CHAPTER 7
The next morning, the front page of the Wall Street Journal carried a headline that obliterated whatever remained of my corporate reputation in the tri-state area.
"GREENWICH HEDGE FUND EXECUTIVES TARGETED IN MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR OFFSHORE MONEY LAUNDERING INVESTIGATION FOLLOWING ANONYMOUS WHISTLEBLOWER COMPLAINT."
My personal bank accounts were officially frozen by court order at ten AM, leaving me with only a single credit card and whatever cash remained in my wallet.
My private investigator, who had previously been tracking Claire, called my temporary burner phone from an unlisted line.
"Mr. Carter," he said nervously, his voice hushed as if he was afraid of being recorded by federal wiretaps. "I'm dropping your case. My agency cannot be involved in an ongoing federal investigation."
"Just tell me one thing," I pleaded, standing in the middle of my empty, echoing Greenwich mansion. "Is my son safe? Is Noah alright?"
The investigator hesitated for several long seconds before letting out a quiet, heavy sigh.
"Your son is safe, Julian," he whispered softly. "Claire is staying at a secure location under federal protection near Boston, and Noah is doing fine."
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"Can you give her a message?" I begged, tears streaming down my face into my stubble. "Please... just tell her I don't care about the money or the company anymore. I just want to see my son."
"She already knows what you care about, Julian," the investigator replied coldly. "And that's why she left."
