Chapter 7: The Morning He Came
The message from Reyes arrived at 6:44 a.m.
A coffee shop in Lincoln Square.
Private back room.
Come alone.
Park two streets away.
Amara was dressed and at the kitchen table when Nadia appeared in her robe at seven.
"You didn't sleep," Nadia said.
"I slept some."
Nadia looked at her face.
"How much is some?"
"Enough."
Nadia sat down.
She looked at Amara's coat, already on, the envelope visible as a slight stiffness at the pocket.
"You're going somewhere this morning."
"Yes."
"Is it safe?"
"I think so."
"Do you need me to come?"
"No.
Stay here.
Don't answer the door for anyone you don't know." Amara paused.
"He texted me last night.
He said he knows where you live."
Nadia's expression didn't change.
She reached across the table and picked up her own phone.
She made a call.
Two rings.
"Marcus," she said.
"I need you to come stay at the apartment today.
Bring the dog." She listened.
"Yes, today.
Thank you."
She set the phone down.
"My brother," she said.
"He's large and he looks unfriendly.
He'll be here in an hour."
Amara looked at her.
"Eight years," Nadia said simply.
"I've had a plan."
Amara stood up.
She put her hand briefly on Nadia's shoulder.
Nadia put her hand over it and squeezed once and let go.
The coffee shop in Lincoln Square was small and warm and smelled like cardamom.
A young woman at the counter pointed her toward a door at the back without being asked.
Reyes was already there.
Younger than his voice — mid-thirties, dark jacket, a folder on the table and a coffee he hadn't touched.
Across from him sat a woman Amara didn't recognize.
Fifties.
Silver hair pulled back.
A legal pad and a pen.
"Mrs.
Moretti," Reyes said.
"This is Claire Ashworth.
She's a federal prosecutor.
She's been on this case for fourteen months."
Amara sat down.
"Show me what you have," Ashworth said.
No preamble.
No warmth.
Amara respected it immediately.
She took the envelope from her coat and set it on the table.
Ashworth opened it.
She went through the photographs one by one, slowly, her expression giving nothing.
When she reached the property deed she paused.
When she reached the document with the routing numbers she set it flat on the table and looked at Reyes.
"This is the Larimer document," she said.
"Yes," Amara said.
"How did you access his office?"
"He gave me the code two years ago.
He forgot."
Ashworth looked at her for the first time with something other than professional neutrality.
"You photographed this and put it back."
"Yes."
"And then you waited three weeks."
"I needed to make sure I had everything I needed before I moved."
Ashworth set the document down.
She picked up her pen.
"Mrs.
Moretti," she said.
"I'm going to tell you something, and I need you to listen carefully."
"All right."
"This document, combined with what we already have, is enough to move on four of the six counts we've been building.
The routing numbers close a gap we've been trying to close for eleven months." She tapped the pen against the legal pad once.
"Your husband is going to know by this afternoon that you've spoken to us.
His lawyer will tell him.
And when he knows—"
The door to the back room opened.
All three of them turned.
Dante Moretti stepped through it.
He was alone.
No jacket.
The charcoal shirt from the night before, sleeves still rolled.
He looked at Reyes.
At Ashworth.
At the envelope open on the table.
May you like
Then he looked at Amara.
"I told you," he said quietly, "that this would become something neither of us could stop."
