Chương 8
Damiano looked at the photograph on the refrigerator.
“You think I’m going to prison because of a phone?”
“I think you have survived by keeping each illegal thing separate. Separate people, separate books, separate rooms, separate reasons. This phone may connect them. If you give it to law enforcement, you lose control over what they follow.”
“Vittorio has Maeve.”
“And the police have hostage teams.”
“They also have procedures.”
“Procedures are frequently irritating. They are still preferable to amateurs with pistols.”
“My people are not amateurs.”
Larkin looked around the destroyed apartment. “Your people did this.”
Damiano picked up one of Elena’s worksheets. The assignment asked students to write three sentences about a person they admired.
Elena had written:
I admire my mom because she does not get scared easy.
She helps people when they get papers they do not understand.
She makes eggs bad but eats them anyway.
Damiano placed the page on the kitchen table.
“Call Keene,” he said.
Detective Mara Keene arrived at Café Nate at five twelve in the morning with a federal agent, a local detective, and the expression of someone who had expected Damiano Rossetti to become inconvenient eventually but not before breakfast.
She was in her mid-forties, with close-cropped black hair and a raincoat buttoned incorrectly. She refused coffee.
The local detective photographed the back room. The federal agent cataloged the ledger, the burner phone, the blue drive, and Maeve’s hidden phone. Each item went into a separate evidence bag.
Damiano disliked watching strangers put numbers on his possessions.
Keene sat across from him at the wooden table.
“Start with the child entering the room,” she said.
Larkin sat beside Damiano. “My client is providing information limited to the immediate recovery of Maeve O’Shea.”
Keene looked at him. “Your client’s limitations are not my first concern.”
“They should remain a concern.”
“Then earn your hourly rate quietly.”
Larkin smiled without warmth.
Damiano described Elena placing Bruno on the table. He described the messages, the locations, Vittorio’s disappearance, Anthony Mercer, the hidden records, and the call from the old school. He did not describe every business represented in the ledger.
Keene listened without interrupting.
When he finished, she said, “Why was there a pistol beside the money?”
Larkin answered. “Not relevant to the abduction.”
“It was in the room when a seven-year-old entered.”
“It was secured and unloaded afterward.”
“Afterward is a useful country. Everyone behaves well there.”
Damiano said, “It was there to frighten Nate.”
Nate, seated near the wall, looked at him.
Larkin turned. “Damiano.”
“You wanted the truth.”
“I wanted useful truth.”
Keene leaned back. “Why frighten Nate?”
“Vittorio said he stole money.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Vittorio was stealing it.”
“From you?”
“From people using my name.”
Keene’s eyes narrowed. “That sounded almost moral.”
“It wasn’t.”
For the first time, she appeared unsure what answer she had expected.
The federal agent returned from the office. “The hidden phone is charging. We’ll need a warrant or consent to search.”
“Maeve’s consent isn’t available,” Keene said.
Damiano looked at Larkin.
Larkin shook his head. “You cannot consent to search someone else’s phone.”
“Can Elena?”
“She is seven.”
“Then get a warrant.”
Keene studied him. “We will.”
“How long?”
“As long as a judge takes.”
“She has until noon.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I heard Vittorio.”
“And kidnappers lie.”
“So do police.”
Keene’s mouth tightened. “You called me.”
“Maeve did.”
“She prepared to call us. That’s different.”
The local detective entered carrying a laptop. “We found the missing-person report.”
Damiano looked up.
“Who filed it?” Keene asked.
“School attendance officer. Elena didn’t show yesterday, mother didn’t answer. A neighbor reported the broken door an hour ago after seeing patrol cars.”
Keene faced Damiano. “How long was Elena alone after her mother was taken?”
He had not asked.
The omission struck harder than the accusation.
Nate spoke from the wall. “She came in around nine.”
“What time was the abduction?” Keene asked.
No one knew.
Sofia called at six. Elena said the men had entered after dinner, when a cartoon ended. She had hidden in the bedroom closet with Bruno. Maeve fought them in the living room. One man dragged her toward the door. Elena bit his hand when he reached into the closet, and he dropped the hood over her head. Maeve screamed for her to run.
Elena escaped through the bedroom window onto the fire stairs after the apartment became quiet. She stayed beneath the stairs until rain began. Then she walked nearly two miles to Café Nate because she became lost twice and refused to ask adults for help.
She had been alone for more than three hours.
Damiano ended the call and sat without speaking.
Keene watched him. “You can’t fix those hours.”
“I know.”
“Good. Men in your position often confuse finding out about damage with arriving in time to prevent it.”
Larkin said, “Detective.”
“No, she’s right,” Damiano replied.
Keene looked at him for another moment, then opened a file on her tablet.
“We’ve been investigating Vittorio Bellandi for eleven months. Small-business extortion, bribery, payroll fraud, loan collections. Maeve approached us six weeks ago through her employer. She refused formal witness status until she could move Elena somewhere safe.”
“Why didn’t you move them?”
“She canceled the meeting where we planned to discuss it.”
“Why?”
“She believed someone in law enforcement had accessed her intake information.”
“Had they?”
“We don’t know.”
“You lost her.”
Keene’s jaw shifted. “Yes.”
The admission changed the room. It did not excuse her, and she did not use it that way.
“She stopped trusting us,” Keene continued. “Apparently, she stopped trusting everyone except a seven-year-old and one man she once fled.”
“Enzo.”
“Maybe.”
Damiano looked at the evidence bags. “Can you trace the phone Vittorio used?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Can you search East Ferry properties?”
“With warrants, exigent circumstances, and enough teams, yes.”
“How long?”
Keene did not answer.
“Noon,” Damiano said.
May you like
“We know.”
At seven thirty, a family-services caseworker named Priya Shah arrived at Sofia’s apartment. She wore waterproof boots and carried a canvas bag decorated with cartoon foxes. Elena refused to speak to her for eleven minutes.
