Chapter 2 - THE EMPLOYEE WHO DIDN’T EXIST
Caroline did not deny recognizing the name.
That was the first thing I noticed.
I had expected confusion.
Maybe anger.
Instead, when I placed the household ledger on the library table and pointed to the same monthly payment appearing over and over, she went very still.
Anthony Moretti.
$4,800 every month.
Sometimes $5,200.
Twice, nearly $7,000.
Three years of payments to a man who had supposedly left my service after moving to Florida.
I looked at Caroline.
“You know who authorized these.”
It was not a question.
She crossed her arms.
“Where did you get the accounts?”
“My own house.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No. Because you’re avoiding what I asked.”
Maria stood several feet behind me.
She had wanted to leave.
I refused.
Not because I wanted to embarrass her.
Because I was done letting people with less power disappear from rooms where decisions about them were being made.
Lucy sat quietly in a leather chair near the fireplace, her faded purple backpack in her lap.
I had sent for food.
She had eaten half a bowl of soup and hidden two rolls inside a napkin.
I pretended not to notice.
Children learn scarcity quickly.
Caroline looked toward Maria.
Then Lucy.
“You’re discussing private financial matters in front of staff?”
I felt something cold settle inside me.
“Maria has been financing my groceries.”
Caroline’s jaw tightened.
“That isn’t what happened.”
“Good.”
I pushed the receipts across the table.
“Explain what happened.”
She glanced down at them.
“The household budget was being abused.”
“By a housekeeper buying milk?”
“By everyone. Waste had gotten ridiculous.”
“And your solution was to charge employees?”
“I told Keller to reduce discretionary spending.”
“Maria says she was told to personally pay.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Lucy spoke from the chair.
“You did to Mr. Keller.”
Caroline turned toward her.
“Sweetheart, adults are talking.”
Lucy’s face hardened.
“My mom is an adult.”
Maria whispered:
“Lucy.”
I almost smiled.
Caroline did not.
I looked at Caroline.
“Do not dismiss her.”
She stared at me.
“You’re taking the word of an eight-year-old over mine?”
“I’m taking receipts over everybody.”
That ended that argument.
I opened another page.
“Anthony Moretti.”
Caroline looked away.
I had my answer.
“Who is he?”
“You know who he is.”
“I knew a driver by that name.”
“He was more than a driver.”
“To whom?”
She hesitated.
Then said:
“My father.”
That surprised me.
Caroline’s father, Raymond Bellini, controlled a smaller South Side organization that had spent the last decade maintaining peace with the Santoros.
Our engagement had strengthened that arrangement.
Not formally.
Nobody needed paper to understand what marriage between families meant.
“Anthony worked for Bellini before he worked here?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“Why didn’t I know?”
“You didn’t ask for his résumé.”
“Why am I still paying him?”
Caroline’s eyes shifted toward the doorway.
I followed her glance.
Keller had arrived.
Thomas Keller was fifty-eight.
Gray suit.
Perfect posture.
He had managed the Santoro household for almost nine years.
He knew which wine my uncle drank.
Which bedroom my mother preferred when she visited.
Which florist Caroline hated.
He also apparently knew how much intimidation an elderly groundskeeper could absorb before giving up on his overtime.
“Mr. Santoro.”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
“Caroline says you found discrepancies.”
“Discrepancies.”
I repeated the word.
“Interesting choice.”
Keller looked at Maria.
His face barely changed.
But Maria’s shoulders tightened.
I saw it.
So did Lucy.
Lucy slid off the chair and moved closer to her mother.
There are moments when a room tells you who has been afraid long before anyone says it.
This was one.
I turned to Keller.
“Did you tell Maria I ordered staff to contribute toward household expenses?”
“No.”
Maria’s head lifted.
Keller continued.
“I told several employees we were tightening costs.”
“Did you tell her complaints could get her replaced?”
“Absolutely not.”
Maria stared at him.
“That’s not true.”
His expression hardened slightly.
“Maria, perhaps you misunderstood.”
“I did not misunderstand.”
Her voice shook.
But she did not look down this time.
“You told me Mr. Santoro said there were a hundred women who would take my position tomorrow.”
Keller glanced at me.
“That is not language I use.”
Lucy opened her backpack.
Again.
I was beginning to understand that child had turned a school bag into an evidence room.
She removed a folded piece of paper.
Maria stared.
“Lucy, what is that?”
The girl unfolded it.
A handwritten note.
Maria’s name at the top.
Then:
NO MORE REIMBURSEMENT REQUESTS. HOUSEHOLD IS UNDER REVIEW. DISCUSSING INTERNAL FINANCES WITH MR. SANTORO WILL BE CONSIDERED INSUBORDINATION.
Signed:
T. Keller.
Nobody spoke.
Lucy looked at Keller.
“You dropped it in the kitchen.”
Keller’s face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
I held out my hand.
Lucy brought it to me.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I read it twice.
Then looked at Keller.
“Misunderstanding?”
His voice became quieter.
“I can explain.”
“Please.”
He glanced toward Caroline.
Again.
That was twice.
I turned toward her.
“What does he expect you to do?”
Caroline’s composure finally cracked.
“Nothing.”
“Keller keeps looking at you.”
“Because he knows I’m familiar with the household restructuring.”
I laughed once.
“Restructuring.”
Another elegant word for something ugly.
I turned back to Keller.
“Anthony Moretti.”
His jaw tightened.
“You knew?”
“Of course.”
“Why am I paying him?”
“He remains on retainer.”
“For what?”
“Security consultation.”
“I have a security chief.”
“Mr. Moretti handles special matters.”
“Name one.”
Keller said nothing.
“Three years. Nearly two hundred thousand dollars.”
Still nothing.
I leaned forward.
“Name one thing he did.”
Keller looked at Caroline again.
She closed her eyes.
Then said:
“He watched Maria.”
Maria stepped backward.
I felt the entire room change.
“What?”
Caroline’s voice dropped.
“Anthony was asked to keep track of her.”
Maria stared at her.
“Me?”
I looked between them.
“Why?”
Caroline sat down.
For the first time that evening, she looked afraid.
“Because three years ago, Maria saw something she was not supposed to see.”
Maria shook her head.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I truly don’t.”
Caroline looked at me.
“Do you remember the East Harbor dispute?”
Of course I did.
Three years earlier, the Barone family had tried to push into two trucking terminals we controlled near the river.
There had been months of pressure.
Union arguments.
Lost contracts.
Warehouses refusing deliveries.
We settled it without open war.
Or so I thought.
“What does Maria have to do with Barone?”
Caroline looked toward her.
“Nothing directly.”
“Then what did she see?”
Caroline hesitated.
Keller answered.
“A coat.”
I stared at him.
“A coat?”
Maria’s face changed.
She remembered.
I saw it.
Caroline did too.
Maria whispered:
“The gray one.”
Keller nodded.
Lucy looked up at her mother.
“What gray coat?”
Maria’s breathing became shallow.
“Three years ago, I was cleaning the downstairs guest room. Mr. Keller told me nobody was using it.”
She looked at me.
“But there was a man inside.”
“What man?”
“I never saw his face.”
“What did you see?”
“A gray wool coat hanging over a chair.”
Her eyes moved toward Caroline.
“There was a black-and-gold pin on the lapel.”
My stomach tightened.
Every Chicago family had symbols they preferred outsiders not notice.
The Barones used a black enamel lion with a thin gold border.
Caroline whispered:
“She described the pin to me.”
I looked at her.
“When?”
“That night.”
“And you said nothing to me.”
“I told my father.”
Of course.
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid someone inside your home had met with Barone.”
I turned to Keller.
“Was it you?”
“No.”
“Then who was in the room?”
He did not answer.
Caroline stared at him.
“Thomas.”
Keller’s face suddenly looked older.
“That was not the arrangement.”
I stepped closer.
“What arrangement?”
He looked at Caroline.
“You said if this ever surfaced, your father would handle it.”
Caroline went pale.
“My father told me you were protecting Luca.”
Keller actually laughed.
A bitter sound.
“Your father told everyone whatever kept them useful.”
Lucy’s small voice cut through the room.
“Is that why my mom had to buy food?”
Keller looked at her.
And something like shame finally appeared.
“No.”
“Then why?”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“Because the household accounts had to stay balanced.”
“Balanced against what?” I asked.
He looked at the Anthony Moretti payments.
Then toward the ledger.
“Money was being removed somewhere else.”
“How much?”
“More than you’ve found.”
Maria closed her eyes.
Caroline whispered:
“Thomas.”
But Keller had crossed whatever line kept him loyal.
He opened the ledger himself.
Turned four pages.
Then pointed to a maintenance account.
Boiler repairs.
Roof work.
Security upgrades.
All reasonable.
Until I looked at the vendor names.
Three companies.
I knew none of them.
Keller said:
“They’re not real.”
“How much?”
“In three years?”
He swallowed.
“Just over one-point-three million.”
Caroline stood.
“That is impossible.”
“No.”
Keller looked at her.
“What’s impossible is that you still think your father was using this house to protect Luca.”
I felt the room narrow.
“Where did the money go?”
Keller hesitated.
Then pulled an old brass key from his pocket and placed it beside the receipts.
“The payments went through a warehouse account.”
“Which warehouse?”
“Calumet.”
My jaw tightened.
Calumet Warehouse Four sat directly beside the trucking corridor the Barones had been trying to penetrate for years.
“What was the money buying?”
Keller looked at me.
“Loyalty.”
“Whose?”
He shook his head.
“I never knew all the names.”
“But you know one.”
“Yes.”
I waited.
Keller’s eyes moved slowly toward Caroline.
Her face had gone white.
Then he said:
“Raymond Bellini.”
Caroline stared at him.
“My father was paying Santoro employees?”
“No.”
Keller swallowed.
“He was paying someone much closer.”
I stepped forward.
“Who?”
Keller reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
He removed an old photograph.
Not a document.
A photograph.
Five men outside Calumet Warehouse Four.
Raymond Bellini.
Anthony Moretti.
A Barone capo I recognized immediately.
Keller.
And one man standing half-turned away from the camera.
But not enough.
I knew the coat.
I knew the watch.
I knew the face.
My consigliere.
Samuel Rizzo.
The man who had advised me since my father died.
The man currently downstairs with three captains waiting for my decision about Barone territory.
And on the back of the photograph someone had written one date.
Tonight’s date.
May you like
Three years before it happened.
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