Chapter 2 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN HIS COAT
Maggie stopped breathing.
The photograph had yellowed around the edges.
Three people stood beneath the old green awning of Sullivan’s Flowers.
One was a much younger Vincent.
He could not have been more than eleven.
Beside him stood a broad-shouldered man Maggie recognized immediately from newspaper photographs.
Dominic Moretti.
Vincent’s father.
The third man had one arm around Dominic and the other resting on young Vincent’s shoulder.
Patrick Sullivan.
Maggie’s father.
“What is this?”
Vincent watched her carefully.
“You tell me.”
“My father.”
“I gathered that.”
“No.” Maggie picked up the photograph. “I mean, why was my father standing with yours?”
Vincent glanced toward the front windows before answering.
“I took your advice yesterday.”
“The nursing home?”
“St. Agnes.”
Despite herself, Maggie pictured Vincent Moretti carrying three dozen red roses into a nursing home.
“How’d that go?”
“I was proposed to twice.”
“That seems low.”
“One woman asked whether I had a brother.”
Maggie almost laughed.
Almost.
Vincent pointed at the photograph.
“A woman named Evelyn Caruso recognized me.”
The name meant nothing to Maggie.
“She used to keep books for the Moretti Community Trust,” Vincent continued. “Twenty-seven years ago.”
Something in his tone changed.
“She asked whether I knew Patrick Sullivan.”
Maggie set the photograph down.
“What did you say?”
“That I knew his name.”
That answer bothered her.
“How?”
Vincent was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “Because my father believed Patrick Sullivan stole four hundred thousand dollars from him.”
Maggie’s face hardened.
“My father was not a thief.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“You just said—”
“I said my father believed it.”
Maggie stepped away from the counter.
Patrick Sullivan had been dead twenty-seven years.
She had been eleven when a car struck him near the Ashland underpass.
Her mother had spent the following decade working herself sick to keep the flower shop alive.
Nobody had ever spoken about four hundred thousand dollars.
“My father delivered flowers,” Maggie said.
“And handled financial records.”
She stared at him.
Vincent nodded toward the photograph.
“Apparently he helped my father create the community trust.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It surprised me too.”
Maggie hated that.
Not him.
The fact that he knew something about her father she didn’t.
Vincent reached into his coat again and placed a small brass key beside the photograph.
“Evelyn gave me this.”
Maggie did not touch it.
“She said it belonged to your father.”
“What does it open?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Convenient.”
“She’s eighty-nine and has advanced heart disease. I wasn’t going to interrogate her between bingo and medication.”
Maggie looked at him.
“Was that a joke?”
“I’m trying something new.”
“Dangerous.”
His mouth moved slightly.
Then he became serious again.
“Evelyn told me three things.”
Maggie folded her arms.
“First, Patrick Sullivan did not steal from my father.”
A tightness formed beneath Maggie’s ribs.
“Second?”
“Your father died because someone needed my father to believe that he did.”
Maggie’s fingers curled around the edge of the counter.
“And third?”
Vincent hesitated.
“That I needed to give you the key before Carlo Moretti bought this building.”
Maggie stared at him.
Carlo Moretti.
Vincent’s uncle.
The name was almost as well known in Chicago as Vincent’s.
Older. Smoother. Frequently photographed opening hospitals, shaking politicians’ hands, and donating money to Catholic schools.
“What does your uncle have to do with my building?”
Vincent looked genuinely troubled.
“I didn’t think anything.”
“You didn’t think?”
“Moretti Holdings has been buying property along this block for eighteen months.”
Maggie felt cold.
“The apartments?”
“Yes.”
“The old bakery?”
“Yes.”
“The parking lot?”
“Yes.”
She stepped closer.
“Are you buying my shop?”
“Not me personally.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“I found the acquisition plan this morning. Sullivan’s Flowers is the final parcel.”
Maggie laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“So yesterday you get dumped in my shop, and today I discover your family wants the land under my feet.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Men like you always say that right before something gets demolished.”
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Something closer to shame.
“I deserve that.”
That surprised her enough to silence her.
Vincent turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
Maggie leaned closer.
Three words.
8:42.
Promise kept.
The handwriting belonged to Patrick.
Maggie knew it immediately.
She had birthday cards upstairs written by the same hand.
Her knees weakened.
“My father’s watch.”
“What?”
She hurried through the curtain behind the counter and climbed the narrow stairs to the office above the shop.
Vincent followed.
Maggie opened the bottom drawer of an old desk and removed a small wooden box.
Inside rested a scratched silver pocket watch.
“My mother kept it after the accident.”
Vincent’s face changed.
Maggie opened the watch.
The hands had stopped at 8:42.
Neither of them spoke.
Then the bell downstairs rang.
A man in a city jacket entered carrying a clipboard.
“Maggie Sullivan?”
She went down.
“Yes?”
“I’m with Buildings and Safety.”
He handed her a notice.
“We received an emergency complaint regarding unsafe electrical wiring in this property.”
Maggie scanned the page.
Her stomach dropped.
“Emergency closure?”
“Until inspection and repairs.”
“My wiring passed last year.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Who filed the complaint?”
The inspector hesitated.
“It came through a contractor performing acquisition assessments for the adjacent properties.”
Maggie looked at Vincent.
His face had gone very still.
“Which contractor?”
The inspector read the name.
“Bellamy Urban Development.”
Vincent whispered something under his breath.
Maggie heard it anyway.
“That’s Carlo’s contractor.”
The inspector left.
For several seconds, Maggie simply stood there holding the closure notice.
Then she turned on Vincent.
“Get out.”
“Maggie—”
“Your family accused my father of stealing. Now they’re shutting down my shop?”
“I didn’t authorize this.”
“I said get out.”
Vincent looked at her for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
He reached for his coat.
Maggie grabbed her father’s watch from the counter.
The back plate shifted beneath her thumb.
She frowned.
It had never moved before.
Using one fingernail, she pried it open.
A tiny piece of folded paper fell onto the counter.
Vincent stopped.
Maggie unfolded it.
The writing was faded.
But readable.
C.M.
LOCKER 214.
FULTON FLOWER MARKET.
Vincent looked at the initials.
Maggie looked at him.
“Carlo Moretti?”
May you like
Vincent’s expression hardened.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said, “we find out.”
