Chapter 5 - The Name Leonard Buried
Sebastian read Isabel’s letter three times.
The first time, his face showed nothing.
The second time, his jaw tightened.
The third time, he folded the paper so carefully Norah understood he was close to breaking something.
Luca stood at the storage locker entrance speaking quietly into his phone.
Norah looked at the skeleton.
Isabel Santos had waited seventeen years to become evidence.
That thought made the room feel colder.
“We need police,” Norah said.
Sebastian looked at her.
“Not local.”
“Why?”
“Because Victor has owned pieces of Kenosha law enforcement for years.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Yes.”
“Do you own pieces too?”
Luca stopped speaking.
Sebastian’s eyes hardened.
“That is a dangerous question.”
“Good.”
He stared at her.
Norah continued.
“If we are standing beside a dead woman connected to your family and my father, I need to know whether the person calling investigators is calling investigators or employees.”
Sebastian’s expression did not soften.
But he answered.
“I know a state investigator who does not work for me.”
“Name?”
“Evelyn Shaw.”
“Do you trust her?”
“No.”
“Excellent start.”
“I trust that she dislikes me enough to enjoy proving me wrong.”
Norah considered.
“That is better.”
Luca resumed the call.
Norah crouched near the wooden crate without touching it.
Leonard Collins’s mark had been burned into the lid.
LC.
A small chisel.
A crescent moon.
Her father used the symbol on private restoration pieces, never commercial work.
She ran her eyes along the seams.
“Sebastian.”
“What?”
“The crate has been opened.”
He moved closer.
“How can you tell?”
“Different nails.”
Two along the rear edge were machine-made.
The rest hand-cut.
Newer corrosion.
Someone opened the crate years after Leonard sealed it.
“Could Isabel have opened it?”
“Maybe.”
“No pry damage.”
Norah pointed.
“Whoever did it knew how.”
Sebastian looked toward the skeleton.
“Julian’s father.”
“Henri?”
“He was a jeweler.”
“Or mine.”
Silence.
Leonard.
Norah hated that every answer returned to him.
State investigator Evelyn Shaw arrived forty minutes later.
She was in her fifties, wore no makeup, carried no visible fear, and looked at Sebastian Romano the way a dentist looked at a difficult molar.
“Romano.”
“Shaw.”
“You find bodies recreationally now?”
“Only on weekdays.”
Norah looked between them.
“You two have history.”
Shaw looked at her.
“You must be Collins.”
“How do you know?”
“Catherine called.”
Norah exhaled.
Of course.
Everyone’s dead relatives and elderly aunts apparently ran an information network better than modern intelligence agencies.
Shaw entered the locker.
Her expression changed when she saw Isabel.
“Damn.”
“You knew her?” Sebastian asked.
“No.”
“But?”
“I know the name.”
She looked at him.
“Your mother’s death file.”
Sebastian went still.
“Isabel was in it?”
“As a missing witness.”
“What?”
Shaw removed gloves.
“Not in the official report. In supplemental notes.”
“Who wrote them?”
“A detective named Patrick Bell.”
Sebastian’s face changed.
Small.
But Norah saw it.
“Bell.”
Shaw noticed.
“You know the name?”
“No.”
Norah did not believe him.
Neither did Shaw.
She smiled without warmth.
“Good. We’re already lying.”
Norah liked her.
Shaw called forensic technicians she trusted from a state unit.
Then she examined the crate.
“Can we open it?”
“Not until scene photographs.”
Norah nodded.
Sebastian did not.
“Now.”
Shaw looked at him.
“See? This is why people find you exhausting.”
Norah almost laughed.
Sebastian glanced at her.
“Do not encourage her.”
The scene team arrived.
Photographs.
Measurements.
Evidence tags.
Isabel’s remains were carefully documented.
Cause of death impossible to determine on site.
One detail mattered immediately.
A small circular defect in the back of the skull.
Old gunshot wound.
Sebastian turned toward the door.
Norah caught his sleeve.
He stopped.
“Where?”
“Victor.”
“You do not know that.”
“I know enough.”
“No.”
He looked at her hand on his sleeve.
She released it.
“You know what happens if you go after him now.”
His voice lowered.
“Tell me.”
“You become exactly what everyone expects.”
“That has never bothered me.”
“It bothers you now.”
That hit.
She saw it.
Good.
Shaw returned.
“She’s right.”
Sebastian looked at her.
“Both of you are becoming irritating.”
Norah said, “Growth.”
The crate was opened at 6:03 p.m.
Inside was not the original necklace.
It was more dangerous.
Records.
Dozens of envelopes.
Photographs.
Restoration logs.
Copies of bank transfers.
A small reel of microfilm.
And one sealed glass vial containing three strands of dark hair.
Norah stared.
“DNA.”
Shaw looked at the handwritten label.
S.R. — 1991.
Sebastian would have been four.
Beside it, another vial.
M.B.
Hair.
Two samples.
A paternity test before modern consumer testing existed, perhaps preserved for later analysis.
Sebastian read the initials.
“M.B.”
Norah watched his face.
“You know.”
He did not answer.
Shaw did.
“Michael Bellucci.”
Sebastian turned.
Shaw opened an old photograph from the crate.
A young man in a Cook County prosecutor’s office.
Dark hair.
Tall.
Same eyes.
Not similar.
The same.
Norah looked from the photograph to Sebastian.
“Your father.”
Sebastian did not move.
Shaw read the back.
MICHAEL BELLUCCI — 1987.
Sebastian was born that year.
“Who was he?” Norah asked.
Shaw’s voice changed.
“Assistant state’s attorney. Organized crime unit.”
Luca swore.
A mafia boss raised by Alessandro Romano.
Biological son of a prosecutor.
The irony would have been funny in another family.
“What happened to him?” Norah asked.
Shaw looked at Sebastian.
“He died in 1989.”
“How?”
“Hit-and-run.”
Sebastian laughed once.
“No.”
Nobody asked what he meant.
They all understood.
Official story.
Convenient death.
Norah opened Leonard’s restoration ledger.
Page after page.
Mirella’s pieces.
Henri’s replica work.
Dates.
Codes.
Then one entry:
11/16 — I.S. SAFE.
11/17 — BELL FILE COPIED.
11/19 — A.R. ASKING QUESTIONS.
12/02 — V.R. FOLLOWED ME.
02/08 — MOVED ORIGINAL.
03/01 — N. MUST NEVER KNOW.
Norah froze.
N.
Her.
Maybe.
Sebastian saw.
“What?”
She showed him.
“N.”
“Could be anyone.”
“My father wrote this.”
“Norah is not a rare initial.”
“Neither is denial.”
She turned the page.
Nothing.
The next five pages had been cut out.
Cleanly.
Not torn.
Removed with a blade.
Someone took whatever Leonard wrote next.
Shaw bagged the ledger.
Norah protested.
“It’s evidence.”
“It’s my father’s.”
“Both can be true.”
Norah hated reasonable people.
Sebastian examined the microfilm reel.
“Original necklace?”
Shaw looked at him.
“Could be copies.”
Norah shook her head.
“The tape said the payment ledger was behind the center setting.”
She picked up the ruby from cabinet 314.
M.R.
“What if this is the center stone?”
Sebastian frowned.
“It is too small.”
“As it is now.”
She held it beneath a portable loupe.
The stone was not a natural ruby.
She had suspected in the basement but had been distracted.
Now she saw it clearly.
Layered synthetic.
Two pieces fused.
A ruby shell.
She looked at Sebastian.
“Tool case.”
He handed it over without arguing.
Progress.
Norah used a fine clamp.
Applied controlled pressure.
The ruby separated.
Inside was a tiny metal wafer.
Shaw leaned closer.
“What is that?”
Norah smiled faintly.
“Something jewelers should not put inside stones.”
She lifted the wafer.
Laser-etched numbers.
A six-digit code.
270914.
Sebastian stared.
“What date is that?”
Norah rearranged.
“Could be 27-09-14.”
“No.”
He looked at the photograph of Michael Bellucci.
“September twenty-seventh.”
“What?”
“My birthday.”
Norah looked at him.
1987.
Not 2014.
“270987?”
Sebastian shook his head.
“The code is 270914.”
Shaw said, “Could be combination.”
“To what?”
Norah looked at the old suitcase.
One compartment remained locked.
Tiny brass dial.
Six digits.
She entered 270914.
Click.
Inside:
One passport.
Not Isabel’s.
Mirella Romano.
Issued under another name.
And a photograph dated three days after Mirella’s official death.
Norah’s heart stopped.
Mirella stood outside a bus station in Milwaukee.
Alive.
Sebastian went completely still.
“No.”
Norah checked the date.
Again.
No mistake.
Three days after the crash.
Shaw whispered, “Jesus.”
Sebastian picked up the photograph.
His hands shook.
Not visibly to most people.
Norah saw.
“My mother survived.”
“Or the photograph date is wrong.”
“No.”
His voice broke at the edge.
“She survived.”
Seventeen years of grief shifted.
Not disappeared.
Changed shape.
If Mirella survived the crash, then someone else died in that car.
Shaw reached into the compartment.
Another envelope.
M.B. written on front.
Michael Bellucci.
Inside:
One legal affidavit.
Signed by Leonard Collins.
I, LEONARD COLLINS, SWEAR THAT MIRELLA ROMANO SURVIVED THE NOVEMBER 14 VEHICLE EXPLOSION AND LEFT ILLINOIS UNDER PROTECTION PROVIDED BY MICHAEL BELLUCCI’S FORMER TASK FORCE.
Sebastian stared.
“But Bellucci was dead.”
Shaw read further.
“The task force continued unofficially.”
Norah’s pulse changed.
“Where did Mirella go?”
Shaw turned the page.
The next sentence had been blacked out by hand.
Not government redaction.
Ink.
Someone deliberately hid the destination.
Then Norah found a final line at the bottom.
IF MIRELLA DOES NOT RETURN BY SEBASTIAN’S THIRTY-EIGHTH BIRTHDAY, ASSUME SHE CANNOT.
Sebastian looked at Norah.
He was thirty-eight.
“How long ago was your birthday?”
“Four months.”
Silence.
Whatever deadline Mirella and Leonard created had already passed.
Shaw looked at the skeleton.
“Isabel knew where Mirella went.”
Sebastian turned toward her.
“Then someone killed the witness before she could tell us.”
Norah looked at Leonard’s ledger.
V.R. FOLLOWED ME.
Victor Romano.
But one thing bothered her.
If Victor killed Isabel seventeen years ago, why leave the body inside a paid storage locker full of evidence?
That was not cleanup.
That was storage.
Someone expected the locker to remain hidden.
Someone who knew Catherine would keep paying.
Norah turned toward Sebastian.
“Who knew Catherine had the key?”
“No one.”
“Wrong.”
He frowned.
“She did.”
“Who?”
“Isabel.”
Norah looked at the skeleton.
Then the crate.
Then the cassette.
A terrible possibility formed.
“What if Isabel did not die seventeen years ago?”
Shaw looked at her.
“Explain.”
“The clothing tells us nothing yet. The storage dust tells us the locker has been closed, but not for seventeen years. Someone opened the crate later. Someone may have used this place for years.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed.
“You think the body is recent.”
“Recent enough that Catherine may have been paying for a living person’s hiding place.”
Shaw called the forensic technician.
They checked one exposed fabric label.
Manufacture date.
2018.
Everyone went silent.
The coat on the skeleton had been made seven years ago.
Isabel had survived at least a decade after Mirella’s death.
Maybe longer.
Sebastian looked at the letter addressed to him.
“My sweet boy.”
The ink.
The paper.
Not seventeen years old.
Recent.
Someone killed Isabel within the last several years.
And left her here with evidence designed to be found now.
Norah’s phone rang.
Her workshop alarm.
She opened the security app.
Front door breached.
Camera feed.
A man entered.
Silver hair.
Elegant coat.
Sebastian saw the screen.
His face changed.
“Victor.”
Norah looked at him.
“That’s your uncle?”
“Yes.”
Victor Romano crossed her workshop without hurry.
He walked directly to the old cabinet containing Leonard’s private sample plates.
He opened the correct drawer.
No searching.
No hesitation.
Then he looked directly into the security camera.
Smiled.
And held up a handwritten note.
May you like
COME HOME, SEBASTIAN.
YOUR MOTHER IS WAITING.
