa identified wealthy older people through charity networks?”
Nobody answered.
“What if they cultivated them, gained access, then moved money?”
Miguel folded his hands.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
Rachel frowned.
“Don’t answer.”
I did.
“Eleanor Parker.”
Breathing.
Then a woman’s voice.
“Mrs. Parker?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Lillian Graves.”
Every person in the room went still.
“How did you get this number?”
“Your daughter-in-law gave it to me.”
“Vanessa?”
“She said you’re in danger.”
Rachel grabbed a legal pad.
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Where is Vanessa now?”
“I don’t know.”
Lillian’s voice began shaking.
“She told me Daniel knows she spoke to your attorney.”
My chest tightened.
“What exactly did she say?”
“That there are documents in a safe-deposit box.”
“What documents?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Where?”
“First Federal Bank. Branch on Madison.”
I stood.
“Did she give you a box number?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“Three-one-seven.”
“And the key?”
Lillian hesitated.
“She said you already have it.”
I looked at Rachel.
“I don’t.”
Then I remembered Howard’s desk.
After his death, I had found an unlabeled brass key taped beneath the bottom drawer.
I had placed it in my jewelry box because I didn’t know what it opened.
“Rachel.”
She understood immediately.
“Your house.”
I nodded.
The protective order meant Daniel couldn’t legally enter.
Legality had not stopped him before.
We drove there with a sheriff’s deputy.
The front door was closed.
No broken windows.
No visible damage.
Inside, everything looked normal.
Until we reached Howard’s office.
The desk drawers had been opened.
Papers covered the floor.
My jewelry box was empty.
The brass key was gone.
On the desk sat one object.
Howard’s framed photograph.
The glass had been smashed.
Rachel whispered, “Daniel.”
I didn’t answer.
The deputy checked the security system.
The cameras had stopped recording forty-six minutes earlier.
Someone had used an administrator code.
Only three people knew it.
Me.
The security company.
And Daniel, before I changed access.
Rachel called the bank.
I called the police.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
STOP DIGGING OR NEXT TIME YOU WON’T JUST HAVE BRUISES.
Rachel read it over my shoulder.
Her face hardened.
“We’re done treating this as a family dispute.”
May you like
I looked at Howard’s broken photograph.
“So am I.”
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