Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCHBy three in the morning, Mercy General had become the most heavily guarded hospital floor in Chicago.
Not officially.
Officially, there were two city police officers outside Evelyn's room because she had been the victim of an aggravated assault.
Unofficially, Marcus had men positioned in the parking garage, lobby, coffee shop, ambulance entrance, and across the street pretending to wait for buses that stopped running hours earlier.
I told him to send half of them home.
He refused.
I told him again.
He sent two.
That was Marcus.
Loyalty disguised as disobedience.
Dr. Hannah Meyers found me standing outside the intensive care unit.
“She has three fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a concussion, and significant blood loss.”
“Will she live?”
“I believe so.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
It was the first good sentence I had heard all night.
“But somebody did substantial damage,” she continued. “This wasn't a random mugging.”
“I know.”
“She also has defensive injuries.”
That sounded like Evelyn.
She could barely open pickle jars, but she would fight an army if sufficiently annoyed.
“Can she speak?”
“Not yet. And I don't want anybody pressuring her when she wakes.”
Her eyes lingered on me.
Doctors recognized reputation too.
“I won't.”
Detective Monroe emerged from the elevator before Meyers could leave.
Rachel Monroe was forty-two, divorced, irritatingly observant, and almost impossible to intimidate.
That was why I respected her.
“We found something.”
She held up an evidence bag.
Inside was a small black device.
“A tracker,” she said. “Attached underneath Marconi's Mercedes.”
“Meaning somebody wanted to know where the car went.”
“Or wanted us to believe they did.”
I looked at her.
“That thought occur naturally, Detective?”
“Spending time around you has made me cynical.”
“Happy to help.”
Her expression didn't move.
“We also found the car was stolen seven hours ago.”
Marcus, standing behind me, cursed.
“From Marconi?”
“From a private garage registered to one of his companies.”
“So somebody steals his car, attacks Evelyn, leaves her beside it, and sends both sides toward each other's throats.”
Monroe nodded.
“That's one interpretation.”
“It is the correct interpretation.”
“That confidence is what makes you charming.”
Marcus stepped forward.
“Who knew the car was there?”
“Plenty of people after your guys started arriving.”
“Before.”
Monroe studied him.
“We're checking cameras.”
I thought about the brass key in my pocket.
Evelyn had given no indication she was investigating anything.
But then, Evelyn rarely did anything without a reason.
For three weeks she had seemed distracted.
Twice I'd caught her closing files when I entered the office.
Once she canceled a meeting with an investment group and claimed I had done it.
I hadn't.
At the time, I thought she was exhausted.
Now I wondered if she'd been protecting me.
Or hiding something from me.
“Detective,” I said, “have you searched Evelyn's apartment?”
“Not yet.”
Marcus glanced at me.
He knew what I was thinking.
“No,” Monroe said immediately.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“It's unsettling when you do that.”
“You are not searching her apartment before we do.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.”
She walked away.
Marcus waited until the elevator doors closed.
“Want me to search her apartment?”
“Obviously.”
Forty minutes later we were standing inside Evelyn's condo in River North.
I had been there only once, years earlier, when she broke her ankle and refused to take more than two days off.
The place was exactly as I remembered.
Clean.
Small.
Books everywhere.
One dying houseplant on the windowsill.
A framed photograph of Evelyn with her younger sister, Sophie.
Another of her parents.
And one I hadn't seen before.
It showed Evelyn standing with me outside Cross Freight's first legitimate warehouse.
I was twenty-eight.
She was twenty-five.
We both looked exhausted and broke.
The caption on the frame read:
WE SURVIVED THE IMPOSSIBLE YEAR.
Marcus found the first unusual thing.
Her laptop was missing.
Her desk drawer had been forced open.
“Someone beat us here.”
I checked the bedroom.
Nothing.
Kitchen.
Nothing.
Then I saw a coffee cup near the sink.
Two cups.
Evelyn lived alone.
One had lipstick on the rim.
The other didn't.
Someone had been here.
Willingly.
Not an intruder.
I crouched beside the desk.
Inside the damaged drawer were insurance statements, receipts, spare keys.
And a torn corner of a photograph.
Only part of a man's hand remained.
He wore a heavy silver ring.
A wolf's head.
I knew that ring.
My father used to wear one exactly like it.
But my father had been dead for nineteen years.
“Julian.”
Marcus sounded different.
He was standing by the bookshelf.
One book had been pulled partially outward.
Behind it was a recessed wall safe.
“Did you know about this?”
“No.”
The brass key fit perfectly.
Inside were three envelopes.
One flash drive.
And a notebook.
On top, Evelyn had written:
IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO ME, DO NOT TRUST THE CROSS LEDGERS.
Marcus read over my shoulder.
“What Cross ledgers?”
I opened the notebook.
Names.
Dates.
Bank transfers.
Shipping numbers.
Contracts.
The deeper I read, the colder I became.
Someone had been using Cross Freight routes to move illegal weapons through legitimate cargo shipments.
Not dozens.
Hundreds.
Maybe thousands.
Some transactions went back seven years.
Someone inside my organization had created a criminal enterprise within mine.
And made it look like I had authorized everything.
Marcus leaned over the notebook.
“This is impossible.”
“No.”
“It has your codes.”
I knew.
Every transfer bore internal Cross authorization.
My authorization.
My signature on some documents.
Forged expertly.
The flash drive contained scanned contracts and videos from loading docks.
Then we found the folder Evelyn had named:
WAR.
Inside were photographs of Marconi warehouses.
Cross warehouses.
Members of both organizations secretly meeting.
And one audio file.
I clicked it.
A man's voice filled the room.
Distorted.
“We need Julian angry enough to stop thinking.”
Another voice answered.
“And Marconi?”
“He'll retaliate. By sunrise, both sides will believe the other struck first.”
“What about Parker?”
A pause.
Then the first voice said:
“She knows too much.”
Marcus turned pale.
I stopped the recording.
“Recognize him?”
“No.”
I did not either.
But something about the rhythm of the speaker bothered me.
Familiar.
Before I could replay it, Marcus's phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His face changed.
“What?”
He hung up.
“Marconi's nephew has been shot.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Alive?”
“For now.”
“Where?”
“Outside his club.”
A message arrived on my phone.
Photograph.
A young man bleeding beside a curb.
Then another line:
YOUR MOVE, JULIAN.
I stared at it.
Whoever was orchestrating this no longer hoped for war.
They were demanding it.
Marcus looked toward me.
“If we don't respond, our own people might.”
That was exactly the danger.
Men who lived by reputation feared appearing weak more than death.
“Call everyone.”
“For what?”
“A meeting.”
“You want all captains in one room?”
“Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“Now.”
Marcus understood.
“This could split us.”
“Then we find out who wants us split.”
Forty minutes later, twelve senior men gathered inside the private upstairs dining room of Cross & Stone, one of my restaurants.
Some demanded retaliation.
Others insisted Marconi had declared war.
Antonio Vega hit the table.
“They put Evelyn in the hospital!”
“And somebody shot Marconi's nephew after I ordered restraint,” I said.
“You saying one of us did it?”
“I am saying one of you may have.”
The room exploded.
Men shouted.
Accused.
Threatened.
I let them.
Then I placed Evelyn's notebook on the table.
Silence returned.
“For seven years, somebody has used my company to move weapons.”
Faces changed.
Not everyone's.
That was what I watched.
“Millions disappeared through false contracts. My approval codes were used. Evelyn discovered it.”
I looked around the table.
“Whoever did this attacked her and tried to blame Marconi.”
Antonio shook his head.
“Maybe Marconi is behind the whole thing.”
“Maybe.”
“So what are we waiting for?”
“The truth.”
He laughed bitterly.
“Truth doesn't keep you alive in our world.”
“It has kept me alive this long.”
Then the door opened.
One of Marcus's men entered quickly.
“Boss, we have a problem.”
“How surprising.”
“Vincent Marconi is downstairs.”
Every man reached for a weapon.
I raised one hand.
“No guns.”
Antonio stared at me.
“You're inviting him up?”
“I didn't invite him.”
I walked downstairs.
Vincent Marconi stood alone in the empty restaurant.
Sixty-three years old.
Gray suit.
Gray hair.
One hand resting on a cane he did not medically need.
We had hated each other for fifteen years.
But hatred was different from stupidity.
He tossed something onto a table.
A photograph.
Evelyn entering a warehouse.
My warehouse.
Beside her walked Marconi's nephew—the young man who had just been shot.
Vincent looked directly at me.
“My nephew was helping your assistant.”
I said nothing.
“He called me an hour before he was shot.”
“What did he say?”
Vincent's eyes hardened.
“He said the man trying to start this war works for you.”
Upstairs, twelve people were waiting.
One of them might be a traitor.
I turned toward Marcus.
“Lock the restaurant.”
He hesitated.
“Julian—”
“Nobody leaves.”
And for the first time, I saw something in Marcus Vale's face I had never seen before.
Fear.
Not of Marconi.
May you like
Not of war.
Fear of what I might discover upstairs.
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