Chapter 3 - The Man Who Knew Her Name
The Obsidian locked down within thirty seconds.
Security shutters descended over the street-level entrances. Armed men swept the dance floor, ordering customers to remain where they were. The music stopped, leaving hundreds of confused voices echoing beneath the nightclub's crystal chandeliers.
Sarah was halfway to the employee exit when Marco appeared.
“Boss wants you upstairs.”
“I'm off the clock.”
“Not tonight.”
“Then he can come down here.”
Marco stared at her as if she had suggested setting fire to the building.
“You really don't know when to stop, do you?”
“Apparently not.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
“Come on.”
Inside the VIP suite, the revolver was gone. Lorenzo stood beside the windows, his jacket removed, his shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms.
A man in a bloodstained white shirt sat on the sofa, holding a towel against his shoulder.
Giovanni was speaking quietly to two guards.
Silas was nowhere to be seen.
Lorenzo turned when Sarah entered.
“Tell me what happened downstairs.”
“I heard a gunshot.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you hear?”
Sarah considered lying.
Then she remembered the message about Eleanor.
“Greg told me Ricky wasn't supposed to die.”
For the first time, Lorenzo looked genuinely interested.
“Exactly what did he say?”
“That Ricky wasn't supposed to die that night.”
Lorenzo's face hardened.
“Bring Greg here.”
Marco left.
Sarah remained near the door.
“Why am I involved?”
“Because you were in the room when Ricky died.”
“You murdered him in front of me.”
The wounded man on the sofa shifted uncomfortably.
Giovanni stopped speaking.
Lorenzo approached her.
“Do you know what Ricky was accused of?”
“No.”
“He was selling information about my operations. Routes, names, shipments. Three men are dead because somebody knew where they would be.”
“Then find the person selling your information.”
“I intend to.”
“Why do you need a waitress?”
“Because the person I'm looking for believes I only suspect my own men.”
Sarah frowned.
“And you think they'll talk to me?”
“I think they'll underestimate you.”
She gave him a humorless look.
“Congratulations. We finally agree on something.”
The door opened.
Greg entered between two guards.
He was trembling so violently that he nearly stumbled over the threshold.
Lorenzo pointed toward the empty chair.
“Sit.”
Greg remained standing.
“I didn't betray you.”
“Interesting. I haven't accused you of anything yet.”
Greg's mouth opened and closed.
Sarah watched his hands. His right thumb kept rubbing the side of his index finger. She had seen him do it whenever he lied about missing cash in the register.
Lorenzo noticed her watching.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Sarah.”
She hesitated.
“Greg is hiding something. But I don't think he's the person you're looking for.”
Greg stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because he's terrified of you. But he isn't looking at the door.”
She nodded toward Greg.
“He's looking at the window.”
Everyone turned.
The window overlooked the Chicago River, nearly twenty stories below.
Greg's face crumpled.
“I didn't know what was in the package,” he whispered.
Lorenzo's voice dropped.
“What package?”
Greg reached inside his jacket.
Every guard raised a weapon.
“Slowly,” Marco ordered.
Greg pulled out a small black flash drive.
“I was paid to put this in your office. I swear I didn't know what it contained.”
Lorenzo took it.
“Who paid you?”
“A woman.”
“What woman?”
Greg shook his head.
“I never saw her face. She called herself Catherine.”
Giovanni went completely still.
Sarah noticed.
So did Lorenzo.
“Giovanni,” Lorenzo said quietly. “Do you know someone named Catherine?”
The older man adjusted his cuff.
“Several.”
“Any who pay nightclub managers to steal information?”
“Not that I'm aware of.”
Lorenzo looked toward Sarah.
“Take him downstairs. Keep him alive.”
The guards escorted Greg out.
Sarah started toward the door, but Lorenzo stopped her.
“You noticed Giovanni's reaction.”
“I noticed everybody's reaction.”
“Good. Then notice this.”
He inserted the flash drive into a laptop.
A list of bank transfers appeared, followed by photographs of several men entering a warehouse on the South Side.
Then came a grainy image of Ricky meeting a woman outside a hotel.
The woman wore a dark coat and carried a red umbrella.
Sarah leaned closer.
She recognized the umbrella.
Not because she'd seen it at the Obsidian.
Because she'd seen it in her grandmother's apartment.
It had belonged to Eleanor's late daughter, Sarah's mother.
“Where did you get that picture?” she whispered.
Lorenzo looked at her.
“Why?”
Sarah pointed at the screen.
“That umbrella belonged to my mother.”
Nobody spoke.
Lorenzo enlarged the photograph.
The woman turned slightly toward the camera.
Her face was partially obscured, but the necklace at her throat was unmistakable: a small silver star with a missing point.
Sarah had worn that necklace as a child.
She had been told it was lost in a house fire before her mother died.
“Sarah,” Lorenzo said carefully. “Who was your mother?”
“Rebecca Miller.”
The name struck Giovanni like a physical blow.
He reached for the back of the chair.
Lorenzo saw it.
“Giovanni?”
The old consigliere looked at Sarah, and the expression in his eyes frightened her more than the gun had.
“Rebecca Miller,” he repeated.
May you like
Then he whispered the words that changed everything.
“That's impossible. I watched them bury her.”
