Chapter 4 - THE COP WHO KNEW MY FATHER
I do not remember crossing the penthouse.
I remember the elevator.
I remember hitting the button too many times.
I remember Adrian catching my arm before the doors opened.
“You’re not going alone.”
“My sister is with a dirty cop.”
“I know.”
“Then move.”
He did.
Three SUVs took us back toward Highlandtown.
Noah stayed with an older woman named Celeste, who ran Adrian’s household with the terrifying efficiency of an ICU charge nurse.
I hated leaving him.
I hated bringing him.
There was no good choice.
Adrian sat beside me making calls.
“Mallory’s phone is off.”
“Find him.”
“My people are trying.”
“Police?”
“Some.”
I looked at him.
“Some?”
“I don’t know who is clean.”
That was not reassuring.
When we reached my block, uniformed officers were everywhere.
Tara stood on the sidewalk wrapped in a blanket.
I was out of the SUV before it fully stopped.
She ran to me.
“I’m okay.”
I held her so tightly she complained.
“What happened?”
“Mallory came upstairs. Asked where you were.”
“Then?”
“He told me Dad worked for people he shouldn’t have.”
Adrian approached.
Tara looked at him.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“That’s the diner guy?”
“This is not the time.”
“He’s definitely attractive.”
“Tara.”
Adrian almost smiled.
“What else did Mallory say?” he asked.
She studied him.
“That Dad stole something before he died.”
“What?”
“A file.”
Adrian’s amusement vanished.
“What file?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Why did he leave?”
Tara glanced toward the uniformed officers.
“I started yelling.”
I stared.
“You screamed him away?”
“I screamed that he was kidnapping me.”
“Good.”
“A neighbor came out recording.”
Adrian nodded approvingly.
“Excellent instinct.”
“Thank you.”
I glared at both of them.
“This isn’t bonding hour.”
One detective approached.
Not Mallory.
A Black woman in her forties with tired eyes and a badge clipped to her belt.
“Ms. Marsh?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Renee Colson.”
Adrian became still.
Colson noticed.
“Mr. Varela.”
“Detective.”
Apparently everyone in Baltimore knew everyone except me.
Colson looked at Tara.
“You should go somewhere secure tonight.”
“She is,” Adrian said.
Colson looked at him.
“That wasn’t directed to you.”
“He has a safe place,” I said reluctantly.
Adrian turned slightly.
Progress.
I hated that he noticed.
Colson lowered her voice.
“Frank Mallory retired from Baltimore PD four years ago.”
I frowned.
“He had a badge.”
“Probably real. Retired officers keep identification. But he had no authority to question your sister.”
“Why is my father in an organized-crime file?”
Colson studied Adrian.
He said nothing.
She sighed.
“Because Michael Marsh was a confidential source in an internal corruption investigation in 1998.”
My legs felt unsteady.
“No.”
“I checked after the name surfaced.”
“My father was an informant?”
“Not officially.”
“What does that mean?”
“He contacted Internal Affairs with information about city contracts being used to launder money.”
I looked at Adrian.
His face had gone blank.
“Your father?”
“Likely.”
Colson continued.
“Michael claimed a criminal organization had infiltrated maintenance contracts, towing, building inspections, even some police units.”
“And then he saved Adrian.”
“That crash occurred three days after his first interview.”
I looked at him.
“You were in the car because of my father?”
“I don’t know.”
Colson answered.
“Maybe.”
Adrian’s eyes sharpened.
“What did Michael report about the crash?”
“That he believed someone tampered with the vehicle.”
Adrian became very still.
“My father told me a rival crew hit us.”
“Your father lied often.”
He almost smiled.
“Fair.”
I sat on the hood of a patrol car because my knees no longer trusted me.
My father.
The man who made pancakes every Sunday.
The man who complained if we left lights on.
The man who died of what I had been told was a heart attack at forty-eight.
“How did he die?”
Colson hesitated.
My stomach dropped.
“That hesitation just ruined my day.”
“Officially?”
“Don’t.”
She looked at me.
“Cardiac arrest.”
“And unofficially?”
“Your father collapsed in a municipal garage.”
“I know.”
“There was no autopsy.”
“Why?”
“Family physician signed the certificate.”
I frowned.
“Dr. Reeves.”
Adrian’s head snapped up.
“What name?”
“Harold Reeves.”
He swore quietly.
“What?”
“Reeves was my father’s doctor too.”
Colson looked at him.
“Also named in multiple sealed corruption inquiries.”
Everything inside me went numb.
My father had not simply known criminals.
He had been trying to expose them.
And someone connected to Adrian’s father may have covered up his death.
I looked at Adrian.
“Your family killed him.”
“I don’t know.”
“Your father?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have a ledger saying you owed us protection.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Maybe protection was guilt.”
“Maybe.”
At least he didn’t lie.
That almost made it worse.
Colson said, “We need the original ledger.”
Adrian looked at her.
“No.”
I stared.
“Excuse me?”
“It contains names unrelated to this.”
“Names of criminals?”
“Names of families.”
Colson folded her arms.
“I can subpoena it.”
“You can try.”
“Adrian.”
He looked at me.
My anger surprised even me.
“My father may have died because of whatever is inside that book.”
“I know.”
“Then you don’t get to protect your organization from the truth.”
His expression tightened.
“It isn’t that simple.”
“No. It is.”
I stepped closer.
“You people hide everything behind words like loyalty and family and business.”
Tara touched my arm.
I continued.
“My father died without telling us because he was scared of men like your father.”
Adrian took that hit without moving.
“If the ledger can tell us who did it, you give it to her.”
His eyes remained on mine.
“Dela.”
“Give it to her.”
Long silence.
Then:
“Fine.”
Colson looked surprised.
So was I.
Adrian called one of his men.
“Bring the ledger.”
He ended the call.
“You understand this may put more people in danger.”
“So does hiding it.”
“Yes.”
His answer was quiet.
“You’re right.”
Thirty minutes later, we stood inside a police conference room.
The ledger sat beneath fluorescent lights.
Colson photographed every page.
Adrian’s attorney arrived furious.
Adrian ignored him.
My father’s entry appeared again.
Then Colson found another.
REEVES, HAROLD — services retained.
Below it were amounts.
Dates.
One date matched the week my father died.
My hands turned cold.
“Payment?”
Colson nodded.
“For what?”
No description.
Then Tara pointed.
“There.”
At the bottom of the page was a code.
M.M. — resolved.
I stopped breathing.
Michael Marsh.
Resolved.
Adrian’s face emptied.
“No.”
I looked at him.
“What does resolved mean?”
He didn’t answer.
“Adrian.”
He turned away.
His lawyer closed his eyes.
Colson said quietly, “In several old Moretti/Varela records, ‘resolved’ meant a problem had been permanently eliminated.”
My stomach twisted.
I stood.
Adrian grabbed my arm.
“Dela.”
“Don’t touch me.”
He released me immediately.
“Your father ordered mine killed.”
“I don’t know that.”
“The book says it.”
“The book says something happened. It does not say who ordered it.”
“Who else?”
His expression changed.
“Mallory.”
I froze.
Adrian turned to Colson.
“Find Frank Mallory’s old personnel dates.”
She typed.
“1998. Organized Crime Task Force.”
“Transferred 2001.”
Adrian stared at the ledger.
“Mallory had access to my father’s records.”
“So?”
“So he could have written entries.”
Colson looked at him.
“Why?”
“To make my father look responsible.”
“Twenty-eight years later?”
“No.”
Adrian’s gaze hardened.
“To hide whoever really was.”
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph.
No text.
I opened it.
My breath stopped.
Noah.
Sitting at Adrian’s penthouse kitchen table.
Taken through a window.
From outside.
I showed Adrian.
He went white.
Then another message arrived.
THE DEBT IS DUE.
A third.
BRING THE LEDGER TO MERCY COUNTY. MIDNIGHT. ALONE.
I looked at the time.
9:17 p.m.
Adrian’s voice became cold enough to change the room.
“They know where your son is.”
I stared at the photograph.
“No.”
“They don’t have him.”
“Yet.”
Colson immediately called units.
Adrian called his security team.
Nobody answered.
One line.
Second line.
Third.
Nothing.
His face changed.
Then his phone rang.
Celeste.
He answered.
She was whispering.
“Mr. Varela…”
Adrian stood.
“What happened?”
“They’re inside.”
I grabbed the phone.
“Noah?”
A crash.
Celeste gasped.
Then a child screamed in the distance.
“Mom!”
The line disconnected.
I stopped breathing.
Adrian took the phone from my hand.
His eyes met mine.
And for the first time, the most feared man in Baltimore looked afraid.
May you like
Not for himself.
For my son.
