Chapter 6 - THE MAN WHO KNEW WHERE THE BODIES WERE BURIED
The police wouldn't allow Grace into her apartment until the evidence technicians finished.
She stood on the sidewalk staring at the broken second-floor window.
A cold wind moved down the street.
Anthony had brought us from Camille's office.
The building's other residents gathered near the entrance, whispering.
Some recognized me.
Others pretended not to.
Grace barely noticed.
“My mother bought that table,” she said.
I followed her gaze.
Through the broken window, I could see part of the small kitchen.
“She saved for three months.”
I didn't know what to say.
Grace wiped her eyes angrily.
“It isn't expensive.”
“I know.”
“But she was so proud of it.”
I looked at her.
“I'm sorry.”
She turned toward me.
“Why do you keep apologizing?”
“Because people connected to my family are making your life dangerous.”
“And apologizing doesn't stop them.”
“No.”
She looked away.
“Then please stop saying it.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
A detective approached us.
Her badge identified her as Detective Laura Keene of the Boston Police Department.
She was in her forties, with dark blond hair pulled into a low ponytail.
She studied us without much warmth.
“Miss Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“I'm Detective Keene.”
“Can you tell me what's happening?”
“Your apartment was entered through a rear window.”
“Whoever did it searched several rooms.”
“Was anything stolen?”
“We haven't completed the inventory.”
Grace folded her arms.
“My father's belongings were in the bedroom.”
“We found the trunk open.”
Keene glanced at me.
“Mr. Romano, I understand you're acquainted with the victim.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Her former hotel employer was involved in a dispute concerning my canceled wedding.”
Keene raised an eyebrow.
“That's a complicated introduction.”
“It's been a complicated weekend.”
She didn't smile.
“I also understand you're investigating events connected to the North Pier fire.”
Camille stepped forward.
“We're preserving financial records that may be relevant to an earlier civil matter.”
Keene looked at her.
“Then I strongly suggest you share any credible evidence with the appropriate authorities.”
“We intend to.”
“Good.”
Her gaze returned to me.
“And Mr. Romano?”
“Yes?”
“Please don't conduct your own criminal investigation.”
I held her eyes.
“Understood.”
She studied me for another moment.
Then she turned to Grace.
“Whoever entered your apartment seemed particularly interested in papers.”
“We found envelopes opened, books searched, and the lining removed from a wooden box.”
Grace's face tightened.
“The jewelry box.”
“Yes.”
“Did they find what they wanted?”
Keene hesitated.
“We can't know that yet.”
“But they didn't take the television.”
“No.”
“Or the computer?”
“No.”
Grace looked at me.
“They came for Dad's records.”
I didn't answer.
Keene noticed the exchange.
“What records?”
Camille explained that Grace had recently discovered historical documents belonging to her father.
The detective listened carefully.
Then she asked for copies and details about the threatening messages.
Grace agreed.
For the next hour, she gave a statement.
She was precise.
She didn't exaggerate.
She didn't claim to know who had broken in.
When she mentioned the Romano name, she didn't look toward me.
I was grateful for that.
She was telling the truth as she knew it.
And the truth didn't need my permission.
Later, when she was allowed upstairs, I waited in the corridor.
I could hear her moving through the apartment.
There was the sound of a drawer opening.
Then silence.
After several minutes, she called my name.
I entered.
The bedroom was a mess.
Clothes lay on the floor.
The trunk had been overturned.
Photographs were scattered across the bed.
Grace stood holding an empty wooden box.
“My mother's wedding ring.”
I looked at her.
“It's gone?”
She nodded.
“Why would they take that?”
“Maybe they thought something was hidden inside.”
She shook her head.
“It was just a ring.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“The only jewelry she ever owned.”
I felt anger sharpen into something dangerous.
I had seen thieves steal money.
I had seen men destroy entire businesses for pride.
But there was something particularly cruel about taking an object that mattered only because somebody loved it.
“Can you describe it for the police?” I asked.
Grace nodded.
“Plain gold.”
“A tiny scratch near the inside edge.”
“Dad had it engraved.”
“What did it say?”
She looked down.
“Always home.”
I remembered the letter.
Tell Grace I was coming home.
The words struck me.
I wanted to promise I would recover the ring.
But I had no right to make a promise I couldn't guarantee.
So I said:
“Tell Detective Keene everything you remember.”
Grace nodded.
Then she knelt beside the trunk.
She began gathering her father's photographs.
I crouched beside her.
“Let me help.”
She hesitated.
Then handed me a stack.
We worked silently.
I placed the pictures in an empty folder while she sorted the letters.
At the bottom of the trunk, beneath a torn lining, she found a flattened blue envelope.
It had been taped to the wood years earlier.
The intruder had ripped the lining but somehow missed it.
Grace lifted it carefully.
“My mother hid this.”
I looked at the envelope.
“What is it?”
“I don't know.”
She opened it.
Inside was a small photograph of a white delivery van.
The license plate was partially visible.
A handwritten date appeared on the back.
NOVEMBER 20, 2014.
The night of the fire.
There was another note.
THE MAN WHO CAME BACK.
Grace stared at the words.
I looked at the photograph.
The van was parked outside the North Pier warehouse.
A man stood beside its open rear door.
His face was turned away from the camera.
But I recognized his posture.
The expensive dark coat.
The slightly uneven way he stood.
I had known that man since I was fourteen.
“Vincent,” I whispered.
Grace looked at me.
“You're sure?”
“Not completely.”
“But I think it's him.”
She studied the image.
“Then why would Mom write the man who came back?”
I shook my head.
“I don't know.”
A voice spoke from the doorway.
“Because he came back after the fire started.”
We turned.
Aunt Rosa stood in the bedroom.
She wore a long brown coat, a dark scarf, and the expression of a woman who had never learned to be intimidated.
Anthony appeared behind her.
“Boss, she insisted on coming upstairs.”
Rosa gave him a sharp look.
“I didn't insist.”
“I informed him.”
She turned toward me.
“Nicholas, your phone was off.”
“I was speaking with the detective.”
“I heard.”
Her eyes moved toward Grace.
“So you're Thomas Bennett's daughter.”
Grace stood slowly.
“Yes, ma'am.”
Rosa studied her.
Then something in her expression softened.
“You have his eyes.”
Grace swallowed.
“You knew my father?”
“Yes.”
“Did you believe he stole the money?”
Rosa's face changed.
“No.”
Grace pressed a hand to her chest.
The answer seemed to hurt as much as it relieved her.
“Then why didn't anybody defend him?”
Rosa looked toward me.
“Because the people who tried ended up dead.”
The room went silent.
I stood.
“Aunt Rosa.”
She ignored me.
Instead, she approached Grace.
“Your father was a decent man.”
“He argued with my brother because he thought Salvatore was moving too slowly.”
“He wanted to bring the evidence to the authorities immediately.”
“Salvatore wanted to make sure the families could recover their money first.”
Grace's voice trembled.
“They were working together?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell anyone?”
Rosa looked down.
“Because I was a coward.”
I stared at her.
I'd never heard her speak about herself that way.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
“After Salvatore died, Vincent came to the house.”
“He told me Thomas had betrayed my brother.”
“He showed me documents.”
“He showed me an account statement.”
“And he told me Thomas had taken the money.”
“But you didn't believe him?”
“Not completely.”
“Why?”
Rosa looked at the photograph in Grace's hand.
“Because I'd spoken to Salvatore earlier that evening.”
My pulse quickened.
“What did he say?”
“He told me he was meeting Thomas to collect the final records.”
“He said they were going to expose the theft.”
“Did he name the person responsible?”
Rosa hesitated.
“He said one of our own had helped Arthur Hale.”
I felt a chill.
“Who?”
“He wouldn't tell me over the phone.”
“He said we'd talk the next morning.”
She took a shaky breath.
“There was no next morning.”
Grace held out the photograph.
“Do you recognize this man?”
Rosa examined it.
Her face went pale.
“Where did you find this?”
“In my mother's trunk.”
Rosa looked at me.
“Nicholas.”
“What?”
“This photograph was taken after Vincent told everyone he'd left North Pier.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“How do you know?”
“Because Salvatore called me that night.”
“He said Vincent had gone home.”
“He said he and Thomas were alone.”
I looked again at the date.
NOVEMBER 20, 2014.
Then at the dark coat in the photograph.
“Maybe the picture was taken before the call.”
Rosa shook her head.
“Look at the windows.”
I studied the image.
Several warehouse windows were dark.
One upper window had a faint orange glow.
At first, I'd assumed it was interior lighting.
Rosa pointed toward the roofline.
“There's smoke.”
Grace leaned closer.
She was right.
A thin gray shape rose behind the building.
The picture had been taken after the fire began.
“And this van,” Rosa whispered.
“I saw it that night.”
I turned.
“Where?”
“At the hospital.”
My heart began pounding.
“What hospital?”
“Mass General.”
“After they brought Salvatore in.”
“He was already gone when I arrived.”
Rosa's voice cracked.
“Vincent was there.”
“He told me he'd come straight from home.”
“But I saw that white van in the parking garage.”
I looked at the photograph.
Then at my aunt.
“Why didn't you tell the police?”
“I did.”
Rosa's eyes filled.
“I gave a statement.”
“What happened?”
“The detective said the van belonged to a contractor.”
“He said its presence meant nothing.”
“Then Vincent told me the police had cleared him.”
She looked ashamed.
“I let it go.”
Grace lowered the photograph.
“Did my mother know?”
Rosa nodded.
“Ellen came to see me after Thomas died.”
“She said somebody had followed him.”
“She begged me to help clear his name.”
“What did you do?”
Rosa wiped her eyes.
“I gave her money to leave Boston.”
Grace stepped back.
“You tried to send us away?”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“My mother spent years trying to prove Dad was innocent.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
Grace's voice shook.
“She worked two jobs.”
“She sold her wedding dress to pay for a lawyer.”
“She couldn't get anyone to listen.”
“She spent every anniversary of his death sitting at the kitchen table with his photograph.”
Rosa covered her mouth.
Grace was crying now.
“And you knew he might not have done anything wrong.”
I moved toward her.
“Grace.”
She shook her head.
“Please don't.”
I stopped.
Rosa stood slowly.
“You're right.”
She faced Grace.
“I was afraid.”
“I told myself silence would keep you safe.”
“Instead, I helped the people who hurt your family.”
The old woman held out her hands.
“I can't ask you to forgive that.”
Grace didn't answer.
She turned toward the window.
I watched my aunt struggle to remain composed.
Then I made a decision.
“Rosa.”
She looked at me.
“I need you to tell Camille everything.”
“All of it.”
She nodded.
“And I need to know whether there's anything else you've kept from me.”
Her expression changed.
For a terrible moment, I knew there was.
She looked at the photograph again.
Then she reached inside her handbag.
She removed a small black notebook.
Its cover was worn.
The corners were bent.
My father's initials were embossed on the front.
S.R.
I stared at it.
“Where did you get that?”
“Your father gave it to me two weeks before he died.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because he asked me not to give it to you until I was sure you could survive what was inside.”
I felt anger and disbelief rise together.
“You had twelve years.”
“I know.”
She held it toward me.
“Then take it.”
I opened the notebook.
Most pages contained ordinary business notes.
Shipping schedules.
Meeting times.
Names of contractors.
Then I reached a page dated November 17, 2014.
A single sentence had been written in my father's handwriting.
IF VINCENT GOES THROUGH WITH IT, NICHOLAS WILL LOSE MORE THAN THE COMPANY.
I stared at the words.
Then turned the page.
My father's next entry was even worse.
THE BOY MUST NEVER LEARN WHY HIS NAME IS ON THE TRANSFER.
I looked at Rosa.
“What boy?”
Her face crumpled.
“Nicholas.”
I held up the notebook.
“What does this mean?”
She closed her eyes.
Then whispered:
May you like
“Your father wasn't only trying to stop a theft.”
“He was trying to stop somebody from using you to cover it.”
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