Chapter 2 - THE SON NOBODY SPOKE ABOUT
Daniel Moretti’s bedroom had not been preserved.
That surprised Elina.
She expected a shrine.
Instead, Vincent had turned it into a guest room six years earlier.
Anna had hated him for it.
Teresa told Elina only after Vincent gave permission for staff to answer practical questions.
Good.
No secret gossip.
“Mrs. Moretti said he was erasing him.”
“And Vincent?”
“Said he was trying to let room breathe.”
Neither entirely wrong.
The red scarf found in sewing room had not come from Daniel’s bedroom.
Anna had kept it.
After his death, she wore it around shoulders on cold mornings.
When she died, she asked to be buried with it and the blue book.
At least that was what Vincent remembered.
Memory.
Now they needed records.
Attorney arrived at 9:00 a.m.
Laura Chen.
Forty-five.
Gray suit.
No fear of Vincent.
Good.
She listened.
Then said:
“Do not call police yet.”
Elina stiffened.
Laura saw.
“I mean not until we identify what was actually stolen and from where. Burial theft is serious, but we currently know funeral items are in the house. We do not know whether they entered the casket.”
Good.
Evidence.
She contacted funeral home.
Director records from Anna’s service showed personal effects:
Blue cloth children’s book.
Red wool scarf.
Wedding ring.
Rosary.
Ring and rosary were confirmed by funeral staff at final closure.
Book and scarf?
A preparatory note said:
FAMILY ITEMS TO BE PLACED BEFORE FINAL VIEWING.
No staff initials confirming final placement.
Vincent stared.
“I placed them.”
Laura asked:
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Private family viewing. Two hours before public.”
“Did you remain until closure?”
He stopped.
“No.”
There.
“Who stayed?”
“Anna’s sister, Claire.”
Vincent’s face changed.
Claire Romano.
Anna’s younger sister.
She had moved to Boston after funeral.
Rare contact.
“Could Claire have taken them?”
He looked angry.
Then stopped.
Possible was not guilty.
“Call her.”
Laura shook head.
“I will.”
Good.
Independent.
Claire answered on second call.
She did not deny.
“Yes.”
Vincent’s entire body went still.
Laura put speaker only with Claire’s agreement.
“Why?”
Claire’s voice shook.
“Because Anna asked me to.”
Silence.
Vincent stood.
“No.”
Claire said:
“She told me the week before she died.”
“Why?”
“She said you would bury them because you thought that was what she wanted.”
“That is what she told me.”
“I know.”
“Then why tell you something else?”
Claire cried.
“Because she didn’t trust you with Daniel.”
That sentence hurt.
Vincent said nothing.
Claire continued.
“She wanted book and scarf kept somewhere outside your control.”
“Where?”
“With me.”
“Then how did they come back?”
“I sent them.”
There.
Not intruder?
But lock screws.
“Sunday?” Laura asked.
“Yes.”
“Envelope too?”
“No.”
Vincent looked sharply.
“What?”
Claire sounded confused.
“What envelope?”
Laura explained only sentence.
ASK ANNA WHAT HAPPENED TO DANIEL.
Claire went silent.
Then:
“Oh God.”
“What?” Vincent demanded.
Laura looked at him.
He corrected his tone.
“Claire, what do you know?”
Claire breathed.
“Anna wrote something before she died.”
“What?”
“A letter.”
“To me?”
“No.”
“To who?”
“She never told me.”
“About Daniel?”
“Yes.”
Vincent sat slowly.
Claire continued.
“She said if you ever started digging again, somebody needed to make sure you did not repeat the same mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“That is useless.”
“I know.”
Good.
“Why return items now?”
Claire said:
“Because I got a letter last week.”
Vincent’s stomach tightened.
“What letter?”
“No return address. It said: IT’S TIME TO GIVE HIM BACK WHAT ANNA LEFT.”
Same hand?
Maybe.
“Why obey anonymous letter?”
Claire sounded ashamed.
“Because it included a photocopy.”
“Of?”
“Anna’s letter.”
Vincent stopped breathing.
Not whole.
One paragraph.
Claire emailed scan to Laura.
Printed ten minutes later.
Anna’s handwriting.
Vincent recognized instantly.
If Vincent ever asks about Daniel again, do not let him decide first and investigate second.
He will want a person to blame.
Make him find the road, the money, and the call in that order.
No names.
Road.
Money.
Call.
Elina stood near wall.
Not family.
Not investigator.
Yet the words made sense.
A sequence.
Evidence path.
Vincent read.
“What road?”
Laura said:
“Daniel’s crash road, presumably.”
“What money?”
“Unknown.”
“Call?”
“Unknown.”
Marco entered.
“We found who opened sewing room.”
Everyone looked.
“Camera?”
“Service camera caught maintenance worker, Luis Ortega, two weeks ago.”
Elina knew Luis.
Fifty-three.
Fixed windows.
Quiet.
“Why?”
“He says Claire called and asked him to place a package in room.”
Vincent looked at speaker.
Claire said:
“Yes.”
“Why not mail me?”
“Because the anonymous letter told me not to send directly to you.”
There.
Manipulated.
“What exactly?”
Claire read:
PLACE ANNA’S ITEMS IN THE SEWING ROOM. DO NOT TELL VINCENT UNTIL HE FINDS THEM.
“Why involve Luis?”
“He knew Anna. She trusted him.”
Vincent turned to Marco.
“Luis?”
“In maintenance shop. We told him to wait.”
Good.
No violence.
Laura said:
“Bring him with representation if needed.”
Vincent almost rolled eyes.
Then nodded.
Luis confirmed.
Claire contacted.
Package delivered.
He removed latch screws because old lock key lost.
Placed book and scarf.
Reattached loosely.
He did not send envelope.
Did not know Sophia would find.
Good.
One mystery smaller.
Then Laura asked:
“Who delivered Sunday envelope?”
Security footage.
A bike courier.
Paid cash at Newark depot.
Envelope dropped there by woman in gray coat.
No clear face.
Road.
Money.
Call.
Elina went back to work.
That mattered.
She was maid.
Her life still existed outside Moretti grief.
Laundry.
Silver.
Sophia’s school worksheet.
At noon, Sophia sat kitchen doing fractions.
She hated fractions.
“Why do I need them?”
“Because pizza.”
“Pizza is eight.”
“Exactly.”
“No.”
Elina laughed.
Then Vincent entered kitchen.
Everyone stopped.
He rarely did.
Sophia looked up.
“Book?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
He sat at end of staff table.
Awkwardly.
Teresa stared.
“What?”
Vincent asked.
“You have a dining room.”
“I know.”
He looked at Elina.
“I need to ask you something.”
Her body stiffened.
“About Sophia?”
“No.”
Good.
“About Anna.”
Elina frowned.
“You knew her during last year.”
“Yes.”
“Did she ever ask you to mail letters?”
Elina thought.
“Yes.”
Vincent went still.
“How many?”
“A lot. Charity, friends.”
“Anything unusual?”
Memory.
One envelope.
No return address.
Anna had said:
Not through house mail.
Elina’s stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“When?”
“Maybe two weeks before she died.”
“To who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see address?”
“Yes.”
“Can you remember?”
She closed eyes.
Eight years cleaning did not make memory photographic.
The address had been in Paterson? Or Manhattan? She saw block letters.
P.O. BOX 441.
HOBOKEN, NJ.
Maybe.
“I remember a post office box.”
“Where?”
“Hoboken.”
Vincent looked at Marco.
Elina raised hand.
“Wait.”
They stopped.
“I am not sure.”
Good.
“Do not turn maybe into fact.”
Vincent stared.
Then nodded.
“Right.”
Sophia continued fractions.
Adults learned.
Elina thought more.
“Name was maybe Daniel.”
Vincent’s face drained.
“Daniel?”
“No.”
She shook head.
“Not recipient. Something like D.M. Archive.”
Laura later checked.
In 2016, P.O. Box 441 Hoboken registered to Delmar Investigations.
Private investigator:
Jonathan Delmar.
Retired now.
Alive.
Laura called.
Delmar remembered Anna Moretti.
Of course.
She hired him after Daniel died.
Privately.
Without Vincent.
For four years.
Vincent stared at speaker.
“What did she investigate?”
Delmar answered:
“Your son’s crash.”
“I had investigators.”
“Yes.”
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
“Why hire another?”
“She believed yours were afraid of what they might find.”
That hurt.
“What did she find?”
Delmar paused.
“Enough that I told her to go to federal authorities.”
Vincent stood.
“Why didn’t she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me what.”
Delmar’s voice changed.
“The road first.”
Anna’s instruction.
Road.
Money.
Call.
Delmar continued.
“Daniel Moretti’s car did not simply leave the bridge approach.”
Vincent went still.
“No contact was found.”
“Correct.”
“Then?”
“A traffic maintenance camera captured another vehicle stopping ahead of him ninety seconds before the crash.”
“Who?”
“Unidentified at the time.”
“What did it do?”
“Turned off its lights.”
The room quieted.
“And?”
“Daniel braked.”
“Then?”
“He swerved.”
“To avoid car?”
“Possibly.”
Not certainty.
“Where is footage?”
“Original city archive was deleted years ago. I have a copy.”
Vincent’s hands tightened.
“Send it.”
Laura said:
“To me.”
Good.
Delmar continued.
“Anna did not stop there.”
“The money.”
“Yes.”
“What money?”
“Two days after Daniel died, someone deposited forty thousand dollars into an account belonging to the city traffic technician who originally reviewed the footage.”
Vincent’s blood went cold.
“Who paid?”
“Shell company.”
“Owner?”
“I never proved beneficial owner.”
“And the call?”
Delmar went silent.
Then:
“Daniel called this house nine minutes before the crash.”
Vincent stared.
“No.”
“There is no call in house log.”
“I know.”
“Then how?”
“Carrier record.”
“To which number?”
“Private line in east wing.”
Vincent looked toward hallway.
His study.
The line now disconnected.
“Who answered?”
Delmar said:
“That is where Anna stopped me.”
“What?”
“She learned who was in the room.”
Vincent stopped breathing.
“Who?”
Delmar’s answer came slowly.
“You.”
The kitchen became silent.
Vincent looked at nothing.
“No.”
“Carrier shows connection four minutes.”
“I don’t remember.”
Delmar said:
“Anna said you didn’t.”
Vincent’s voice broke.
“What does that mean?”
Delmar answered:
“She believed somebody drugged you that night.”
And suddenly Vincent understood why Anna’s message did not say find the killer.
It said find the road.
Then money.
Then call.
May you like
Because the last piece of Daniel’s death might not have been what someone else did.
It might have been what Vincent Moretti had been made to forget.
