Victoria read it twice.
Then another message arrived.
Ask your mother why she never told you about the man who attended your father's funeral.
Victoria's expression changed.
Her mother had been dead for years.
But someone was suggesting that Eleanor had known more than she had ever revealed.
And somewhere beyond the garden fence, a dark vehicle was watching the house.
Victoria read the message again.
You have arrested the people who carried out the operation. You have not found the person who ordered it.
She looked toward the road beyond the garden fence. A dark vehicle was parked beneath a large oak tree. Its windows were tinted, making it impossible to see who was inside.
“Sarah,” she said quietly, “there's a vehicle across the street.”
Sarah turned without making any sudden movement.
“Do you recognize it?”
“No.”
“Stay inside.”
Before Sarah could call the security team, the vehicle's headlights came on. It pulled away slowly, turned at the intersection, and disappeared.
Victoria watched until it was gone.
“Can we get the plate?”
Sarah contacted the surveillance unit. A few minutes later, the response came back.
The plate belonged to a vehicle reported stolen two days earlier.
Victoria looked at her phone again.
“Someone wants us to know they're watching.”
“Or someone wants us to believe they're watching,” Sarah replied.
Victoria slipped the recording device into its protective case.
“Either way, we're not going to ignore the message.”
She showed Sarah the second text.
Sarah read it, then looked up.
“Your mother's funeral?”
Victoria nodded.
“I remember almost everyone who attended. My father's colleagues, family friends, neighbors. But I was grieving. I may have missed someone.”
“Do you remember anybody unusual?”
Victoria thought for a moment.
“There was a man who stood near the back. He didn't speak to anyone. I remember asking my mother who he was, and she told me he was an old friend of my father's.”
“Did she give you a name?”
“No. She changed the subject.”
Sarah took out her notebook.
“Can you describe him?”
“Tall. Gray hair. Maybe in his late fifties. He wore a dark suit and carried a silver-handled walking stick.”
Sarah stopped writing.
“A walking stick?”
“Yes. Why?”
Sarah opened a photograph on her tablet.
It was an old image from a federal archive. Several officials stood outside a government building. Among them was a tall man with gray hair, wearing a dark suit and holding a silver-handled walking stick.
Victoria leaned closer.
She recognized him.
“Who is that?”
Sarah enlarged the image.
“Judge Arthur Whitaker.”
Victoria frowned.
“The retired federal judge?”
“Former chief justice of the regional appeals court. He retired eleven years ago, shortly after your father's death.”
Victoria stared at the photograph.
“Why would a judge attend my father's funeral?”
“Maybe he was a family friend.”
“Then why did my mother refuse to tell me his name?”
Sarah didn't answer.
Victoria remembered the strange message.
Ask your mother why she never told you about the man who attended your father's funeral.
There was another detail.
Judge Whitaker had appeared on the list of names in her mother's storage box.
At the time, Victoria had assumed he was connected to the financial investigation.
Now she wondered whether he had been connected to something much more personal.
“Find out where he is,” she said.
Sarah began searching.
“His official retirement address is in Virginia. But there are no recent public appearances.”
“Is he still alive?”
“Yes. According to the latest records, he's eighty-two.”
Victoria looked toward the garden.
“Then I think it's time we paid him a visit.”
The next morning, Judge Arthur Whitaker was sitting in a sunroom overlooking a carefully maintained garden.
His house was large but modest by the standards of someone who had spent decades in the federal judiciary. Books lined the walls, and several framed photographs displayed his years on the bench.
When the doorbell rang, his housekeeper answered.
A few moments later, Victoria Bennett entered.
Whitaker stood slowly.
“Director Bennett.”
“Judge Whitaker.”
He studied her face.
“You look very much like your father.”
Victoria remained standing.
“I've heard that before.”
“James was a good man.”
“Then perhaps you can explain why you attended his funeral without speaking to his family.”
Whitaker's expression changed slightly.
“I didn't know you remembered me.”
“I remember asking my mother who you were. She told me you were an old friend of my father's.”
“She was correct.”
“Were you?”
Whitaker looked toward the window.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Were you my father's friend?”