Chapter 7 - The Man Above Hollis
Hollis named Dr. Adrian Cole.
Not surprising.
Then he named a banker.
Gerald Voss.
Senior vice president at MidState Community Bank.
The home-equity loans.
The reverse mortgages.
The emergency credit lines.
All moved through his department.
He approved applications flagged for capacity concerns.
Why?
Fees.
Kickbacks.
And foreclosed properties.
A private investment group bought them cheap.
Owner:
Voss.
Ross.
And a third partner.
State Senator Malcolm Reeve.
That was the surprise.
Reeve chaired the state committee on elder services.
Publicly, he campaigned against senior fraud.
Privately, he invested in distressed homes produced by the guardianship pipeline.
Pike stared at Hollis.
“You expect us to believe a senator knew people were being drugged?”
Hollis answered:
“He knew the properties came from guardianship cases.”
“Did he know about deaths?”
“I don’t know.”
Important.
No exaggeration.
Then financial records showed Reeve received distributions from the investment fund.
Legal on paper.
But disclosure forms omitted the guardianship connection.
Then campaign donations from Cole.
Voss.
Ross.
The network had political insulation.
Not a grand conspiracy controlling the state.
A circle of people whose interests aligned.
Enough to discourage questions.
Then federal investigators joined.
Bank fraud.
Insurance fraud.
Wire fraud.
Civil rights issues.
The case stopped belonging to any one agency.
Good.
Then Marcus asked to see me.
I almost said no.
Mom said:
“Go.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because I need to know why.”
So I went.
He sat behind glass.
No bravado.
No smile.
“Grace.”
I did not answer.
Then:
“I wasn’t going to kill Mom.”
I stared.
“The death certificate says tomorrow.”
“That was Cole.”
“You drugged her.”
“I needed her confused.”
“You raised a vase over her head.”
“I lost my temper.”
“You chained Dana downstairs.”
His face changed.
“She was going to ruin everything.”
There.
He still thought “everything” meant money.
Then I asked:
“Why me?”
He looked down.
“You always had a safety net.”
I laughed.
“What?”
“The Army.”
“Your pension.”
“Your benefits.”
“People respect you.”
“I had nothing.”
“You had Mom.”
He flinched.
“You had a house you didn’t pay for.”
“You had family.”
“You had choices.”
Then:
“You wanted more.”
He looked angry now.
“You left.”
There it was.
Old wound.
“You got medals while I stayed here.”
“I failed.”
“My marriage failed.”
“My business failed.”
“Mom still talked about you like you were the successful one.”
I listened.
Not forgiving.
Understanding.
Then:
“So you decided her house belonged to you?”
He whispered:
“I thought I deserved one thing.”
That sentence was the whole crime.
Entitlement dressed as injury.
Then he leaned closer to the glass.
“Grace, Hollis is lying.”
“About what?”
“The senator.”
He swallowed.
“Reeve knew more.”
“How much?”
Marcus looked toward the camera.
Then back.
“He came to the house.”
My blood went cold.
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“What did he want?”
Marcus whispered:
“Your mother’s signature.”
Then:
“Not for the house.”
“For her voting proxy in the veterans’ pension trust.”
I froze.
Mom sat on a small advisory board for a veterans’ retirement fund because Dad had been a union veteran.
May you like
I had forgotten.
The scheme was reaching into pension money now.
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