Chapter 2 - The Echo in the Harbor
In Boston, three hundred miles to the northeast, the mahogany table in the fortieth-floor conference room was very quiet.
Gino Castellano did not sit in Rocco’s chair. That would have been bad form, even in an empty room. Instead, he stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, looking down at the gray chop of the harbor where the tugs were nudging a container ship toward Berth 4. His hands were clasped behind his back, the heavy gold signet ring on his right hand catching the cold halogen light of the recessed ceiling cans.
"He didn't take the phone?" Gino asked. His voice was soft, almost conversational, like an uncle asking about a nephew's grades.
Across the table, Marcus Vance—the firm’s general counsel, whose father had kept the books when Rocco’s grandfather was still unloading Scotch from schooners in the fog—adjusted his tie. Marcus looked smaller than usual. His shirt collar was visibly damp at the corners.
"No, Mr. Castellano. The burner was left on the kitchen island. Along with his watch. And the keys to the Bentley." Marcus swallowed hard. "He walked out of the lobby in a coat he bought off a rack in Haymarket. No guards. No tail. One of the night drivers saw him get into a Greyhound down at South Station."
Gino didn't turn around. His reflection in the glass was dark, gray-haired, and perfectly still.
"Did he leave the box?"
"Miss Voss has the box," Marcus said. "She tried to return it yesterday when she realized he wasn't coming back to the apartment, but... well. We told her to keep it."
"What was inside?"
Marcus hesitated. He reached into his briefcase with a hand that shook just enough to make the brass latch rattle. He pulled out a single sheet of heavy cream paper—unlined, watermarked with the old Boston shipping crest—and laid it flat on the center of the mahogany.
"This was at the bottom," Marcus said. "Beneath the deeds to the North End warehouses. It’s not a deed, sir."
Gino turned slowly. He walked toward the table with the measured, heavy tread of a man who had never had to run from anything in his life. He picked up the paper.
The handwriting was Ray Kesler’s. It was the same slanted, heavy-handed scrawl that was currently sitting in Rocco’s coat pocket three states away. But this copy—the one Ray had left in the safe before he drove Rocco to the hospital—was longer.
Gino read the first three lines, and for the first time in twenty years, the color drained entirely from beneath his olive skin, leaving him the color of wet lime.
“If he goes looking for the girl in West Virginia,” the paper said, “tell him the truth about the winter of eighty-eight. Or let him find it in the cellar. Either way, the books don't close until the house is empty.”
Gino let the paper fall. It didn't flutter; it dropped straight down, hitting the polished wood with a dull thud.
"Find him," Gino said.
"Mr. Castellano, he's off the grid. We checked the bus manifests. He didn't buy a ticket to Cedar Hollow; he bought one to Clarksburg and changed twice in the dark. We don't have anyone out in that country. It’s coal towns and dirt roads. If we send the boys—"
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"I didn't say send the boys," Gino interrupted. His voice didn't rise. It dropped into that hollow, flat register that made men jump out of windows in the old days. "I said find him. Because if Rocco finds out why Ray Kesler spent thirty years driving a Cadillac for a man who killed his father, the first thing he'll do with that wheelchair is roll it straight through the front window of this office."
Marcus didn't answer. He just picked up the paper, folded it twice, and slid it back into his leather folder.
