Chapter 3 - THE BOX ROYCE MERCER STOLE
The emergency board meeting ended with three lawyers, two police detectives, and Salvatore Rinaldi leaving through different doors.
Salvatore was not arrested.
Not yet.
Cassian had no physical proof of the burial beyond Delaney’s statement and the captured diggers, whose accounts police were still verifying.
But the incapacity vote died.
Hard to declare a man missing when he sat at the table with mud under his fingernails.
Delaney barely noticed.
One sentence had taken all the room inside her.
Royce blackmailed his way in.
Cassian’s office occupied the top floor.
Not flashy.
Dark wood.
Old photographs.
A wall map of Chicago marked with colored pins.
Dr. Moreno forced him onto a couch.
Milo stayed outside.
Delaney stood by the window.
“You lied.”
Cassian looked at her.
“I withheld.”
“That is what liars with lawyers call lying.”
Fair.
He exhaled carefully.
“I learned the box existed after my father died.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
“And Royce?”
“Already inside the company.”
“Start at the beginning.”
Cassian looked toward an old photograph on the wall.
Antonio Rinaldi.
Black suit.
Heavy face.
Three sons.
Cassian younger.
Salvatore beside Antonio.
Another man Delaney did not know.
“My father developed property.”
“And ran crime.”
Cassian’s eyes moved to her.
“Yes.”
No euphemism.
Good.
“Construction unions, waste hauling, debt collection, gambling.”
He continued.
“Rinaldi Development was the cleanest part.”
“Was.”
“Mostly.”
Delaney crossed her arms.
“What did Royce steal?”
“A banker box.”
“From where?”
“My father’s private office.”
“What was in it?”
Cassian paused.
“Inspection reports.”
“City?”
“Yes.”
Her pulse jumped.
“Royce was a building inspector.”
“Yes.”
“Your father bribed him.”
“No.”
“Then?”
“My father bribed other inspectors.”
That surprised her.
Cassian continued.
“Royce discovered it.”
Delaney stared.
“The misconduct inquiry.”
“My father arranged it.”
Her stomach dropped.
“What?”
“Royce was investigating unsafe buildings Antonio wanted condemned cheaply.”
“The city accused Royce of taking bribes.”
“Because the landlords who paid my father’s inspectors suddenly testified against Royce.”
Delaney sat.
Her knees had stopped feeling reliable.
Her mother had said Royce had a hole where his heart should be.
Maybe she had been wrong.
Or maybe people could be right and wrong at once.
“What did he do?”
“He stole copies of Antonio’s payment records and inspection reports.”
“The box.”
“Yes.”
“He threatened your father.”
“Yes.”
“For money?”
Cassian looked at her.
“No.”
“For what?”
“A job.”
Delaney laughed.
“That makes no sense.”
“It did to Royce.”
“Why?”
“Access.”
The answer chilled her.
“He wanted inside.”
“Yes.”
“To collect more evidence.”
“That is what I believe now.”
“Now?”
“For years, my father told me Royce was a parasite who blackmailed him after getting caught dirty.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Yes.”
At least honest.
“What changed?”
“After Antonio died, I found a list in his safe.”
Cassian opened a drawer.
Removed a photocopy.
Names.
Payments.
Dates.
At bottom:
R. MERCER — NOT BOUGHT.
Delaney touched the line.
Not bought.
“Your father wrote that?”
“Yes.”
“And you still kept Royce employed.”
“I watched him.”
“Like a criminal.”
“Yes.”
“Did he know?”
“Probably.”
“What happened three weeks ago?”
Cassian’s face hardened.
“Royce requested a private meeting.”
“Did you go?”
“Yes.”
“He told you?”
“That Rinaldi Development had been using fraudulent condemnations and relocation agreements for at least six years.”
“Six.”
“Yes.”
Her mother’s block one.
“Who?”
“He didn't know the top.”
“Salvatore.”
“He suspected.”
“Val—” no, wrong universe. She stopped herself. “Who else?”
Cassian opened the audit.
Names.
Executives.
City clerk.
Property manager.
A bank officer.
Not only family.
“Royce gave me account numbers.”
“Then disappeared.”
“Two days later.”
“Why?”
“He said he needed to retrieve the original box.”
Delaney frowned.
“Fourteen years later?”
“Apparently Antonio never recovered it.”
“Where was it?”
“Royce would not say.”
“Why tell Salvatore to think about the box?”
Cassian’s eyes narrowed.
“Salvatore asked me.”
“What exactly?”
“Where Royce hid it.”
“So Salvatore knows what is inside.”
“Yes.”
“And thinks you know.”
“Yes.”
Delaney stared at the map.
“Does the box prove Mercer Street?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Your block is newer fraud.”
“Then why would fourteen-year-old records matter?”
“Pattern.”
Cassian sat slowly upright despite Dr. Moreno’s instructions.
“If Antonio started the scheme—bribed inspections, manipulated condemnations—then someone inherited it.”
“Salvatore.”
“Possibly.”
“Stop.”
Cassian’s gaze sharpened.
“You like evidence.”
“So do you when it protects people you don't want to accuse.”
That landed.
He leaned back.
“Fair.”
Delaney opened her swollen notebook.
“What did my father say about me?”
Cassian went still.
“Nothing.”
She laughed.
“Of course.”
“He said he had a daughter once.”
“Once?”
“He did not say your name.”
“Did he say why he left?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
Her anger found a new target.
“You worked with him fourteen years and never asked why he abandoned a kid?”
Cassian’s face hardened.
“I did not know him socially.”
“You knew enough to call him a parasite.”
“Yes.”
“And enough to watch him.”
“Yes.”
“But not enough to ask whether he had somewhere to sleep at Christmas.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened.
“That is not fair.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“It isn't.”
Silence.
They were both talking about more than Royce.
Power created distance.
Cassian could know every account and not know the person.
Delaney knew how that felt from the other side.
Milo knocked.
Entered.
“We have the diggers’ statements.”
Cassian turned.
“And?”
“They say Salvatore ordered the burial.”
“Good.”
“One is willing to testify.”
Delaney asked, “The other?”
“Lawyered up.”
“Salvatore?”
“Gone.”
Cassian’s face hardened.
“Where?”
“Office empty. Phone dumped near Chinatown.”
“Family?”
“His wife says she hasn’t seen him.”
Cassian stood.
Dr. Moreno appeared from nowhere.
“No.”
He looked annoyed.
She pointed.
“Couch.”
Delaney hid a smile.
Cassian sat.
Milo continued.
“Also, one of the ghost bank accounts tied to Mercer Street was accessed this morning.”
Delaney’s pulse jumped.
“By who?”
“Cash withdrawal.”
“Where?”
Milo looked at her.
“Near St. Mary’s shelter.”
She froze.
St. Mary’s.
The women’s shelter on Archer where Delaney sometimes showered.
Where mail could be held for thirty days.
Where she had registered after losing the apartment.
Cassian noticed.
“You know it.”
“Yes.”
“What is there?”
Delaney thought.
Mail.
Her backpack had everything important.
Except—
“My mother’s box.”
Cassian’s eyes narrowed.
“What box?”
“When we were evicted, I could not carry everything.”
Her pulse accelerated.
“St. Mary’s stored one banker box for me.”
Everyone went still.
Cassian spoke carefully.
“What is inside?”
“Medical records. Lease papers. Mom’s tax files.”
“And?”
Delaney remembered.
A metal cash box Nell kept under the bed.
Old documents.
Royce’s letters?
She had never opened all of it after her mother died.
Grief made paper impossible.
“I don't know.”
Cassian and Milo exchanged a look.
“No.”
Delaney stood.
“What?”
“You are not going alone.”
“I didn't say I was.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Annoying.”
“Accurate.”
They drove with police this time.
No private war.
Cassian stayed behind after Delaney and Dr. Moreno both threatened him.
St. Mary’s occupied a brick building beside a church.
The director, Sister Agnes, knew Delaney.
Not a nun despite the title everyone used.
Sixty.
Short hair.
Eyes that missed nothing.
When Delaney entered with detectives, Agnes frowned.
“You found trouble.”
“Trouble found me.”
“Usually how it claims innocence.”
Delaney almost smiled.
“Someone accessed mail or storage this morning?”
Agnes’s expression changed.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A man with identification claiming to be your father.”
Delaney stopped breathing.
“What?”
“He had your birth certificate copy.”
“Describe him.”
Agnes did.
Sixties.
Gray hair.
Scar along chin.
Delaney had one memory of Royce Mercer at age six.
A scar beneath his chin from falling off a motorcycle.
“He’s alive.”
Her voice sounded distant.
Agnes looked confused.
“Of course he is.”
No.
Not of course.
“He took my box?”
“No.”
Delaney blinked.
“Why not?”
“I did not like him.”
Agnes shrugged.
“So I lied.”
“What did you say?”
“That we disposed of it after ninety days.”
Delaney stared.
“I love you.”
“Get in line.”
A detective asked for the box.
Agnes led them downstairs.
Storage cage.
Plastic bins.
Labeled bags.
One banker box.
MERCER, DELANEY.
Delaney touched the lid.
Her mother’s handwriting.
D. KEEP.
Her throat tightened.
She opened.
Nell’s medical files.
Dialysis schedules.
Bills.
Lease.
Photographs.
At bottom, a metal cash box.
Locked.
Delaney knew the key.
Her mother wore it on a chain until hospital admission.
Delaney still had the chain in her backpack.
She opened.
Letters.
Twenty-one years of letters.
All from Royce.
All unopened.
Delaney stopped breathing.
Addressed to Nell.
Returned? No.
Delivered.
Why unopened?
Nell kept them.
Never mentioned.
The first dated three months after Royce left.
The last dated four weeks before Nell died.
Cassian had said Royce never wrote to Delaney.
Maybe not directly.
Delaney picked the last letter.
Her hands shook.
Nell,
I found the property list. Mercer Street is on it.
Do not sign anything with Rinaldi letterhead, even if my name is there.
Salvatore has access to my signature.
I am trying to get Cassian to see it, but if I move too early they will know I kept the box.
Take Delaney and go to Miriam if you can.
Do not tell her why until I call.
I know I have no right to ask you for anything.
I am asking anyway.
R.
Delaney could not breathe.
Four weeks before her mother died.
Nell had already signed.
Maybe because dialysis.
Maybe because fear.
Maybe because she did not trust Royce.
At bottom of cash box lay a key.
Small.
Brass.
Tag:
314.
And a photograph.
Royce Mercer standing beside a younger Cassian Rinaldi.
Between them, a woman Delaney recognized.
Her mother.
Nell.
Alive.
Healthy.
Smiling.
Date on back:
ELEVEN YEARS AGO.
Delaney stared.
“My mother knew Cassian.”
The detective looked.
Delaney’s hands went cold.
Cassian had said Royce never talked about her.
He had not said he never met Nell.
Maybe because he didn't know.
Maybe because the photograph proved another meeting he had forgotten.
Then a voice came from the storage-room doorway.
“I wondered when you’d find that.”
Delaney turned.
An older man stood there.
Gray hair.
Scar beneath chin.
Tears in his eyes.
Royce Mercer.
Her father.
May you like
Alive.
Holding a gun.
