Chapter 10 - THE GHOSTS OF THE PRECINCT
I stared at the red ink until the letters blurred.
Hide her.
Me.
“My dad told me my mother died in a hit-and-run when I was four,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “He said the driver was drunk. Never caught.”
Luca’s jaw tightened.
“It wasn't a drunk driver, Emma.”
I looked toward the sunroom, where my father was peacefully reading a newspaper in his wheelchair.
All these years, I thought we were just a struggling family. A retired cop and his daughter, drowning in medical bills.
I didn't know we were in hiding.
“I need to talk to him,” I said, marching toward the glass doors.
Luca caught my arm. “Emma, wait. He had a stroke. You can't just drop this on him.”
“He lied to me my entire life, Luca.”
I pulled my arm free and walked into the sunroom.
My dad looked up, smiling warmly. “Morning, kiddo. Did you see the game last night?”
I walked over and placed the police report on his lap.
His smile vanished instantly.
His good hand trembled as he reached for the paper. He didn't even need to read it. He just saw the red ink.
“Where did you get this?” my dad rasped.
“From Michael Moretti’s things,” I said. “Dad. Who killed Mom?”
My father closed his eyes. A single tear escaped, tracking down his weathered cheek.
“Captain Harris,” he whispered.
Answer one. Open two.
“Your captain?” I asked.
“He was dirty,” my dad choked out. “He was on the payroll for the Irish mob on the South Side. Michael found out. Michael was feeding us information to take Harris down.”
“And Mom?”
“Your mother was a court stenographer. She had access to the sealed wiretap transcripts. She found the proof Harris was taking bribes. But Harris caught her slipping the files to Michael.”
Reversal.
My mother wasn't just passing messages. She was the whistleblower.
“Harris ran her off the road,” my dad cried. “He made it look like an accident. He threatened to do the same to you if I ever opened my mouth. So I quit the force. We moved. I kept my head down.”
I fell to my knees beside his chair, hugging him as he sobbed.
The guilt he had carried for twenty-five years was suffocating.
Luca stepped into the room. He didn't interrupt. He just stood there, a silent pillar of strength.
“Harris is still alive, isn't he?” Luca asked quietly.
My dad nodded against my shoulder.
“He’s the Deputy Police Commissioner now.”
The stakes had just skyrocketed. We weren't fighting a dying mafia boss anymore. We were fighting the second most powerful cop in Chicago.
“Did your mother give you the transcripts?” Luca asked.
My dad shook his head.
“She hid them. She told me she put them somewhere safe before she died. But I never found them.”
I touched the gold sunburst necklace resting against my collarbone.
I remembered something.
When I was four, right before my mother died, we went to the natural history museum.
I looked down at the necklace.
I flipped the gold sunburst over.
There was a tiny clasp on the back.
I popped it open.
Inside, tightly folded, wasn't a transcript. It was a metal locker key.
With a faded sticker that read: Field Museum. Locker 42.
Before I could show it to them, the heavy oak doors of the mansion were thrown open.
Marco, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, stumbled into the foyer.
“Boss!” Marco yelled. “We’ve got company.”
Pulling up the long, winding driveway of the estate were five black Chicago Police cruisers.
May you like
And stepping out of the lead car was Deputy Commissioner Harris.
TITLE: THE LOCKER AT THE MUSEUM
