Chapter 6
The storage facility sat between an auto-body shop and an abandoned furniture warehouse on North Elston Avenue.
Norah had not visited it in almost two years.
Arthur arrived with four vehicles.
Norah noticed that immediately.
One sedan carried them.
Two SUVs followed.
Another drove ahead.
Eight armed men.
Michael.
Arthur.
And her.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered as the convoy turned into the parking lot.
Arthur sat beside her in the rear seat.
"No, ridiculous was you walking around Chicago alone while somebody photographed you."
"At the time, nobody knew I mattered to you."
Arthur looked through the tinted window.
"Apparently you mattered to somebody."
That silenced her.
The facility manager nearly dropped his coffee when Arthur entered.
Arthur did not introduce himself.
He did not need to.
Some names traveled without introductions.
Norah gave her identification and signed the access sheet.
Unit 317 was on the third floor.
Arthur refused the elevator.
"Stairwell gives us two exits."
Norah glanced at his bandaged shoulder.
"Stairwell also gives you three flights of stairs."
"I'll survive."
"You nearly passed out putting on a shirt."
"I did not."
"You leaned against a dresser for forty seconds."
"I was thinking."
"You were turning gray."
Michael coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.
Arthur gave him a look.
Michael stopped.
Norah smiled despite herself.
The moment disappeared when they reached the third floor.
Two Costello men moved ahead.
Another remained behind.
Arthur kept Norah beside him.
Unit 317 waited at the end of a narrow corridor.
Norah inserted the key.
The metal door rolled upward.
Dust and stale air moved outward.
Inside sat the remains of her previous life.
A cheap sofa.
Three dining chairs.
Boxes of kitchenware.
Her father's old desk.
A broken lamp.
Christmas decorations.
Norah stood motionless.
Memories arrived with physical force.
Her father sitting at that desk late at night.
Coffee cooling beside his elbow.
Reading glasses low on his nose.
Numbers covering yellow legal pads.
The cough that had started as something small.
Then the diagnosis.
Then hospitals.
Then oxygen tanks.
Then morphine.
Then silence.
Arthur did not touch her.
He simply remained beside her.
"Where's the box?" Michael asked gently.
Norah pointed.
"Back left."
They moved carefully.
Arthur's men searched the unit first.
Nothing dangerous.
Norah found the box beneath a stack of old blankets.
She knelt.
Her father's handwriting covered the top.
FRANK — TAX / PERSONAL.
Arthur crouched beside her despite the pain it caused.
Norah opened it.
Old receipts.
Tax returns.
Photographs.
A watch.
Three pens.
A Catholic prayer card from her mother's funeral.
Her father's wallet.
Then she found the brass key.
Arthur took it.
Small.
Number stamped into the metal.
"417."
"Safe-deposit box?" Michael suggested.
"Maybe."
Norah continued searching.
At the bottom was a thick envelope.
She opened it.
Bank statements.
Her father's.
Most were ordinary.
Then Arthur took one.
His eyes narrowed.
"What?"
He handed it to Michael.
Michael examined it.
"These aren't personal accounts."
Norah frowned.
"They have his name."
"Look at the deposits."
She did.
$48,000.
$75,000.
$112,000.
$90,000.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars passing through an account belonging to a man who had spent his life driving a twelve-year-old Buick.
Norah stared.
"No."
Arthur watched her.
"My father didn't have money."
"Maybe it wasn't his."
Michael turned pages.
"Deposits come in. Forty-eight hours later, almost identical amounts leave."
"Where?"
"Shell corporations."
Michael's expression changed.
"Arthur."
He handed over another statement.
Arthur read it.
His face became still.
Norah recognized that stillness now.
Danger.
"What?"
Arthur looked at Michael.
"Tell her."
Michael hesitated.
Arthur's voice sharpened.
"Tell her."
Michael pointed toward one recipient.
"Cavalieri Shipping Holdings."
Norah waited.
"So?"
Arthur answered.
"It was one of my father's companies."
The storage unit seemed to tilt.
Norah looked at Arthur.
"Your father?"
"Yes."
"Your father knew mine?"
"Apparently."
Norah stood too quickly.
The box tipped.
Documents scattered across concrete.
"No."
Arthur reached for her.
She stepped away.
"No. You don't get to touch me right now."
His hand stopped.
"My father was an accountant."
"Yes."
"He wasn't part of this."
"I don't know."
"He hated criminals."
Arthur's expression remained controlled.
"People can hate the thing they work for."
"Like me?"
The words struck harder than Norah intended.
Arthur absorbed them.
"Yes."
Silence.
Norah turned away.
She pressed both hands against her face.
Her father had spent years warning her about men with easy money.
Never borrow.
Never gamble.
Never accept favors you cannot repay.
Debt is another word for ownership, Nora.
She had believed those rules came from poverty.
Maybe they had come from experience.
Michael continued sorting documents.
"There's another company."
Arthur approached.
Michael showed him.
Arthur swore.
"What?"
"Salazar Imports."
Norah's heart stopped.
Michael looked at her.
"Your father moved money for both families."
Costello.
Salazar.
Enemies.
Norah stared at the statements.
"Why?"
"No idea."
Arthur crouched and picked up a photograph.
His expression changed.
He handed it to Norah.
Four men stood outside a restaurant.
The photograph was old.
At least twenty years.
Her father was there.
Frank.
Younger.
Smiling.
Beside him stood a broad-shouldered man Norah had never seen.
Arthur pointed.
"My father."
The third man was unfamiliar.
The fourth was not.
Norah had seen his face that morning on Michael's tablet.
Mateo Salazar.
The photograph slipped from her fingers.
"My father knew all of them."
Arthur picked it up.
"Yes."
Norah's legs weakened.
She sat on the old sofa.
Arthur lowered himself beside her.
This time she did not move away.
"My whole life," she whispered, "he told me to stay away from men like you."
Arthur stared at the photograph.
"Maybe he knew why."
Michael suddenly held up a small notebook.
"Found something."
The notebook was black.
No title.
Inside were columns of numbers.
Dates.
Initials.
Account codes.
Arthur took it.
His face became increasingly grim.
"What is it?"
"A ledger."
"For what?"
"Payments."
Michael leaned over his shoulder.
"These go back twenty-three years."
Norah looked at them.
"Can you read it?"
"Some."
Arthur turned pages.
Then stopped.
His finger rested against an entry.
F.H. — 400,000 — C.C.
Frank Hale.
Her father.
C.C.
Costello?
Arthur?
Norah?
"What does C.C. mean?"
Arthur did not answer.
"Arthur."
"My father's name was Charles Costello."
Norah felt cold.
"So he paid my father four hundred thousand dollars?"
"Looks like it."
"When?"
Arthur checked the date.
His face changed.
"Three days before my mother died."
Norah looked at him.
Arthur rarely spoke about his mother.
She knew only that Evelyn Costello had died when Arthur was seventeen.
Officially, a car accident.
Arthur stared at the page.
Michael became very quiet.
Norah understood.
"It wasn't an accident."
Arthur closed the notebook.
"No."
"What happened?"
"My father said the Salazars planted a bomb beneath her car."
"And you believed him?"
"I was seventeen."
Norah looked at the ledger.
"Maybe my father knew something."
Arthur's face became unreadable.
"Maybe."
A phone rang.
Michael answered.
He listened.
Then looked toward Arthur.
"What?"
Michael lowered the phone.
"We have company."
Every Costello man inside the unit immediately reached beneath his jacket.
Arthur stood.
"How many?"
"Unknown. Black van entered the lot. No plates."
Norah's pulse accelerated.
Arthur took her arm.
"Back stairwell."
They moved.
Fast.
Norah barely had time to close the box.
Michael carried the ledger.
Another man took the documents.
Arthur kept Norah directly behind him.
They reached the corridor.
A metallic sound echoed from the far end.
Gunfire erupted.
Norah screamed and dropped.
Arthur shoved her behind a concrete support column.
His pistol appeared in his hand.
Costello men returned fire.
Bullets tore through drywall.
The corridor filled with dust.
Arthur fired twice.
A man fell near the elevator.
"Move!" Michael shouted.
Norah ran.
They reached the stairwell.
One guard opened the door.
A bullet struck him through the throat.
He collapsed backward.
Norah froze.
Arthur grabbed her.
"Go!"
They descended.
Third floor.
Second.
Gunshots above.
Arthur's injured shoulder struck the railing.
His face went white.
Norah caught him.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
The bandage beneath his shirt had turned red.
"No time."
They reached the first floor.
Michael kicked open the emergency exit.
A Costello SUV screamed around the corner.
They ran toward it.
Then Norah heard a voice.
"Nora Hale!"
She stopped.
Arthur pulled her.
"Don't."
The voice came from behind.
"Nora! Ask Arthur who killed your father!"
Everything stopped.
Norah turned.
A man stood behind the open door of the black van.
Gray hair.
Expensive coat.
No weapon visible.
Mateo Salazar.
Arthur raised his pistol.
Salazar smiled.
"Careful, Costello."
Three rifles appeared from the van.
Arthur moved in front of Norah.
Salazar's attention remained on her.
"Your father didn't die from cancer."
Norah could barely breathe.
"You're lying."
"He had cancer."
Salazar nodded.
"He did."
His smile disappeared.
"But cancer wasn't what stopped his heart."
Arthur's body became rigid.
"Get in the car, Nora."
She did not move.
Salazar continued.
"Ask him."
Norah looked at Arthur.
"Arthur?"
His eyes stayed on Salazar.
"Get in the car."
"Did your family kill my father?"
"Nora."
"Answer me."
Gunfire cracked from somewhere above.
Salazar ducked.
Arthur seized Norah and threw her toward the SUV.
Michael dragged her inside.
Arthur followed.
The vehicle accelerated.
Bullets struck the rear panels.
Glass cracked.
Norah twisted toward Arthur.
"Answer me!"
His face had gone pale from blood loss.
"Nora—"
"Did your family kill my father?"
Arthur looked at her.
For once, she could not read him.
That terrified her more than an answer.
"I don't know."
Norah stared.
"You don't know?"
"I didn't know who your father was until twenty minutes ago."
"But your father—"
"My father died six years ago."
"Convenient."
Arthur flinched.
Norah immediately hated herself for it.
But she could not stop.
"You knew my father worked for your family?"
"No."
"You knew he moved money?"
"No."
"You knew about that ledger?"
"No."
"Then why did Salazar tell me to ask you?"
"I don't know!"
Arthur's voice exploded inside the vehicle.
Then he grabbed his shoulder.
Blood seeped between his fingers.
Norah's anger disappeared beneath fear.
"Arthur."
"I'm fine."
"You are not fine."
Michael shouted at the driver.
"Rainer's clinic. Now."
Arthur shook his head.
"Estate."
"Arthur—"
"Estate."
Norah pressed both hands against his shoulder.
"You need a doctor."
His eyes found hers.
"I need answers."
"So do I."
They stared at one another.
Something had changed.
For the first time since Arthur entered her basement room, the danger between them was not coming from outside.
It existed inside the space between them.
Arthur had built his life around secrets inherited from his father.
Norah had built hers around rules inherited from hers.
Now those fathers were connected.
Money.
Salazar.
A ledger.
A dead woman.
And possibly a dead accountant who had known too much.
Norah pressed harder against Arthur's wound.
He winced.
"Sorry."
"Don't be."
His hand covered hers.
Despite everything, Norah did not pull away.
When they returned to the estate, another message was waiting.
This one had been delivered to the front gate.
No envelope.
No photograph.
Only a small cassette tape.
Across its label, written in faded blue ink, was a familiar handwriting Norah had not seen in three years.
May you like
Her father's.
NORA — IF THEY EVER FIND YOU.
