Warehouse Twelve
Chapter 02 - Warehouse Twelve
Sadi had not heard the words Warehouse Twelve since she was seventeen.
Back then, they had belonged to insurance forms.
Police reports.
Her mother crying behind a bedroom door.
Carlo Moretti had died in an industrial fire near the river.
That was the official story.
An electrical fault.
A locked service corridor.
Three dead workers.
Sadi had learned to repeat the explanation because repetition made grief easier to carry.
Roman watched her.
“You know the name.”
“Yes.”
“Carlo Moretti?”
“My stepfather.”
Roman glanced toward the closed door Arthur had used.
“What did he have to do with Arthur?”
“I don’t know.”
“That was fast.”
“So was your question.”
Roman looked at his security men.
“Give us the room.”
They left.
Sadi stared.
“You send armed men away because a waitress tells you she had a stepfather?”
“They’re not armed.”
She looked toward the door.
Roman added, “Not visibly.”
“That is not better.”
“No.”
He sat again.
Sadi remained standing.
Roman turned the contract toward himself.
“Warehouse Twelve is part of the property package.”
Her pulse shifted.
“Which property?”
“South River Industrial.”
She knew the name.
Everyone in Chicago construction knew it.
Sixteen acres of old warehouses, rail access, river frontage.
A fortune if redeveloped.
A graveyard if contaminated.
“Who owns it now?”
“Bellini Redevelopment.”
“Arthur.”
“Yes.”
“Who owned it nine years ago?”
Roman did not answer.
Sadi looked at him.
“Your family.”
There it was.
Roman’s face remained controlled.
“Moretti Logistics held a minority interest.”
“How much?”
“Thirty percent.”
“Who held the rest?”
“Bellini.”
Sadi laughed once.
Not humor.
Shock.
“My mother was told the company belonged to Moretti.”
“Which Moretti?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
She hated that he sounded like a lawyer.
Roman continued.
“My father controlled Moretti Logistics then. I was not running it.”
“But you worked there.”
“Yes.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Old enough.”
He accepted that without flinching.
Sadi picked up the contract.
“You were buying the site back.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To redevelop it.”
“Knowing there had been a fatal fire.”
“Yes.”
“Knowing there might be a federal investigation.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
He did not seem like a man easily surprised.
Tonight he had been surprised twice.
That almost made her trust his answer.
Almost.
“Arthur mentioned Carlo because he wanted me to distrust you.”
Roman nodded.
“Probably.”
“That does not mean I shouldn’t.”
“No.”
Again.
No defense.
It annoyed her.
“Stop agreeing with me.”
“Would you prefer I lie?”
“No.”
“Then we’re making progress.”
Sadi picked up the coffee pot.
Her shift had ended seven minutes ago.
She suddenly wanted the ordinary dignity of cleaning something.
Roman watched her refill a cup no one needed.
“Why did you leave law school?”
She stopped.
“My mother got sick.”
“What kind of sick?”
“That is none of your business.”
“No.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because Arthur recognized your name.”
“That has nothing to do with my mother.”
“You don’t know that.”
Sadi set down the pot.
“Do you interrogate everyone who saves you from signing federal liability?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
She looked at him.
That could have been flirtation.
From Roman it sounded like a risk assessment.
“Are you going to call the police?”
“No.”
“Federal investigators?”
“Yes.”
That surprised her.
“You cooperate with federal investigators?”
“When it benefits me.”
“Comforting.”
“I wasn’t trying to comfort you.”
Roman removed his phone.
He called someone named Mara and asked for the full title history of South River Industrial, environmental filings, OSHA records, and every federal inquiry mentioning Arthur Bellini.
He hung up.
Sadi stared.
“You have people who do that at two fifteen in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“I need better friends.”
“Employees.”
“That is worse.”
A server entered and whispered that the restaurant manager wanted to close.
Roman looked at Sadi.
“You’re done for the night?”
“Yes.”
“How are you getting home?”
“Train.”
“No.”
She blinked.
“No?”
“It’s two twenty.”
“I know how clocks work.”
Roman’s mouth shifted.
“I’ll have a car take you.”
“I don’t get into cars sent by men who have bodyguards.”
“Security.”
“Large men behind chairs.”
“Security.”
“I’ll take the train.”
Roman stood.
“Fine.”
The word surprised her.
He put the contract into Arthur’s abandoned briefcase.
Then he removed a business card.
No logo.
Just his name and a number.
“If Arthur contacts you, call.”
“I won’t.”
“Then call the police.”
“Better.”
Roman hesitated.
“If anyone mentions Carlo Moretti again, call.”
Sadi took the card.
Not because she intended to use it.
Because refusing dramatically would have been childish.
Roman left.
The room seemed suddenly too large.
Sadi finished wiping the table.
On the floor beneath Arthur’s chair, something caught the chandelier light.
A small brass key.
Attached to a plastic tag.
12-B.
Her hand went cold.
Carlo had carried a similar key on the night he died.
She remembered because the police returned his belongings in a clear plastic bag.
Wallet.
Wedding ring.
Watch.
A burned key tag.
12-B.
Sadi picked up Arthur’s key with a napkin.
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
No one spoke.
Then a woman’s voice said:
“Sadi?”
Her mother.
Sadi’s chest tightened.
“Mom? Why are you calling from another number?”
Her mother whispered:
“Someone is outside my apartment.”
Sadi stood.
“What?”
“He asked if Carlo left you a key.”
Sadi stared at the brass tag in her hand.
“Mom, lock the door.”
“I did.”
“Call 911.”
“I already did.”
A knock sounded through the phone.
Slow.
Three times.
Her mother stopped breathing.
Then a man’s voice came from the other side of the door.
“Mrs. Moretti?”
Sadi grabbed Roman’s business card.
May you like
Her mother whispered, “He says he’s from Bellini Redevelopment.”
And suddenly taking the train home no longer felt like the dangerous choice.
