Page 26 of His Wall

Nolan’s fingers unlaced. “A federal judge. Currently serving.”

“Nobody at this firm has ever seen his name.”

Declan looked at the page, then at me. “Who had that kind of access to the founding architecture?”

The question landed flat. Nobody answered.

Then Declan did. “Conrad Weiss.”

The name sat in the room. I didn’t say anything and neither did Nolan.

“Though it can’t be Conrad,” Declan said. “He took his payout, signed his NDA, and disappeared. If Conrad were running something, we would know.”

“Would we?” That was Nolan. “He was subtle for nine years inside this firm.”

The room went quiet again.

I was twenty-six years old, and my mother had been dead for four months. The Vanguard was eight months old and waiting on its regulatory bond. Conrad took me to a steakhouse on Fifty-Second Street — the back booth, a martini already on the table when I sat down. He ordered for both of us without asking. He leaned across the table, put his hand on my forearm, and said, “Don't worry about the regulatory side, son. Whitlock owes me. And Whitlock has a long memory.”

I nodded. I did not ask who Whitlock was. And the man across from me was the only one who said son to me in a year.

I came back to the conference room.

“I don’t have a direct link,” I said. “Just the shells and the judge. It might be him. It might be someone else.”

“It’s not someone else,” Nolan said.

Declan put his hand flat on the table. “Okay. We dig together this time. Yes?”

“Yes.” Nolan.

“Yes.” I sat there a second longer.

Then Declan stood, put his hand on my shoulder on the way past, and left.

Nolan looked back from the door. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He left as well, and I sat alone with the folder.

The afternoon gave me two calls and half-finished Halberg work. In the evening, the floor was emptying. I pulled my jacket off the back of the chair and had it half on when I heard her in the doorway.

“Julian?”

I turned.

Her cream blouse was a little untucked. Her hair knot was looser now, strands coming down at the nape. Her bag was on her shoulder, her notebook against her chest. The corner of her mouth was up in a small, tentative smile.

“Anything you need before I head out?”

I didn’t answer. I stood there with one arm in my jacket and looked at her.

“Vending machine is still empty,” she said. The smile flickered. “I called facilities a third time. They — ”

“Don’t.”

The smile stopped. “Don’t what?”