255. 💵 THE STAMPED DOLLAR

Chapter 03 - The Night Daniel Died

Rebecca had been dreading that sentence for two years. Now that she'd said it, she wanted to take it back, if only to spare Clara the sight of her mother being questioned by the man whose name was on all the papers.

“Not here,” she told Lorenzo.

Evelyn nodded toward a door behind the flower cooler. “My apartment's upstairs. The child can stay with me. I'll put a movie on, one without anything alarming in it.”

Clara wanted to know whether the rabbit was allowed on the couch. Evelyn assured her that rabbits were the only animals welcome on it. Rebecca kissed her daughter's forehead, stayed a few seconds longer than necessary, and went upstairs with Lorenzo.

The apartment smelled of cinnamon and clean laundry. Family photographs covered one wall. Rebecca envied the certainty of it: everything had a place, and no one would send a notice repossessing the air.

“Daniel was frightened before he died,” she began. “He hadn't been sleeping. He kept asking me to turn off our phones at dinner. I thought he was being dramatic.”

“Tell me about the night.”

“He said he'd found a payment that couldn't exist. A property sale dated before the owner had agreed to sell. A set of families marked as deceased or relocated when some of them were still living in Chicago.”

Lorenzo sat on the edge of a faded armchair. He didn't interrupt.

“Daniel wanted a witness from your family. Not you. Your sister. He said Celia Duca had been trying to get those records for years.”

“Celia?”

Rebecca nodded. “I drove him to a diner near Union Station. Celia came alone with a grocery bag of files. I waited in the car because Clara was sick. They talked for an hour. Daniel came out looking almost happy.”

“What happened after that?”

“He kissed me at the curb. Told me to go home and get some sleep. We argued because he was going to drive north in freezing rain to see one more person. It was such a stupid argument. I told him he cared more about dead people's paperwork than about the people waiting for him.”

Rebecca's voice faltered. She could still picture his hands resting on the steering wheel, his knuckles reddened by the cold. She had never told Clara about their last argument. There were some things a child didn't need to carry.

“He called at eleven forty,” she continued. “I let it go to voicemail because I was angry. He said, 'Beck, I was wrong about one name. Don't trust the list. Check the women themselves.' That's all.”

“The crash was after midnight?”

“Just after one. They found him off the road near the river.”

“Did you tell the police about Celia?”

“Of course. The detective said she denied meeting him.”

Lorenzo's head lifted. “Celia wouldn't have denied it without a reason.”

Rebecca gave him a weary look. “That's what I used to say about Daniel. Then I discovered he was lying to me almost every day for six months. Good people do lie, Mr. Duca. Sometimes it's the only thing they have left.”

He remembered Celia growing silent whenever their father entered a room. At sixteen she'd once refused to speak to Salvatore for three weeks after a cruel joke. Lorenzo had called her stubborn. Their mother had called her clear-sighted.

“Where is the voicemail?”

“Saved in three places. I played it for the police. For the insurance company. For a lawyer whose bill I still owe. People listened politely, and nothing changed.”

“That doesn't mean nothing can change now.”

“No.” Rebecca looked at the stairs. “It means I'm tired of hearing that it will.”

His phone rang. Not Vincent this time, but an unknown number. He answered in front of her. A man's thin voice said, “The child got the money?”

“Who is this?”

“Walter Finch. I don't have the breath to say it twice. Your mother kept the blue book, Mr. Duca. Your father kept the keys. That's why they never found what they were looking for.”

“Where are you?”

“At home, being old. I've had three strangers come by since yesterday asking whether I remember the fire. I remember every minute of it.” Walter coughed, a deep, scraping sound. “Ask Evelyn about the rabbit.”

The call ended.

Rebecca stared at Lorenzo's phone. “That was Walter?”

“He says so.”

“He's been hiding for months. Why come out now?”

“I don't know.” Lorenzo stood. “But I want the police to have that number, and I want him somewhere safe.”

Downstairs, Clara slept with the rabbit under her cheek. Rebecca stood watching her breathe. Daniel had done the same when Clara was a baby, fearful something might happen if he looked away.

Evelyn heard about the call and took off her glasses. “Walter should have told me.”

“He said to ask you about the rabbit,” Lorenzo replied.

Evelyn looked at the toy without surprise. “It was made for Clara by Hattie Price. Hattie sewed toys for all the babies whose mothers came through Bell House. She still does when her eyes behave.”

“Why would Walter care?”

“Because Hattie was the bookkeeper. And because Daniel visited her a week before he died.”

Rebecca stared. “He never told me that.”

“He probably thought he was protecting you.” Evelyn's face showed little patience for this familiar excuse. “Men have done a lot of harm with that word.”

Lorenzo asked whether Hattie was still alive. Evelyn said she was living with a niece in Oak Park and did not welcome unexpected callers, especially those wearing expensive suits.

“Then I won't arrive unannounced.” He gave Evelyn his number. “Ask her whether she'll speak to me. Or to a lawyer who has no business with my family. Her choice.”

Paul came into the shop with news from the parking deck. Police had found a compressed-air launcher wrapped in a towel behind a ventilation unit. A security camera showed a man in a city maintenance jacket entering the stairwell minutes before the glass broke. His face was obscured by his cap.

“Who hired him?” Lorenzo asked.

“We don't know yet. But the jacket's insignia was from a maintenance contractor Duca Holdings uses.”

Rebecca went very still. She had heard that company name before: Westlake Services. Daniel had said it appeared on payment records for buildings that had been empty for years.

Lorenzo looked at the sleeping child. He'd blamed the danger on old employees his father had left behind. Not replacing them had been a decision too.

A new message arrived, this one from Celia. She hadn't answered his calls in four months.

I HEAR YOU FOUND REBECCA MERCER. DON'T BRING HER TO VINCENT. DANIEL WAS RIGHT ABOUT THE LIST. I WAS WRONG ABOUT THE MAN WHO MADE IT.