Chapter 3 - Clara's Dead Husband
Vincent waited until sunrise.
Not because patience came naturally to him.
It did not.
He waited because Matteo had finally slept through an entire night without waking from nightmares, and Vincent refused to destroy that for an interrogation.
At 6:17 a.m., Clara stepped out of Matteo's room carrying an empty water glass.
Vincent was waiting.
She stopped.
“You look terrible.”
“Come with me.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“Now.”
Something in his voice changed her expression.
She followed him down two floors and into the library.
Vincent locked the door.
Clara looked at it.
“That seems friendly.”
He placed his phone on the desk.
The hospital photograph filled the screen.
Clara did not touch it.
But all color left her face.
“Who sent that?”
“You tell me.”
She stared at the picture.
Vincent said, “His name was Daniel Hayes.”
“My husband.”
“He worked for Carlo Bellini.”
Clara's eyes lifted.
“He worked for Rossi Logistics.”
“My company.”
“He drove trucks.”
“He transported cash.”
“He told me freight.”
Vincent studied her.
“Daniel disappeared two years and eight months ago.”
“He died.”
“I know.”
“No, Mr. Rossi. You know a date.”
Her voice became tight.
“I know what happened afterward.”
Vincent said nothing.
Clara looked away.
“Daniel came home one night terrified. He locked every window in our apartment. He wouldn't let me turn on the lights.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Almost nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because he thought ignorance would protect me.”
A humorless smile touched her mouth.
“It didn't.”
Vincent waited.
Clara exhaled slowly.
“He said somebody was stealing from your organization.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
“Names?”
“No.”
“Documents?”
“He mentioned manifests.”
Vincent moved closer.
“What manifests?”
“Shipping records.”
Carlo Bellini managed international freight accounting.
Vincent's thoughts accelerated.
“Daniel said containers were being listed twice. Some existed on paper but never entered the port. He thought someone was washing money through false freight charges.”
“And he told Bellini?”
“He thought Bellini was helping him.”
Vincent nearly laughed at the tragedy of that sentence.
“What happened?”
“Three days later, Daniel's truck went off Route 1 in the rain.”
“I remember.”
“Police called it an accident.”
Vincent watched her.
“You didn't.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Clara's eyes hardened.
“Because Daniel hated driving in storms.”
A small detail.
The kind investigators ignored.
“He would pull over in drizzle. That night, there was a weather advisory. I called him at eight. He said he was already home.”
Vincent frowned.
“But the crash happened at ten-forty.”
“Exactly.”
A quiet chill moved through the room.
“So somebody put him back in the truck.”
“Or forced him into it.”
“Why didn't you come to me?”
Clara gave him a stunned look.
“Come to you?”
“Yes.”
“You were the reason he was involved in the first place.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“He worked for me. That doesn't mean I killed him.”
“I didn't know that.”
“So instead you disappeared?”
“I took our daughter and left Massachusetts.”
Vincent paused.
“Daughter?”
Clara's face changed.
She had said too much.
“Where is she?”
“Not your concern.”
“How old?”
“Vincent.”
It was the first time she used his first name.
He noticed.
“So the two-year employment gap—”
“I was hiding.”
“From Bellini?”
“From anyone connected to you.”
“Then why come here?”
Clara laughed once.
It sounded almost broken.
“Because hiding costs money.”
She walked toward the window.
“My daughter's name is Lily. She's six. She has a congenital heart condition.”
Vincent said nothing.
“She needed surgery last year. Insurance covered most of it, but 'most' is a beautiful word until you see what remains.”
She looked at him.
“I owe one hundred eighty-seven thousand dollars.”
Now her exhausted interview made sense.
Triple salary.
No curiosity about the estate.
No fear of Vincent.
Fear had competition.
A sick child and crushing debt could make almost anything look small.
“Where is Lily?”
“With my sister in Worcester.”
“Is she safe?”
“She was until somebody took that photograph out of storage.”
Vincent looked at the image again.
“If whoever sent this wanted you dead, they wouldn't warn me.”
“Unless they want you to do it.”
He met her eyes.
Clara continued.
“They want you suspicious.”
Vincent hated that she was probably right.
His phone rang.
Dominic.
Vincent answered.
“We found Bellini,” Dominic said.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“His condo in Cambridge.”
Vincent frowned.
“You said he'd fled.”
“His driver took the car. Bellini never left.”
“Bring him.”
“I already did.”
Twenty minutes later Carlo Bellini sat inside Vincent's office.
Sixty-two.
Silver hair.
Tailored gray suit.
Perfect manners.
An orange-clove lozenge rested between his teeth.
Vincent watched him unwrap another.
Clara remained behind the one-way security glass in the adjoining room with Dominic.
Bellini looked offended rather than frightened.
“You locked me in a car like an animal.”
“Matteo remembers the bombing.”
The lozenge stopped moving in Bellini's mouth.
Small.
But Vincent saw it.
“What does he remember?”
“A man beneath the SUV.”
Bellini said nothing.
“He smelled oranges.”
Bellini slowly removed the lozenge.
Then he laughed.
“Vincent.”
“You find this funny?”
“I find it insulting.”
He placed the candy on a tissue.
“I've eaten these since we were twenty-five. Half the organization knows it.”
Vincent watched him.
“Your security badge was found near the breaker panel last night.”
“My badge disappeared Monday.”
“You didn't report it.”
“I have three.”
“Convenient.”
Bellini leaned forward.
“Ask Dominic.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because I told him.”
The office became silent.
Behind the glass, Clara turned toward Dominic.
Dominic's face remained unreadable.
Vincent called through the intercom.
“Come in.”
Dominic entered.
Bellini looked at him.
“Tell him.”
Dominic hesitated.
Vincent noticed.
“When did Carlo report the missing badge?”
“Monday.”
Vincent's anger arrived quietly.
“And why wasn't I told?”
“It didn't seem serious.”
“My son's cameras went dead using that badge.”
“I know that now.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“You decide what I need to know?”
Dominic held his ground.
“I decide what reaches you when you're dealing with ten emergencies at once. That's my job.”
“Not anymore.”
Dominic's expression hardened.
Vincent looked toward Bellini.
“Your ring.”
“What?”
“The Rossi signet.”
Bellini lifted his left hand.
Bare.
“I lost it years ago.”
“Where?”
Bellini looked uncomfortable.
“Ask your brother.”
Vincent stared at him.
“Anthony?”
“He took it.”
“When?”
“Isabella's funeral.”
That made no sense.
“Why would Anthony take your ring?”
Bellini shook his head.
“You have spent fourteen months hunting enemies outside this family because you don't want to look at the people sitting at your own table.”
Vincent grabbed Bellini by the jacket.
Dominic stepped forward.
“Boss—”
Vincent ignored him.
“What are you saying?”
Bellini met his eyes.
“Ask Anthony why Isabella was planning to leave you.”
Vincent released him.
The room seemed to shift.
“What?”
Carlo's voice became softer.
“You didn't know?”
Vincent's face went still.
Bellini realized he truly had not.
“Oh, God.”
Vincent's heartbeat slowed.
Dangerously.
“What are you talking about?”
“Isabella met with an attorney three weeks before the bombing.”
Vincent heard Clara enter behind him.
Nobody stopped her.
Bellini looked almost ashamed now.
“She was preparing custody papers.”
Vincent stared.
“No.”
“She wasn't leaving because she stopped loving you.”
Bellini paused.
“She was leaving because she discovered something inside your business.”
Vincent's mouth went dry.
“Daniel Hayes discovered false shipping manifests,” Clara said.
Bellini turned.
Recognition crossed his face.
“You.”
Clara stepped closer.
“My husband told you.”
Bellini's eyes widened.
“I told him to stop looking.”
“You told him you'd help.”
“I tried.”
Clara's voice broke.
“He died.”
Bellini looked at Vincent.
“You think I killed Daniel?”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Bellini swallowed.
Then whispered,
“The same person Isabella was afraid of.”
Vincent's fingers curled.
“Name him.”
Bellini looked toward Dominic.
Then toward Clara.
Then back to Vincent.
“Anthony.”
Vincent's younger brother.
Matteo's uncle.
The man who visited the boy every Sunday.
The man Matteo still called Uncle Tony.
Before Vincent could speak, a gunshot cracked somewhere upstairs.
Everyone froze.
A second shot followed.
Then Dominic's radio erupted.
“Security breach! Matteo's wing!”
Vincent ran.
Again.
But this time Clara was ahead of him.
And as they reached the staircase, a child's scream tore through the mansion.
Not Matteo.
A little girl's voice.
Clara stopped dead.
Her face went white.
“Lily.”
Vincent turned.
May you like
Clara whispered,
“My daughter is in this house.”
