Chapter 9 - The Woman Who Served My Father Coffee
Her name was Patricia Nolan.
She was sixty-four now and living in a retirement community outside Bloomington.
Federal agents found her within twenty-four hours.
At first, Patricia claimed she remembered nothing unusual about the day Dad died.
Then investigators showed her the payment.
Five thousand dollars.
Transferred from Larkspur Supply to an account belonging to her then-husband.
She asked for a lawyer.
That told everyone enough.
I wasn’t allowed in the interview.
Neither was Mom.
We waited at Samuel’s office while Agent Collins spoke with Patricia several counties away.
Four hours passed.
Then five.
At nearly nine that night, Collins called.
“She’s cooperating.”
My hands turned cold.
“With what?”
Patricia had been Halston’s office services coordinator.
Coffee.
Supplies.
Meeting rooms.
Mail distribution.
The day before Dad died, a man had approached her in the parking lot.
She identified him from an old photo.
Victor Sloane.
He told her Michael Turner was secretly gathering information that would shut down the company and cost hundreds of people their jobs.
He claimed Dad was corrupt.
He asked Patricia to place a small packet of “stomach medication” in Dad’s personal antacid bottle.
“What?”
Mom whispered.
Collins continued.
“Patricia says she believed it would make Michael sick enough to miss an important meeting.”
Nobody spoke.
“She put the powder into several tablets?”
“According to her, yes.”
“What was it?”
“She says she never knew.”
“Did she see Victor again?”
“One time. After Michael died.”
I gripped the phone.
“What happened?”
“He gave her cash and told her never to discuss the conversation.”
Mom walked to the window.
I couldn’t see her face.
“Why didn’t she come forward after Dad died?”
Collins was silent for a moment.
“Fear. Shame. Self-preservation. Pick one.”
I hated Patricia Nolan.
Then I hated myself for understanding how fear worked.
We had all been silent around dangerous men in different ways.
Still, Dad was dead.
Agent Collins explained that forensic toxicologists were testing Dad’s retained samples.
It could take time.
The old security archives also showed Victor Sloane entering Halston property the evening before Dad’s death.
He had claimed to be meeting a logistics manager.
That manager had died three years earlier, so investigators couldn’t confirm the meeting.
The case was no longer theoretical.
Then another twist landed.
Victor Sloane disappeared.
His home was empty.
His office claimed he was “traveling.”
His private plane hadn’t left Indianapolis.
His passport hadn’t been used.
His company’s general counsel insisted they did not know his location.
Franklin panicked when police told him.
According to Officer Ruiz, he immediately demanded protective custody.
That was almost satisfying.
Almost.
For two years he had made Mom and me afraid inside our own house.
Now he was afraid behind locked doors.
But Franklin had one more secret to trade.
Victor maintained a private storage facility beneath one of his older warehouses.
No official plans showed the rooms.
Franklin had been there twice.
“What was stored there?” Detective Bell asked him.
“Records.”
“What records?”
“Everything.”
Police needed a warrant.
Federal prosecutors worked through the night.
The next morning, agents entered the warehouse.
They found a false wall behind a maintenance room.
Beyond it was a climate-controlled office with filing cabinets, hard drives, and security monitors.
Victor Sloane had kept records on everyone.
Competitors.
Employees.
Politicians.
Vendors.
People he had bribed.
People he had threatened.
And Franklin Mercer.
There were audio recordings of Franklin discussing stolen equipment.
Scanned copies of my mother’s financial documents.
Surveillance photographs of our home.
Copies of my trust statements.
Then agents found a folder labeled TURNER.
Dad.
Inside were photographs taken without his knowledge.
His office.
His truck.
Our old house.
Me at age fourteen getting off a school bus.
I had to sit down when Agent Collins showed us.
Mom became physically ill.
They had watched me when I was a kid.
The final file contained a note written by Victor.
MT remains noncompliant.
D Mercer unstable.
F Mercer useful but weak.
If MT turns package over to state, neutralize before 10/14.
October 14.
Dad died October 13.
Agent Collins wouldn’t call it proof of murder.
Not yet.
But it was close enough to make my hands shake.
Later that afternoon, the toxicology lab called.
Dad’s blood contained traces of a substance not included in the original basic screening.
Digitalis.
A cardiac glycoside.
In certain doses, it could trigger dangerous heart rhythm abnormalities.
It could mimic a natural cardiac event.
My father hadn’t simply suffered a heart attack.
Someone had caused it.
Mom broke down.
I didn’t.
At first, I felt nothing.
Then I walked into Samuel’s bathroom, locked the door, and punched the wall.
Once.
Twice.
On the third swing, my abdomen screamed.
I slid to the floor.
Dad had been forty-six.
I was fourteen.
He had promised to teach me how to rebuild the transmission in the old Ford that summer.
He never did.
I had spent five years thinking his body betrayed him.
It hadn’t.
A person had.
When I came out, Samuel handed me an ice pack for my knuckles without comment.
Mom stood.
“I’m sorry.”
I shook my head.
“You didn’t kill him.”
“I brought Franklin into our lives.”
“He was already connected before you met him.”
“I should have seen it.”
“So should Dad?”
She stared at me.
“He trusted Dean. He trusted people too.”
I took a breath.
“Franklin is responsible for what Franklin did. Victor is responsible for what Victor did.”
It was the first time I said it and believed it.
That evening, police announced Victor Sloane was wanted for questioning in connection with multiple federal offenses.
His face appeared on local television.
For several hours, nothing happened.
Then at 11:17 p.m., our safe-location building lost power.
The emergency lights came on.
Mom stood.
“Caleb.”
I heard a door close downstairs.
Then footsteps in the stairwell.
Slow.
Heavy.
Coming up.
I called 911.
Samuel, staying in the next unit for security reasons, called at the same moment.
“Lock your door.”
Already locked.
The footsteps reached our floor.
Stopped.
A shadow appeared beneath the door.
Then three knocks.
Mom gripped my arm.
A voice spoke from the hallway.
“Caleb Turner?”
I knew the voice.
May you like
I had heard it on Dad’s recording.
Victor Sloane.
