Chapter 8: The Name on the Photograph
Marco found the answer in thirty-six hours.
The man in the photograph was named Gerald Foss.
He was forty-seven years old, a medical records administrator at the private clinic in Manhattan where Adrian had his annual physical.
He had worked there for nine years.
He had no criminal record, no known connections to organized crime, and a mortgage that was fourteen months behind.
He had also, according to his bank records, received a wire transfer of thirty-eight thousand dollars eleven weeks earlier from the same Delaware shell company that had funded Vincent Bellini.
"He pulled your allergy file," Marco said.
"Copied it.
Sold the information." He set the folder on the table.
"He's the origin point.
Everything Gallo knew about your medical history came from him."
Adrian looked at the folder but didn't open it.
"And the message?"
"The message came from a burner.
But the cell tower it pinged was two blocks from Foss's apartment building." Marco paused.
"He's scared.
Gallo's cooperation became known faster than Gallo expected.
Foss found out he was exposed and panicked."
"A panicking man is a dangerous one."
"Yes." Marco looked at him.
"There's something else."
He opened the folder to the third page and turned it to face Adrian.
It was a visitor log from the clinic.
Seven weeks before the wire transfer, Gerald Foss had signed in a visitor during his lunch break.
The visitor's name was listed as D.
Caruso.
Adrian read it twice.
"Caruso brought Foss to Gallo," he said.
"It looks that way.
Caruso knew about your allergy from the legal files — standard medical disclosure for the estate insurance policy.
He needed a way to get the actual clinical documentation.
Foss gave him access."
"So Caruso recruited Foss.
Foss provided the medical file.
Caruso brought both to Gallo.
Gallo funded Vincent." Adrian sat back.
"It started with Caruso."
"Yes."
"And Caruso told me Foss was a gesture of good faith from Gallo." Adrian's voice was quiet.
"Gallo was giving me Caruso's recruit.
Trying to redirect."
"Gallo didn't know we already had Caruso."
"No." Adrian closed the folder.
"He thought he was being clever."
He stood and walked to the window.
The grounds were gray and cold, the oak trees bare, the Sound beyond the walls the color of slate.
"Where is Foss now?"
"His apartment.
He called in sick to work Monday and Tuesday.
He hasn't left the building."
"And the threat message — does he know we've identified him?"
"Not yet."
Adrian turned from the window.
"I want him brought in.
Not by our people.
Call Grace Tillman.
Tell her we have the identity of the individual who illegally accessed and sold a private medical record, and that the same individual sent a threatening communication to my phone.
Give her the tower data, the bank records, and the visitor log." He paused.
"Tell her it connects directly to the Gallo documentation."
Marco nodded.
"She'll move fast."
"She always does."
Adrian picked up his phone.
He had one more call to make — one he had been considering for two days and had not yet decided how to approach.
He dialed.
It rang three times.
"Vincent," he said.
Silence on the other end.
Then a careful breath.
"Adrian." Vincent Bellini's voice was old and tired and frightened in a way that twenty-three years of service had not prepared it to be.
"I didn't think you would call."
"I almost didn't."
Another silence.
"I need to understand something," Adrian said.
"Not for Marco.
Not for the lawyers.
For myself." He paused.
"You were in that house when Elena and Lily d*ed.
You helped me carry their things out of the car.
You stood at the funeral." His voice did not change.
"After all of that — why?"
The silence on the line stretched long enough that Adrian thought Vincent might hang up.
Then: "My son."
Adrian waited.
"He owed money.
A great deal of it.
To people who don't wait." Vincent's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Gallo's people came to me eight weeks ago.
They said they would clear the debt.
All of it.
And my son would be safe." A pause.
"They said you would never know.
They said it would look natural."
"And you believed them."
"I wanted to believe them." A long exhale.
"I know what I did, Adrian.
I know there's no word for it that makes it smaller."
Adrian stood at the window.
"Your son," he said.
"What's his name?"
"Paolo."
"How much does he owe?"
Vincent hesitated.
"Why?"
"Answer the question, Vincent."
"Ninety thousand."
Adrian was quiet for a moment.
"The debt will be cleared," he said.
"Paolo will not be touched.
That is not forgiveness.
That is because he is not responsible for what you chose." He paused.
"You will cooperate fully with the federal investigation.
Every detail.
Every conversation with Gallo's people.
Every instruction you received.
If you withhold anything, the arrangement ends."
"Yes," Vincent said.
His voice had gone very thin.
"Adrian — I am sorry.
I know that means nothing—"
"It means something," Adrian said.
"It just doesn't change what happened."
He ended the call.
He stood at the window for a moment longer.
Then he turned, picked up his jacket, and walked out of the conference room.
In the library at the end of the hall, the door was open.
Adrian slowed as he passed.
Ellie was not supposed to be there until Thursday.
But Hannah had called that morning — her shift had been moved, and she'd asked if it was all right to come in a day early.
Marco had said yes before Adrian could be consulted.
Ellie was sitting on the library floor surrounded by three large books she had clearly pulled from the lowest shelf.
Rosie was propped against the nearest bookcase.
Ellie was not reading — she was examining the spines with the focused intensity of someone conducting an important survey.
She looked up when Adrian appeared in the doorway.
"There are so many books," she said.
"Do you read all of them?"
"Not all of them."
"Which ones?"
He looked at the shelves.
"The ones on the left side, mostly.
The ones on the right belonged to someone else."
Ellie looked at the right side of the library.
Then back at him.
"Can I look at them?"
Adrian was quiet for a moment.
"Yes," he said.
He walked into the library and sat in the chair near the window — the one that faced the shelves, the one he had not sat in for three years because it was the chair Elena had always used when she read.
He sat in it now.
Ellie went back to her survey of the spines, narrating quietly to Rosie as she went.
May you like
Adrian did not read.
He sat in Elena's chair and watched a four-year-old girl move through his wife's library, and he did not look away, and he did not leave.
