Donald P. Brennan, Esquire.
I knocked.
“Come in, Mrs. Hayes.”
He was younger than I expected, maybe fifty-five, graying at the temples, wearing a navy suit that looked expensive but not flashy. His office was small, crowded with filing cabinets and bookshelves. A window overlooked the street behind half-closed blinds.
“Please sit.”
He gestured to a cracked leather chair across from his desk. It was worn but comfortable. I sat.
“You brought the key.”
I pulled it from my purse and placed it on the desk between us.
He picked it up, turned it over, and nodded. “Good. Do you know what this opens?”
“A box at Manhattan Trust. That’s all Daniel told me.”
Mr. Brennan leaned back in his chair.
“Mrs. Hayes, your husband retained my services for thirty-two years. I handled his estate planning, his business investments, and, toward the end, some very specific instructions regarding asset protection.”
“Asset protection,” I repeated.
“Daniel was a careful man. Careful and, if I’m being honest, secretive. He did not want certain people to know the full scope of his estate.”
“Certain people,” I said. “You mean Robert and Vanessa.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick manila folder.
