“That,” I said, “is the second thing.”
I took a deep breath.
“While Ryan was arguing with the nurses, I went to Emily’s side to comfort her. Her purse was on the gurney. She was unconscious.”
I reached into my suit pocket.
I pulled out the small brown glass vial, still inside the napkin I’d wrapped it in. There were still a few grains of powder at the bottom. I placed it gently on his polished mahogany desk.
“I found this in her purse. And then I went to their house.”
“You broke in?” Wright asked, not with judgment but with curiosity.
“I used the spare key they forgot I had. I checked her laptop. I searched your name. And Reed’s.”
Wright’s impassive mask finally cracked. A slow, cold smile spread across his face.
“Peter, you old fox.”
“She saved it all, Wright. The entire conspiracy. An email chain called ‘The Shaw Contingency.’ Emails between her, Ryan, and this Dr. Reed. He prescribed the drug. He advised them on the dosage. He was going to be their expert medical witness.”
“Witness for what?” Wright asked, though he already knew.
I leaned forward.
“A hearing this morning, 8:00 a.m., Courtroom 3B. I forwarded you the email with the attachment. It’s an emergency petition for a conservatorship. My conservatorship.”
Wright swiveled in his chair, his computer screen lighting up his face. He read the email, then opened the PDF. I heard him let out a low whistle.
“My God. ‘Rapid onset dementia, paranoia, financial irresponsibility, a danger to himself and his assets…’”
He looked up at me, his eyes now sharp, all business.
“They were going to have you drugged, declared incompetent, and committed all in the space of twelve hours. And Ryan would have full control of all $60 million before the market even opened.”
He stood up. The shark was in the water now.
“Peter, we are going to destroy them,” he said, his voice a low growl.
He began to pace.
“This isn’t just family fraud. This is conspiracy to commit aggravated assault. This is medical malpractice. This is perjury. This…this is beautiful in the most disgusting way.”
He picked up his phone. He didn’t dial a number; he hit a single speed-dial button.
“Peterson,” he barked into the receiver. “It’s Wright. Wake up.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
“I need a full workup on a doctor. Name is Albert Reed. R-E-E-D. I need to know everything. Bank accounts, debts, medical board citations, mistresses, parking tickets. I want to know what brand of toothpaste he uses. And I need it—not now. I needed it thirty minutes ago.”
He hung up. He looked at me.
The final piece of the puzzle was about to fall into place.
“It’s worse than we thought,” Wright said when the phone rang back a short while later. “Our investigator just ran the financials on Dr. Reed. He didn’t just find debts. He found the source.”
He paused, letting the weight of the next words land.
“Reed owes $310,000 in gambling debts to an offshore sportsbook. And guess who the parent company of that offshore book is?”
I waited.
