Chapter 3 - The Package From Twenty-Three Years Ago
By sunrise, Selene had slept eleven minutes.
She knew because Damen’s guest-room clock glowed 6:17 when she opened her eyes, and the last time she had checked it, it was 6:06.
Ivy was finally asleep in the next room under the watch of Nadia and a private nurse. Selene sat on the edge of the bed wearing yesterday’s clothes and stared at her phone.
Maria had sent a photograph.
Not of the package itself.
Of the label.
She had taken it because the return address looked strange.
ST. MATTHEW MEMORIAL HOSPITAL — ARCHIVE SERVICES.
ATTN: DR. SELENE MERCER.
RE: DAVID MERCER, DECEASED.
Her father’s name.
Twenty-three years after his death.
Selene called the hospital records office at 7:01.
A recorded voice told her archive services opened at eight.
Damen appeared in the doorway carrying two mugs.
“Coffee?”
“No.”
He set one mug down anyway.
“You drink coffee.”
“I drink bad coffee while standing over a sink. That is different from accepting coffee from a man whose employees can apparently locate people before breakfast.”
“Anton located the courier company.”
Selene looked up.
Of course he had.
“And?”
“The package was picked up yesterday afternoon from a woman named Ruth Ansel.”
“Hospital employee?”
“Retired records supervisor.”
“Address?”
“I have it.”
She stared at him.
He added, “Police have it too.”
Better.
“Is she safe?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“She answered her door and called me a criminal before asking whether I was eating enough.”
Selene blinked.
Damen almost smiled.
“She sounds efficient.”
At 8:20, they spoke to Ruth by video with a detective present.
Ruth Ansel was seventy-eight, wore bright red glasses, and had absolutely no fear of Damen Volkov.
“I remember your name,” she told Selene. “Your father came in dead on arrival. Massive cardiac event. You were seven.”
Selene’s throat tightened.
“You remember that?”
“I remember children in emergency rooms.” Ruth’s expression softened. “Especially the quiet ones.”
Selene looked away.
“Why send something now?”
“Hospital closed an off-site records room. They found a personal-effects envelope that should have gone to your mother. Wrong address. It sat behind old cardiac files for years.”
“What was inside?”
“A notebook. Small black one. Your father’s name inside.”
Damen leaned closer to the screen.
“Did you read it?”
Ruth looked offended.
“I worked medical records for forty-six years. Of course I read just enough to decide whether it contained protected medical information.”
Selene almost smiled.
“And?”
“It did not. It looked like work notes.”
“What kind of work?”
Ruth hesitated.
“Building inspections.”
Selene frowned.
“My father worked for the city Department of Buildings before he died.”
She had not thought about that job in years.
David Mercer had spent his days inspecting boilers, elevators, ventilation systems, and landlords who tried to explain rust as paint.
Ruth said, “I scanned the first three pages because the notebook was fragile and I wanted a record before mailing.”
“Do you still have the scans?”
“Yes.”
“Please send them to the detective and my attorney.”
Damen said nothing.
Good.
Ten minutes later, Selene opened the scans.
Her father’s handwriting hit her harder than she expected.
Block letters.
Blue ink.
Tiny arrows in the margins.
The first page was ordinary.
Boiler pressure readings.
Valve replacement.
Two addresses.
The second page stopped her.
441 NORTH ASHLAND — NO HEAT COMPLAINTS, 17 UNITS.
OWNER: SOKOLOV PROPERTY GROUP.
Selene looked at Damen.
His face changed.
“What?”
He took the tablet.
His eyes moved down the page.
Then stopped.
“Apartment 4C,” he whispered.
Selene read the line.
4C — MOTHER + 2 CHILDREN. GIRL APPROX 6. RESPIRATORY DISTRESS. HEAT OFF 9 DAYS. EMERGENCY ORDER ISSUED.
Damen sat back.
“No.”
Selene knew before he said it.
“That was your building.”
He nodded.
“That was my apartment.”
The room went silent.
His sister.
Six years old.
Pneumonia.
No heat.
Selene read the next sentence.
MANAGER REFUSES ACCESS TO BOILER ROOM. CLAIMS REPAIR PENDING. ESCALATE MONDAY.
Her hands began to shake.
“When did your sister die?”
Damen answered without looking at her.
“Sunday night.”
Selene closed her eyes.
Her father had issued an emergency order before the child died.
The repair had not happened.
The third page contained a name.
V. SOKOLOV — CALLED OFFICE. OFFERED ‘PRIVATE RESOLUTION.’ REPORTED TO SUPERVISOR.
Damen stood so suddenly the chair scraped backward.
“Viktor.”
“Same Viktor?” Selene asked.
“His father owned buildings. Viktor handled collections and problems when he was young.”
Selene felt cold.
Twenty-three years.
Same surname.
Same habit of treating human suffering as leverage.
“What happened to my father’s report?” Damen asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Would the city have records?”
“Maybe archives.”
He began pacing.
Selene watched him.
“This does not mean your sister was murdered.”
He stopped.
“I know.”
“It means a landlord ignored an emergency heat order. That may be negligence, corruption, or something worse. We do not invent what the paper doesn’t say.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“You want to break something.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t.”
His eyes met hers.
“You enjoy telling me what to do.”
“No. I enjoy not having to treat people you hit.”
For one second, something almost human passed through his face.
Then the detective on the video call spoke.
“There’s another detail.”
Selene looked back at the screen.
Ruth had found the old property-envelope inventory.
The notebook was not the only item originally listed.
There had been a cassette tape.
Microcassette, black plastic.
Label: NORTH ASHLAND / SOKOLOV CALL.
Selene’s pulse jumped.
“Where is it?”
Ruth shook her head.
“Not in the envelope.”
Damen’s expression went flat.
“Preston took the notebook package before we ever saw it,” he said.
Selene nodded slowly.
“If the tape was inside, he has it now.”
Damen looked toward the river.
“No.”
“What?”
“Preston does not know what that tape means.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because if Viktor knew a recording of his voice survived twenty-three years, Preston would not have spent midnight rifling through a clinic office.”
Selene understood.
He would have burned the whole building.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One image.
The black notebook lying open on a table.
Beside it, a microcassette.
Then a message.
DOCTOR, YOU HAVE SOMETHING I NEED.
BRING IVY TO MERCY STREET AT 10 TONIGHT.
YOU GET YOUR FATHER BACK.
Selene’s face went cold.
Damen read over her shoulder only after she turned the phone toward him.
His eyes darkened.
“He thinks you’ll trade her.”
Selene looked at the message.
“No.”
Damen waited.
May you like
She lifted her head.
“He thinks wrong.”
