Chapter 3 - THE MESSAGE JASON LEFT INSIDE A BOOK
Daniel did not let me go home.
I argued for eleven minutes.
He listened for nine.
That was more patience than I expected from a mafia boss.
Then he said, “Someone used your best friend to put you at my table and your ex-boyfriend may work for a rival organization. Going back to your apartment alone is not caution. It is theater.”
I stared at him.
“Theater?”
“Yes.”
“That is a rude way to describe independence.”
“It is an accurate way to describe pretending the circumstances have not changed.”
Thomas, standing near the SUV, looked at the ceiling of the parking garage.
Apparently Daniel’s employees had developed a survival strategy involving eye avoidance.
I crossed my arms.
“I am not staying in your house.”
“I did not ask you to.”
“Good.”
“I have a hotel.”
I blinked.
“You have a hotel?”
“I own one.”
“Of course you do.”
“Do you prefer a motel?”
“I prefer my apartment.”
“No.”
I pointed at him.
“That.”
“What?”
“You say no like gravity signed a contract with you.”
One corner of his mouth moved.
“Would you prefer I say absolutely not?”
“No.”
“Then we are making progress.”
I hated that I almost smiled.
The hotel was called the Marlowe.
I had walked past it a hundred times.
White stone facade.
Brass doors.
Lobby flowers that looked expensive enough to require insurance.
Daniel gave me a suite on the seventh floor under another name.
I refused the suite.
He offered a smaller room.
I refused that too.
Eventually, we compromised on a standard room with two security men in the hallway and one promise that nobody would enter without my permission.
I made him repeat the last part.
Thomas looked offended on Daniel’s behalf.
Daniel did not.
At midnight, I sat on the edge of the hotel bed and called Olivia twelve times.
Nothing.
Megan and Claire too.
Nothing.
Then Maple Street Books came to mind.
My manager, Ruth.
The store closed at nine.
Jason knew I worked there.
Olivia knew.
If the setup involved me, the bookstore might matter.
I called Ruth.
She answered on the fifth ring.
“Emily?”
Her voice was sleepy.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“You sound like no.”
“I need to ask something strange.”
“That is usually how your questions start.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“Did anyone come into the store asking about me this week?”
Silence.
Then:
“One man.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Tuesday.”
“What did he look like?”
“Thirty-something. Dark hair. Expensive coat. Very polite.”
“Name?”
“He didn’t give one.”
“What did he ask?”
“When you worked.”
My skin chilled.
“And you told him?”
“No.”
Relief.
“Ruth, thank you.”
“He bought a book.”
I froze.
“What book?”
“A first-edition poetry collection from the locked case.”
That made no sense.
“We sold the Lowell?”
“Yes.”
The store had one expensive first edition of Robert Lowell poems. Not museum valuable, but enough that Ruth had kept it behind glass.
“Why does that matter?” she asked.
“Did he pay by card?”
“Yes.”
“Can you look at the receipt?”
“Emily, it is after midnight.”
“I know.”
A pause.
Then the sound of a lamp.
Ruth had worked at the store thirty-two years.
She complained about everything and helped everyone.
“Fine.”
I heard papers.
“Here.”
“What name?”
Another pause.
“Jason Whitmore.”
I stopped breathing.
Ruth’s voice changed.
“Emily?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
My ex had been inside my bookstore two days before the blind date.
He had bought a book he knew I loved.
A book I had shown him years ago.
Daniel was downstairs.
I knew because Thomas had said he would remain in the hotel office until Olivia was found.
I grabbed my coat.
One security man stood immediately when I opened the door.
“I need Daniel.”
“He said to call.”
“I am walking.”
The guard hesitated.
“Please do not make me explain to my employer why I physically blocked a bookstore employee.”
That worked.
Daniel occupied a private office behind the hotel lounge.
He looked up from a laptop when I entered.
“You should be asleep.”
“So should you.”
“I have poor habits.”
“Jason bought a book from my store.”
Daniel stood.
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
“What book?”
I told him.
“Why that one?”
“He knew I wanted it.”
Daniel’s face changed slightly.
“Did he give it to you?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps it was not for you.”
I thought.
Jason had never cared about poetry.
He used to call my books “decorative insulation.”
Why buy a first edition?
Unless he wanted access to something else.
“The locked case.”
Daniel frowned.
“What?”
“The book was in a locked display case behind the register.”
“So?”
“Ruth would have opened it.”
Daniel understood.
“He needed her attention somewhere else.”
“Yes.”
I called Ruth again.
This time she answered immediately.
“What now?”
“Check the security footage from Tuesday.”
“You know our camera system hates me.”
“Please.”
She sighed.
Ten minutes later, she called back.
“You were right.”
My heart kicked.
“What happened?”
“While I was showing him the Lowell, another man went into the back office.”
Daniel leaned closer to my phone.
“How long?”
“Maybe ninety seconds.”
“What is in the office?” Daniel asked.
Ruth heard the unfamiliar male voice.
“Who is that?”
I closed my eyes.
“Long story.”
“Emily.”
“His name is Daniel.”
Silence.
Then:
“Brooks?”
I looked at him.
He raised one eyebrow.
“Yes.”
Ruth whispered, “The Daniel Brooks?”
“There are apparently categories now.”
Daniel almost smiled.
Ruth recovered.
“The office has payroll, vendor files, deliveries.”
Daniel’s expression changed.
“Deliveries.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He asked Ruth, “Who supplies your rare-book shipments?”
“Several dealers.”
“Freight company?”
“Atlantic Heritage Couriers.”
Daniel went still.
Thomas, who had entered silently, swore.
I looked between them.
“What?”
Daniel said, “Atlantic Heritage used to share warehouse space with Atlantic Harbor.”
Jason’s old company.
Of course.
Ruth said, “I am officially too old for this conversation.”
I asked, “Did anything go missing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you check?”
“Not tonight.”
Daniel interrupted.
“Do not go to the store alone.”
Ruth bristled.
“I have owned a bookshop since before you had facial hair.”
Daniel paused.
“I believe you.”
I almost laughed.
He continued.
“But if the men who entered were connected to the current situation, experience is not the issue.”
Ruth was silent.
Then:
“Fine.”
We ended the call.
Daniel looked at Thomas.
“Lock down Atlantic Heritage records.”
Thomas left.
I sat.
My hands were shaking again.
Daniel noticed.
“Tea?”
I stared.
“What?”
“You look like you need something to hold.”
That was too perceptive.
“Yes.”
He poured from a small pot on the side table.
No grand gesture.
Just tea.
I wrapped both hands around the cup.
“Why would Jason care about bookstore deliveries?”
Daniel sat across from me.
“Maybe he doesn’t.”
“Then the office?”
“Could be looking for your personnel records.”
“Why?”
“Address. Schedule. Emergency contacts.”
“He already knew all that.”
“Then something else.”
I thought of the store.
Receiving logs.
Consignment paperwork.
Old invoices.
One memory surfaced.
“Jason used to send packages there.”
Daniel’s eyes sharpened.
“What?”
“When we were together.”
“Why?”
“He said apartment deliveries disappeared.”
“What kind of packages?”
“I never opened them.”
“Did Ruth?”
“No.”
“Where did you keep them?”
“Back office.”
Daniel leaned back.
“How often?”
“Maybe once a month. Sometimes less.”
“For how long?”
“Two years.”
I felt stupid.
Not because I should have known he was doing something illegal.
Because he had used a place I loved.
Maple Street Books had been safe to me.
Jason may have turned it into a mailbox for whatever he was hiding.
Daniel asked, “Did any package remain after the breakup?”
“I don’t know.”
Then I remembered.
One did.
A small cardboard parcel.
Jason had said it was an old work manual.
I found it months after we separated while cleaning the office shelves.
I had meant to text him.
Then I saw a photograph online of him with the woman he had cheated with.
I decided I was done doing favors.
“What?”
Daniel saw my face.
“There was a package.”
“Where is it now?”
“At the store.”
“Still?”
“I think so.”
“What was inside?”
“I never opened it.”
He stared.
“You had a mystery package from your cheating ex for almost a year and never opened it?”
“It was not mine.”
Daniel looked genuinely baffled.
I almost smiled.
“Some of us respect property.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I respect property.”
“You own a mafia organization.”
“That is not the same subject.”
“Debatable.”
He leaned forward.
“Where exactly is the package?”
“Top shelf in the back office. Behind tax binders.”
Thomas reentered.
“Atlantic Heritage is a shell.”
Daniel looked at him.
“For?”
“Moretti-owned forwarding company.”
My stomach dropped.
Daniel stood.
“We go now.”
I looked at the clock.
“Bookstore is closed.”
“Do you have a key?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is open.”
“Ruth would hate you.”
“I am hearing that often tonight.”
We reached Maple Street Books at 1:12 a.m.
The narrow shop sat between a bakery and a tailor.
I unlocked the door.
The smell of paper and old wood hit me.
Home.
Then I saw the back-office door.
Open.
My heart dropped.
“I locked that before leaving.”
Daniel moved in front of me.
“Stay.”
I started to object.
Then saw a shadow move.
Daniel’s hand went inside his jacket.
This time I knew what might come out.
A gun.
He did not draw it yet.
Thomas entered from the rear with another man.
“Clear.”
We went to the office.
Shelves had been disturbed.
File drawer open.
Desk searched.
Shipping folders missing.
I climbed onto the small step stool.
Top shelf.
Tax binders.
The parcel was gone.
“No.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened.
Then I saw a book on the floor.
Robert Lowell.
The first edition Jason bought.
He had brought it back.
Why?
I picked it up carefully.
Something rattled inside.
Daniel stopped me.
“Wait.”
Thomas put on gloves and opened the cover.
The pages had been hollowed out.
Inside was a flash drive.
And a handwritten note.
Emily,
If this reached you, I failed.
Do not trust Olivia.
Do not trust Moretti.
And whatever Daniel Brooks tells you, ask him what happened to his brother at Pier Nine.
— Jason
I looked at Daniel.
He had gone completely still.
“What happened to your brother?”
May you like
Daniel’s face hardened.
For the first time all night, he did not answer.
