Chapter 13 - The Visit to the Cell
The maximum-security administrative segregation wing of Red Rock Correctional Facility smelled of industrial bleach, stale sweat, and damp iron. Heavy steel doors slammed behind Victoria and me with a concussive rattle that echoed deep in my chest.
We were led into a reinforced glass visitation booth. A heavy steel stool was bolted to the floor on our side. On the other side, an iron bar held a pair of leg shackles anchored into the concrete floor.
The door on the prisoner's side clicked open.
Richard Bennett stepped forward, escorted by two burly corrections officers who gripped his arms with brutal precision. He wore an orange canvas jumpsuit, faded and wrinkled. The immaculate, bespoke Italian suits he had worn like armor were gone. His dark hair, once trimmed weekly by a celebrity stylist, was shorn to a jagged buzz cut. He had lost at least twenty pounds; his cheekbones jutted out like sharp stones under pale, papery skin.
When his bloodshot eyes locked onto me, his cracked lips pulled back into a sickening, familiar sneer.
"Claire," he croaked, sitting down and letting the chains clatter loudly against the metal partition. He picked up the plastic telephone receiver.
I picked up mine, keeping my voice level, stripped of all emotion. "You look terrible, Richard."
He let out a raspy, barking laugh that dissolved into a violent coughing fit. "Is that what you came here to gloat about? Did you drive all the way out to this hellhole just to admire your handiwork? How does it feel sleeping in my bed, playing Mother Teresa with my assets?"
"They aren't your assets, Richard. They never were," I said through the receiver. "We received a letter this morning. An antique fountain pen. From Conrad Sterling."
Richard’s sneer instantly dissolved. The color drained from his already pallid face, leaving him a ghastly shade of gray. His pupils dilated in sheer terror. His trembling hands gripped the plastic receiver so hard his knuckles turned white against the glass.
"Where... where did he send it?" Richard stammered, his bravado crumbling like a sandcastle before a rising tide.
"To the estate," I replied. "He wants ninety-four million dollars. The money you promised him from my father’s estate. The money you didn't deliver because you were too arrogant to realize Victoria had already uncovered your shell game."
Richard leaned his forehead against the scratched acrylic glass, his breath fogging the transparent barrier. "You don't understand, Claire. You think you won. You think your brilliant lawyer sister saved you. You have no idea what you’ve walked into."
"Explain it to me, then," I demanded.
"Conrad doesn't care about the prison sentence," Richard whispered frantically, glancing nervously at the guards standing behind him. "He let me take the fall because the DOJ was getting too close to his defense contracts. But the ninety-four million wasn't just debt, Claire. It was an advance on something I promised to steal for him from your father's private vault before he died."
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I froze. "My father died of a stroke four years ago. He had nothing to do with defense contracts."
"Your father held the foundational patents for the quantum encryption algorithms used by the naval automated logistics network," Richard hissed, his eyes wild with manic panic. "I didn't marry you for your cash, you stupid little girl! Your cash was pocket change! I married you because your family trust held the physical sovereign access keys in your father's legacy lockbox!"
