Chapter 6: The Man Who Kept Records
I didn't sleep.
I sat in the living room with the lights off and watched the street through a gap in the curtains.
The two cars Joseph had placed were still there.
Nothing moved.
Around three in the morning a cat crossed under the streetlight and I nearly came out of my skin.
My mother slept.
Or at least she went to her room and closed the door, which was as close to sleep as she ever got when something was wrong.
By six I had coffee made and was sitting at the kitchen table with my phone, staring at the message from V.
I typed: *Who are you?*
No response.
I typed: *My mother recognized your initial.
She needs to know you're safe.*
The reply came in under a minute.
*Tell her the fish place on Halsted is still open.
She'll understand.*
I went to my mother's door and knocked.
She opened it almost immediately.
She hadn't slept either.
I showed her the phone.
She read it.
Her hand went to her mouth.
"Mom.
Who is V?"
She sat on the edge of her bed.
"Victor Reyes," she said.
"He worked for Joseph.
Not as muscle — he was an accountant.
He kept the books for three different operations." She paused.
"He was also the only person in Joseph's organization who knew the truth about what Carbone did to me."
"How?"
"Because he was there." She looked at the window.
"Not in my apartment.
But afterward.
He saw Carbone come out of my building that morning.
He knew what Carbone was capable of.
When I disappeared, he put it together." She exhaled.
"He found me in Ohio.
Six months after I left.
He didn't tell Joseph.
He just — he wanted to make sure I was alive."
"He's been in contact with you this whole time?"
"No.
Twice.
Once when he found me, to make sure I was safe.
Once when Audrey was born, to tell me that Joseph still hadn't stopped asking questions." She looked at me.
"After that, nothing.
I asked him not to contact me again."
"But he's been watching."
"Apparently."
"And he kept records."
She looked at me sharply.
"What makes you say that?"
"Because an accountant who witnessed what Carbone did and stayed quiet for twenty years didn't stay quiet because he forgot.
He stayed quiet because he was waiting for the right moment." I set the phone on the bed between us.
"And the right moment just arrived."
She stared at the phone.
It buzzed again.
*I have documentation.
Financial records, internal communications, a recorded conversation from 2003 in which Carbone explicitly discusses the arrangement he made with Rose Bennett and the reason for it.
I've been holding it for the right circumstances.
I believe those circumstances have arrived.
Tell Salvini I want a meeting.
Neutral location.
Today.*
My mother read it twice.
"He recorded Carbone," she said.
"In 2003.
Which means he's had evidence of what Carbone did for over twenty years."
"Why didn't he use it?"
"Because using it alone would have gotten him kjlled." I picked up the phone.
"But giving it to Joseph is different.
Joseph has the power to act on it.
And now Joseph has a reason to."
She was quiet.
"This changes things," I said.
"It changes everything." She stood.
"Call Joseph."
I was already dialing.
He answered on the second ring.
"Is something wrong?"
"No.
But I need you to come back." I paused.
"Someone wants a meeting.
Someone who has been holding evidence against Marco Carbone for twenty-two years."
A silence.
"Who?"
"Victor Reyes."
The silence this time was longer.
"He's alive," Joseph said.
It wasn't a question.
It was the sound of a man recalculating something he had long since filed away as settled.
"He's alive.
And he has records."
"What kind of records?"
"The kind that end careers." I looked at my mother.
"And the kind that explain exactly what Carbone did to my mother and why."
Another silence.
When Joseph spoke again, his voice was different.
Quieter.
More controlled in the way that very dangerous men become controlled when they are deciding something important.
"I'll be there in an hour," he said.
"Don't contact Reyes again until I arrive."
He ended the call.
My mother was watching me.
"You handled that well," she said.
"I'm terrified."
"I know." She put her hand over mine on the table.
"So am I."
We sat like that for a while.
The coffee went cold.
Neither of us moved to warm it.
At seven-fifteen, a black car pulled up outside.
Not Joseph's.
A man got out.
Older, heavyset, gray at the temples, wearing a jacket that was slightly too large for him.
He stood on the pavement and looked at the house and didn't move toward it.
He just waited.
My mother stood up from the table and went to the window.
She looked at him for a long moment.
May you like
"Victor," she said quietly.
She went to the front door before I could stop her.
