Chapter 2 - THE LOCK THAT SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN TOUCHED
The first mistake Jolene Hartley made was touching the new padlock.
The second was believing the man watching her from across the empty market was there to help.
She discovered both mistakes within thirty seconds.
"Don't touch that again," a voice said.
Jolene spun around.
A tall man stood beneath the last glowing market light, wearing a dark jacket and the same baseball cap she'd noticed earlier.
The bracelet customer.
The one who had tried to give her eighteen dollars too much.
"Good grief," she said, pressing a hand against her chest. "Do you always sneak up on women standing beside suspicious doors?"
"Only when they're standing beside suspicious doors."
His expression barely changed.
She would later discover that was how Dominic Valcourt made jokes.
At the moment, she wasn't amused.
"The market's closed," she told him. "Unless you've come back to argue about your change."
His gaze dropped to the padlock.
"Why were you examining that?"
"Because I have eyes."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you're getting."
Jolene picked up her crate.
Then she noticed something.
A narrow strip of gray fabric protruded from beneath the green door.
It hadn't been there when she'd started packing.
She set down the crate.
"Someone's inside."
The man moved closer.
"Stay back."
Before she could answer, the door shuddered.
Something heavy struck it from the other side.
Once.
Twice.
Then came a strangled cry.
Jolene's old instincts returned before she had time to remember why she'd buried them.
"Someone's hurt."
She grabbed the padlock.
The stranger caught her wrist.
"Don't."
She looked straight into his face.
"If somebody's bleeding behind that door, you can explain your objections while I help them."
For the first time, he seemed genuinely surprised.
He released her.
"Marco."
A second man appeared from the shadows near the courtyard entrance.
Jolene stared.
"Do you travel with a backup person?"
"Unfortunately," the taller man said.
Marco examined the lock.
"Fresh oil. New cylinder. Whoever installed this wanted quick access."
He reached into his jacket.
Jolene expected a phone.
Instead, he produced a compact set of metal tools.
"Well," she said, "that's reassuring."
The lock opened in less than twenty seconds.
The green door swung outward.
A young man collapsed onto the pavement.
His shirt was soaked with blood.
Jolene dropped beside him.
"Call an ambulance. Now."
Marco reached for his phone.
The stranger crouched across from her.
"Can you help him?"
"Hold this."
She pressed his hand against the young man's upper arm.
"Hard. Don't let go."
The injured man gasped.
Jolene checked his breathing, found a pulse, and examined the wound.
A deep cut ran across his forearm.
Not a gunshot.
Not a knife wound.
Something sharp and mechanical had torn through the skin.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Luis."
"Okay, Luis. I'm Jolene. You're going to stay with me."
He stared at her, terrified.
"They said nobody would be here."
"Who did?"
His eyes shifted toward the stranger.
Suddenly, he tried to pull away.
"No. Don't let him—"
His breathing became rapid.
Jolene steadied his shoulder.
"Look at me. Forget everybody else."
She checked his color and breathing again.
"You're losing blood, but we're slowing it down. Help's coming."
The stranger watched her hands.
"You've done this before."
"Not recently."
"You're trained."
She didn't answer.
Luis caught her sleeve.
"The ledger," he whispered. "They moved it early."
"Who moved it?"
He struggled to speak.
"Gray scarf."
Then he passed out.
The stranger's face hardened.
Marco noticed.
So did Jolene.
She continued applying pressure until the paramedics arrived.
Only when Luis was safely loaded into the ambulance did she realize her hands were shaking.
The stranger offered her a clean handkerchief.
She accepted it.
"Thank you."
"You saved his life."
"I kept him alive until someone with better equipment arrived."
"Most people would've run."
"Most people don't have an injured man fall through their workplace."
He looked toward the open green door.
Beyond it lay a narrow corridor, a flight of concrete steps, and an old freight elevator.
The air smelled of diesel and damp cardboard.
Jolene had worked beside that door for years.
She had never known what was behind it.
Marco disappeared inside.
He returned carrying a damaged metal seal.
"Found this near the stairs."
He showed it to the stranger.
A stamped number was visible beneath dried grease.
V-7.
The stranger's expression changed.
It was tiny.
But Jolene noticed.
"You recognize that."
"No."
"You looked at it like you recognized it."
"Some things are better left alone."
Her temper flared.
"That's interesting advice from a man who just picked a lock."
Marco made a quiet sound that might have been laughter.
The stranger ignored him.
"Do you work here every weekend?"
"Usually."
"Do you live nearby?"
"Why?"
"Because whoever hurt that young man might return."
"Then I'll call the police."
"That may not be enough."
Something in his voice made her pause.
Not arrogance.
Experience.
She studied his face.
"Who are you?"
He hesitated.
"Dominic."
"Dominic what?"
Before he answered, Marco stepped forward.
"Dominic Valcourt."
The courtyard seemed to become very quiet.
Jolene knew that name.
Everybody in San Antonio knew that name.
Valcourt trucks traveled the highways. Valcourt restaurants hosted politicians. And when someone mentioned Dominic Valcourt in a lowered voice, nobody asked why.
She looked from Marco to the man who had bought her eighteen-dollar bracelet.
"Oh."
Dominic watched her carefully.
She surprised him.
She laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the truth was absurd.
"Of course," she said. "Naturally. I make one stupid joke about becoming the mafia boss's queen, and then the actual mafia boss buys a bracelet from me."
"You remember the joke."
"Apparently, so do you."
The corner of his mouth moved.
"I thought it was funny."
"Wonderful. My career in organized-crime comedy begins tonight."
Marco coughed into his fist.
Dominic looked toward the market entrance.
"Come on. I'll walk you to your car."
"I have legs."
"And someone has been using the service entrance beside your stall to move stolen freight information."
Her amusement vanished.
"What?"
Dominic seemed to regret speaking.
"That's what I'm investigating."
"Information? From here?"
"Yes."
She thought about Luis.
The gray fabric.
The new padlock.
Then she remembered her father.
Henry Hartley had repaired locks and watches for half the market before his illness.
Including the old service hardware.
"That door used to have a brass mortise lock," she said slowly.
Dominic turned.
"How do you know?"
"My dad repaired it. He said the mechanism was older than the building's last renovation."
"When?"
"Years ago."
Dominic looked at Marco.
"Check the maintenance records."
Jolene folded her arms.
"Excuse me. Those records belong to the market association."
"Then ask the association."
"Ask. That's the important word."
For a long moment, Dominic said nothing.
Then he inclined his head.
"You're right."
That was unexpected.
Men who had money usually treated Jolene's objections like background noise.
Dominic Valcourt had actually listened.
It made her more suspicious, not less.
They reached her battered Corolla.
Dominic examined the cracked dashboard through the window.
"Does this car run?"
"Gladys has feelings. Be respectful."
"Gladys?"
"My car."
Marco smiled openly.
Dominic looked at Jolene.
"Will you let Marco follow you home?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know either of you."
"You know my name."
"That is not the same thing."
Dominic studied her.
Then he stepped aside.
"Drive safely, Miss Hartley."
She opened the door.
"Good night, Mr. Valcourt."
She made it three blocks before she pulled into a gas station.
Her heart was racing.
Something about Luis's injuries bothered her.
The cut had been made by a sharp metal edge moving under force.
And there had been grease beneath his fingernails.
He hadn't simply been attacked.
He'd been trying to stop a mechanism.
She pulled out her phone and opened an old photograph.
Her father stood beside the green door, smiling proudly after repairing its original lock.
She enlarged the image.
On the doorframe, beneath his left hand, was a small brass plate.
H.H. REPAIR — 2018.
Jolene frowned.
Her father had always stamped finished work.
He hated people taking credit for somebody else's craftsmanship.
Then she saw something that made her stomach tighten.
The photograph showed a narrow brass fitting above the lock.
A fitting that had disappeared tonight.
Somebody hadn't merely replaced the padlock.
They had changed the door itself.
The following morning, Jolene returned to Riverstone before opening time.
Lupe Ortega stood outside the market office holding a yellow maintenance invoice.
"Jolene, honey, there's something you need to see."
"What happened?"
"The association says your father authorized the new security system."
Jolene went cold.
"My father's dead."
"I know."
Lupe handed her the invoice.
The signature was unmistakable.
Henry Hartley.
Beneath it was a date.
September 5, 2026.
Yesterday.
Jolene read it twice.
Then she saw the final line.
AUTHORIZED ACCESS: SIMON KESSLER — VALCOURT FREIGHT SECURITY.
May you like
The same signature that belonged to her dead father had just given someone inside Dominic Valcourt's organization a key to the green door.
And whoever had forged it knew exactly how Henry Hartley signed his name.
