Chapter 3 - The Woman at the Last Train
At 6:41 a.m., Clara Bell stood on the platform of an almost empty train station with a borrowed coat buttoned to her throat and a split lip she had concealed beneath a scarf.
She had been awake for 31 hours.
Her left leg ached with every step. The old injury had worsened after she climbed a chain-link fence behind a closed warehouse, but pain was manageable. Panic was not.
Clara could survive pain.
She could not survive being found.
A train pulled into the station, its brakes screaming against the rails. She stepped aside to allow a man with a sleeping child to pass, then glanced at the departure board.
Milwaukee.
She had no intention of going to Milwaukee.
Neither did she intend to board the train.
The station had 3 exits, 2 security cameras, and a coffee stand that opened at 6:00 a.m. She had spent the previous 20 minutes studying the foot traffic.
The woman in the red scarf had crossed the platform twice.
The man with the newspaper had never turned a page.
And the teenager sitting beside the vending machines had been watching Clara through the reflection in the glass for at least 10 minutes.
Three watchers.
One team.
Clara slipped her hand into her coat pocket and touched the small black object resting against her palm.
A memory chip.
It contained enough information to destroy the Moretti organization, implicate half a dozen police officials, and explain why Daniel Vale had spent 8 months listed as dead.
It also contained enough information to get her killed before noon.
Her phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
You look tired, Clara.
She did not look at the screen for a second time.
She walked toward the coffee stand, purchased a cup she did not want, and left it on a table beside the newspaper man.
As she passed him, she murmured, “The next train is delayed.”
He lowered the newspaper.
“Excuse me?”
“You've been reading the same headline for 10 minutes.”
His eyes hardened.
Clara kept walking.
At the end of the platform, she entered the women's restroom and locked herself inside the last cubicle.
She waited.
Footsteps entered the room.
One pair.
Then another.
A third set stopped outside the door.
Clara closed her eyes.
She had made a mistake.
Not a careless one. She had checked every reflection, changed direction twice, and avoided using her phone's location services. But the people hunting her did not need to follow her footsteps.
They had information.
Someone had told them where she would go before she arrived.
Her phone vibrated again.
This time, the message contained a photograph of Daniel tied to the chair.
Come home, little bird.
Your brother is getting impatient.
Clara's fingers went cold.
She had not heard anyone call her that in 9 years.
Little bird.
Her father used to say it when she was a child, before he kissed her forehead and left for work at the courthouse. Daniel had copied the name, teasing her whenever she climbed the oak tree in their backyard.
Only one person outside their family had ever used it.
Victor Moretti.
Her father's killer.
Clara pressed the phone against her mouth to smother a sound that threatened to escape.
She had thought Victor was in prison.
She had thought he would spend the rest of his life behind concrete walls, paying for what he had done to her family.
Instead, he had rebuilt his empire while she spent 6 months washing floors in a house belonging to the man Victor intended to murder.
The irony was almost unbearable.
Outside the cubicle, a faucet turned on.
A man spoke quietly.
“Check the back exit.”
Another voice answered, “What if she's still inside?”
“Then we take her.”
Clara examined the small window above the toilet. Too narrow to climb through without leaving evidence, but wide enough to push out the loose panel she had noticed when she entered.
She removed a hairpin from her bun.
It took her 40 seconds to loosen the panel.
The footsteps moved closer.
A hand rattled the cubicle door.
“Ma'am?”
Clara climbed onto the toilet, pushed the panel aside, and squeezed through the opening. The metal edge caught her sleeve and tore it at the shoulder.
She landed on the other side in a maintenance corridor.
A man's voice rose behind her.
“She's here!”
Clara ran.
The corridor ended beside an emergency stairwell. She descended 2 flights, shoved open a fire door, and emerged into an alley behind the station.
Cold wind slapped her face.
A black SUV waited at the curb.
The passenger door opened.
For 1 terrifying second, Clara thought she had run straight into the people pursuing her.
Then she saw the driver.
An elderly woman in a green wool hat leaned across the passenger seat.
“Get in, sweetheart.”
Clara did not move.
“Who are you?”
“Someone who doesn't enjoy watching young women get murdered before breakfast.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
“No, but it does explain why I'm getting impatient.”
A shout came from the fire door.
The woman sighed.
“Get in, or don't. But make your decision before those fellows decide to stop asking politely.”
Clara climbed into the SUV.
The woman accelerated before the door had fully closed.
Two men ran into the street behind them. One raised a gun.
The windshield cracked.
Clara ducked.
The driver swore, turned sharply around a delivery truck, and plunged into traffic.
For the next 5 minutes, neither woman spoke.
Finally, Clara whispered, “How did you know where I was?”
“Because someone sent me your picture.”
“Who?”
“Your boss.”
Clara turned.
“What?”
The elderly woman glanced at her.
“Leo Rossi. He sent a message through a man named Marco. Told me to find you before the Morettis did.”
“Leo shouldn't know where I am.”
“Apparently, he's learning.”
Clara looked back at the road.
“Then we need to turn around.”
The woman laughed once.
“Absolutely not.”
“You don't understand. If Leo starts searching for me, Arthur will know he's suspicious. Arthur will kill him before tonight.”
“Perhaps.”
“And if Leo sends people to look for me, they might lead the Morettis straight to me.”
“Also possible.”
“Then why are you helping?”
The driver finally glanced at her.
“Because your father once saved my son.”
Clara went still.
“What was my father's name?”
“Judge Samuel Vale.”
The world narrowed to the sound of the engine.
Her father had been a county judge. He had died in a car explosion when Clara was 19. Daniel had disappeared a year later after discovering the financial records that connected Victor Moretti to the murder.
Clara had spent 8 years believing she was the only surviving witness to her father's last investigation.
She had been wrong.
The woman took an exit toward an industrial district and pulled into a garage behind an abandoned furniture store.
“My name is Ruth Bennett,” she said. “I worked for your father before he died. He asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“Why didn't you contact me?”
“Because the last person I contacted ended up in the river.”
Ruth unlocked the garage door and shut off the engine.
“I have a place you can hide. But there's something you need to understand first.”
Clara stared at her.
“What?”
“Your brother isn't the only prisoner Victor Moretti has.”
Ruth reached into her coat and removed a photograph.
It showed a man in a dark suit sitting in a leather chair, his hands folded over a walking stick.
Clara knew the face.
Everyone in Chicago knew the face.
Victor Moretti had been reported dead 3 years earlier after a prison medical emergency.
The photograph had been taken that morning.
Ruth placed it beside Clara's phone.
“Your father didn't leave one secret behind,” she whispered. “He left a list.”
Clara looked at the photograph.
Behind Victor, partially obscured by a curtain, stood a younger man in a security uniform.
Arthur.
And beside him, smiling at the camera, was Leo Rossi's father.
Clara felt the blood drain from her face.
Her father had not simply investigated the Morettis.
He had been investigating a partnership between the Morettis and the Rossi family.
And if this photograph was authentic, the conspiracy had survived every death, every arrest, and every change of power.
It had survived because the men who inherited the empire had never known what their fathers built.
Or because one of them had known everything.
Clara's phone vibrated again.
A new message.
Thank you for meeting Ruth.
Now I know where both of you are.
Outside the garage, a car door slammed.
Ruth reached beneath the steering wheel and pulled out a pistol.
“Stay behind me.”
Clara stood frozen.
Someone knocked on the garage door.
Three slow knocks.
Then a familiar male voice spoke from the other side.
“Clara?”
Leo Rossi.
“I know you're in there.”
Ruth raised the gun.
Clara took one step toward the door.
May you like
Then Leo said the words that made her stop.
“Arthur is dead.”
