I stared at her.
“And you never mentioned that to the police?”
“I did.”
That caught me by surprise.
“They said there was no evidence that anyone had followed him. No thre:ats. No unusual calls they could confirm. Gabriel died in a road acc!dent during a storm. The truck driver had no known connection to him.”
“Was the truck driver charged?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“The investigators said he lost control.”
I walked toward the fireplace.
My thoughts were moving quickly now.
Not emotionally.
Methodically.
Dates. Names. Connections.
Vincent. Gabriel.
A photograph from my younger years. A delivery driver who had d!ed. A brass key stamped 214.
Behind me, Maria asked, “Do you recognize the place?”
I turned around.
“The warehouse?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She nodded.
Then she said, “I do.”
I waited.
“It belonged to your father.”
The answer struck harder than I expected.
“My father owned dozens of warehouses.”
“Not this one.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I located it.”
I stared at her.
“It’s still there.”
“Where?”
“Red Hook.”
I knew Red Hook.
My father had operated along the waterfront decades earlier, before rising property values forced many of the old businesses away.
“How did you locate it?”
“The address was written inside the photograph sleeve.”
“And you went there.”
“Yes.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
I stared at her in disbelief.
“That was careless.”
“I had a husband who was gone and a four-year-old daughter asking why her father wasn’t coming home. Careless becomes a complicated word after that.”
I couldn’t disagree with her.
“What did you find?”
“A locked building.”
“That’s all?”
“Initially.”
She glanced toward my office.
“Then I noticed the number.”
“214.”
“Yes.”
My heartbeat slowed.
Not because I was calm.
Because I was focused.
“Where?”
“On a metal door along the side.”
“And the key?”
“Opened the lock.”
I remained silent.
Maria continued.
“Inside was a small room. Mostly empty. Old shelving. Broken chairs. Dust.”
“And?”
“A filing cabinet.”
Of course.
There was always something concealed behind something ordinary.
“What was inside?”
“Files.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know.”
“You read them.”
“No.”
I gave her a look.
“I opened one folder. It contained numbers and names I didn’t recognize. I saw yours.”
That stopped me.
“And Vincent’s.”
“What else?”
“Gabriel’s.”
My eyes narrowed.
“Under what?”
“I don’t know. There were initials, payments, dates.”
“And where are those files now?”
