Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
Roman took my phone before I could answer the message.
Not roughly.
Not even quickly.
He simply held out his hand and waited until I gave it to him.
“Unknown number?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He studied the photograph of me leaving the church.
“Taken from across Boylston.”
“How can you tell?”
“Angle.”
“You recognize street corners from photographs?”
“I recognize surveillance.”
That answer bothered me more than I wanted it to.
Detective Harris leaned over.
“Forward it to me.”
Roman did.
Then he handed the phone back.
“Do not block the number.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because whoever sent it wants contact.”
“And you want them to keep contacting me?”
“I want evidence.”
“I am not evidence.”
His face changed.
“That came out wrong.”
“Yes.”
Harris almost smiled.
Roman ignored him.
“I’m not using you as bait.”
“Good.”
“But if they message again, we need the messages.”
“That sounds suspiciously like bait with better vocabulary.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“Eleanor.”
“Roman.”
For one second, Harris looked like a man regretting every career decision that had placed him between us.
Then he cleared his throat.
“Ms. DuPont, if another message arrives, call me first.”
Roman looked at him.
Harris added, “And Mr. DeLuca.”
“Thank you,” Roman said dryly.
I crossed my arms.
“Who was Sofia Maren?”
The humor disappeared.
Roman looked toward the burning warehouse.
“She was Daniel’s fiancée.”
“I know that part.”
“She disappeared after he died.”
“Disappeared?”
“Left Boston. Changed her number. Sold her apartment through an attorney. No one in my family heard from her again.”
“And now she’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“Coincidence?”
“No.”
He answered too quickly.
Harris spoke carefully.
“We don’t know cause of death yet.”
Roman turned.
“You called me because you think it matters.”
“I called because she had your business card in her purse.”
Roman went still.
“Current card?”
Harris nodded.
I watched him.
“You spoke to her recently.”
Roman did not answer.
“Roman.”
“Three weeks ago.”
Harris’s face hardened.
“That would have been useful information.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“After I knew whether her death was connected.”
“She’s dead. That is connected enough.”
I stepped closer.
“What did she tell you?”
Roman looked at me.
“This is not the place.”
I laughed once.
“Apparently there is never a place.”
He lowered his voice.
“She contacted me because she believed Daniel’s death was tied to a shipping ledger.”
The warehouse fire suddenly felt closer.
“What ledger?”
“A physical book.”
“Who keeps physical ledgers anymore?”
“My father did.”
“Your father?”
Roman’s jaw tightened.
“He ran gambling rooms, construction crews, restaurants, trucking. He trusted paper more than computers.”
I looked at the fire.
“And Daniel had it?”
“Sofia believed so.”
“Why?”
“She found a storage receipt in an old box.”
Harris stepped in.
“What storage receipt?”
Roman gave him a look.
“I will send it.”
“You’re doing a wonderful job cooperating.”
“I learned from the police.”
Harris exhaled through his nose.
I almost smiled.
Roman continued.
“Daniel rented a unit under another name two days before he died.”
“What name?” I asked.
“Elias North.”
I froze.
Roman noticed.
“You know it?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Where?”
I tried to remember.
Paperwork.
Office drawers.
A shipping authorization.
Then it came back.
“On a vendor exception form.”
Roman stepped closer.
“When?”
“Maybe a year ago.”
“At DuPont?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Think.”
His intensity sharpened.
I bristled.
“Do not order me to remember.”
He stopped.
Then, quieter, “Please.”
That surprised me enough to make me try harder.
“It was a payment approval. Small. Maybe thirty thousand.”
“To Elias North?”
“No. The vendor was North Atlantic Marine.”
Roman’s face changed.
“North Atlantic?”
“Yes.”
Harris swore softly.
“What?” I asked.
He looked at Roman.
“You tell her.”
Roman exhaled.
“North Atlantic Marine was a shell company used by my brother.”
“For what?”
“To purchase Pier Seven without attaching the DeLuca name.”
My pulse quickened.
“So somebody at DuPont paid a dead man’s shell company.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Within the last year.”
Roman’s phone rang.
He answered immediately.
“Go.”
He listened.
His eyes moved to me.
“Where is it now?”
Pause.
“Lock it down.”
He ended the call.
“What?”
“My people found the storage facility Sofia mentioned.”
Harris stepped forward.
“You are not entering it.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“You thought it loudly.”
Roman looked at me.
“We’re leaving.”
Harris blocked him.
“You are not touching potential evidence.”
“Then come with us.”
Harris stared.
Roman raised one brow.
Twenty-five minutes later, we were driving north with Detective Harris behind us.
I sat in the passenger seat of Roman’s SUV.
His driver had been dismissed.
“You always drive yourself when police are following?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I dislike giving them the pleasure of believing I need a chauffeur.”
I looked out the window.
“Petty.”
“Occasionally.”
The answer surprised a laugh out of me.
It was small.
Gone quickly.
But Roman heard it.
He looked at me for half a second.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked.”
“You laughed.”
“So?”
“I wasn’t sure you could.”
I turned toward him.
“Why?”
“You spent most of today either furious or trying not to cry.”
“That is rude.”
“Accurate.”
I should have been offended.
Instead I laughed again.
Then I remembered Sofia.
The warehouse.
Preston.
My father.
The laughter disappeared.
Roman noticed.
“You don’t have to do this tonight.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“You bought my family’s debt.”
“That doesn’t require you to chase ghosts.”
“Maybe I’m tired of other people deciding what I’m required to do.”
He nodded once.
“Fair.”
We drove in silence.
The storage facility sat outside Cambridge, behind a row of auto shops. The manager met Harris at the gate with paperwork.
Unit 317.
Registered to Elias North.
Paid automatically for twelve years from an account that had somehow remained funded.
The lock was old.
Harris opened it with a warrant obtained by phone.
Inside were six cardboard boxes.
A metal trunk.
One wooden chair.
Nothing else.
Roman stood at the entrance.
He did not cross until Harris waved him forward.
The first boxes contained Daniel’s clothes.
Books.
Old photographs.
A watch.
Roman picked it up.
For the first time, his hands shook.
Only slightly.
I looked away to give him privacy.
Harris opened the metal trunk.
Empty.
“Ledger isn’t here.”
Roman stared into it.
“No.”
I noticed scratches on the bottom.
“Something heavy was.”
Harris crouched.
“Recently moved?”
“Dust line,” I said.
The trunk had a clean rectangle inside.
Roman looked at me.
“Good eye.”
I ignored the compliment.
The final box held documents.
Harris lifted folders one by one.
Bank statements.
Pier contracts.
Shipping manifests.
Then a wedding photograph.
Daniel DeLuca stood beside Sofia Maren at what looked like an engagement party.
Roman was in the background.
Younger.
Smiling.
I had never seen him look that way.
I picked up the photograph.
“You loved him.”
Roman’s eyes stayed on the image.
“He raised me after our mother died.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“And Daniel?”
“Twenty-three.”
I looked at the young Roman in the photograph.
“He looks happy.”
“He was.”
“You were too.”
Roman said nothing.
Harris pulled another sheet from the box.
“Interesting.”
He held it up.
A copy of a DuPont Maritime cargo manifest.
Twelve years old.
My family’s logo at the top.
My father’s signature at the bottom.
Roman stared at it.
“What was DuPont doing with Daniel?”
I took the paper.
The listed cargo was machine parts.
Port of origin: Halifax.
Destination: New Bedford.
Container number: HMX-4417.
The number felt familiar.
I searched my memory.
Then realized why.
“That container number is still active.”
Harris frowned.
“After twelve years?”
“Our system reuses legacy prefixes, but exact numbers shouldn’t repeat.”
Roman’s eyes sharpened.
“When did you see it?”
“Three months ago.”
Everything went quiet.
Harris pulled out his phone.
“We need Customs records.”
I looked through the old manifest again.
There were handwritten initials near the bottom.
W.K.
Walter Kincaid.
I pointed.
Roman’s face hardened.
Then I saw another set.
A.H.
Arthur Halpern.
Our CFO.
Twelve years ago.
“Halpern worked for DuPont then?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
Roman’s voice was flat.
“So your CFO knew Daniel.”
My stomach turned.
Harris began photographing the documents.
I reached for another folder.
Inside was a single envelope.
My name was written across the front.
ELEANOR DUPONT.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
Roman saw it.
“Don’t touch.”
“I already touched it.”
Harris put on gloves and opened it carefully.
Inside was a note.
He unfolded it.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He read aloud.
“If Eleanor DuPont ever sees this, it means Frank failed to tell her the truth.”
My father’s name.
I stopped breathing.
Harris continued.
“Daniel trusted Frank. That was his mistake.”
Roman stared at the paper.
The note was signed:
SOFIA.
Dated three weeks ago.
The same week she contacted Roman.
I felt cold all over.
“There’s more,” Harris said.
He read the next line.
“The ledger was never Daniel’s. Frank DuPont took it the night Daniel died.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
Roman did not move.
I shook my head.
“My father said he was afraid.”
Roman’s face had become unreadable.
“He may have been.”
“Do not.”
“I didn’t accuse him.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say fear makes people do many things.”
My anger flashed.
“You think he killed Daniel?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I think your father knows where the ledger is.”
I stepped away.
Harris folded the note into evidence packaging.
My phone buzzed.
Another message.
Unknown number.
This time there was no photograph.
Only six words.
ASK YOUR FATHER ABOUT THE BRIDGE.
Roman looked at the screen.
His face changed.
“What bridge?” I asked.
He did not answer.
“Roman.”
May you like
His eyes met mine.
“The bridge where Daniel died.”
