Chapter 5 - CLARA’S FRAME
The Moretti house stood behind iron gates in Lincoln Park.
Maggie had expected something theatrical.
Marble lions.
Men with earpieces.
Possibly thunder.
Instead, it was an old brick mansion with ivy around the windows and a porch light that needed cleaning.
“This is disappointing,” Maggie said.
Vincent glanced at her.
“What is?”
“I expected more gargoyles.”
“My uncle wanted gargoyles.”
“Of course he did.”
“My mother threatened divorce.”
Maggie smiled despite herself.
They entered through the side door.
Vincent had lived elsewhere for years, but several rooms remained almost exactly as they had during his childhood.
Clara Moretti’s sitting room was upstairs.
Blue wallpaper.
Books.
A piano nobody played.
And photographs.
Dozens of them.
Vincent crossed toward the mantel.
There it was.
A silver frame holding a photograph of Clara with eleven-year-old Vincent.
“My mother used to dust this herself,” he said.
Maggie carefully lifted it.
The backing had been taped twice.
The first layer came loose easily.
The second did not.
Vincent found a letter opener.
Behind the photograph lay a folded piece of onionskin paper.
Maggie opened it.
Not a confession.
Not even a letter.
A photocopy of a city safety inspection.
HALSTED INDUSTRIAL STORAGE.
FAILED ELECTRICAL PANEL.
IMMEDIATE REPAIR REQUIRED.
Signed three months before the warehouse fire.
At the bottom was a handwritten instruction.
DEFER UNTIL Q4 — C. MORETTI.
Maggie sat down.
“Carlo delayed the repair.”
Vincent stared at the page.
“And the company filed paperwork saying it had passed.”
There was more.
A second sheet listed repair estimates.
A third showed insurance coverage increased two weeks after the failed inspection.
Maggie looked up.
“You think he planned the fire?”
“No.”
Vincent answered immediately.
“Carlo is many things. But setting a warehouse full of employees on fire?”
His voice hardened.
“No.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know him.”
“You thought you knew your father too.”
That hurt.
Maggie regretted it immediately.
Vincent looked away.
“You’re right.”
“No. I’m angry.”
“You’re also right.”
She softened.
“Those can happen together.”
Vincent picked up the inspection report.
“This proves negligence. Maybe fraud. Not murder.”
“But it explains why my father was afraid.”
“Yes.”
A voice came from the doorway.
“And it explains why I spent twenty-seven years wishing Patrick Sullivan had minded his own business.”
Carlo Moretti stood there.
He was seventy-two.
Silver-haired.
Immaculately dressed.
He looked more tired than dangerous.
Vincent stood.
“Uncle.”
Carlo entered the room slowly.
He looked at Maggie.
“You have your father’s eyes.”
“I’ve heard that twice today.”
“I imagine Teresa beat me to it.”
“You followed us?”
“No.”
Carlo looked around Clara’s room.
“I still come here sometimes.”
Vincent held up the inspection.
“Did you falsify the warehouse safety report?”
Carlo studied him.
“Yes.”
The direct answer shocked both of them.
“Why?” Vincent asked.
“Because we were ninety days from defaulting on three loans. Repairs meant shutting Halsted for six weeks. We would have missed contracts. Twelve hundred people would have lost their jobs.”
“Three people died.”
“I know their names.”
Carlo recited them.
Every one.
Maggie watched his face.
He had carried them.
That did not absolve him.
But it mattered.
“The fire wasn’t supposed to happen,” Carlo said.
Maggie’s voice was cold.
“Fires usually aren’t.”
Carlo nodded.
“No.”
Vincent held up the ledger.
“Patrick used trust money to pay the families.”
“Dominic told him to.”
“Then why accuse Patrick of stealing it?”
Carlo’s expression changed.
“Because Patrick intended to give the safety report to the district attorney.”
Maggie stepped closer.
“So you framed him.”
“I told Dominic that if Patrick went public immediately, the company would collapse before the families received anything.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
Carlo looked at her.
“It’s the excuse I used.”
Silence.
Vincent spoke carefully.
“Did you take Dad’s Lincoln the night Patrick died?”
“Yes.”
Maggie felt the room narrow.
“Did you follow my father?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hit him?”
Carlo looked directly at her.
“Yes.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
Maggie did not.
She had imagined this answer since Fulton.
Now that it came, she felt strangely calm.
“Was it intentional?”
Carlo took a long breath.
“No.”
“Of course.”
“I wanted the envelope.”
“What envelope?”
“The originals.”
“Of the safety reports?”
“And the insurance correspondence.”
Carlo walked toward the window.
“Patrick parked under Ashland. We argued. He told me he was finished protecting us.”
Maggie could hear her heartbeat.
“He stepped away. I grabbed his coat. He struck me.”
Vincent looked at his uncle.
“And then?”
“He ran toward the opposite sidewalk.”
Carlo swallowed.
“I got into the car to follow him.”
Maggie whispered, “And hit him.”
“Yes.”
“You left him there?”
Carlo turned.
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“I got out. I tried to help him.”
Maggie’s composure cracked.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect nothing from you.”
“Then what happened?”
Carlo’s face changed.
“Patrick was alive.”
Maggie froze.
Vincent stared at him.
“What?”
“He was conscious.”
Carlo’s voice roughened.
“He grabbed my sleeve and told me where he had hidden the originals.”
Maggie’s breath caught.
“Where?”
“He never finished.”
Carlo looked toward the photograph in Clara’s frame.
“Because Dominic arrived.”
Vincent stepped forward.
“You said Dad was at the hospital.”
“He was.”
“Then how—”
“I called him.”
Carlo’s voice dropped.
“And when Dominic saw Patrick lying in the street, Patrick said something to him.”
Maggie could barely speak.
“What?”
Carlo looked at her.
“He said, ‘Tell Nora I kept my promise.’”
Maggie thought of the photograph.
8:42.
Promise kept.
Carlo continued.
“Then Patrick died.”
Maggie pressed a hand to her mouth.
Vincent stared at his uncle.
“Why did Dad protect you?”
Carlo did not answer.
Maggie suddenly remembered something.
“My mother.”
Both men looked at her.
“Patrick said tell Nora.”
Carlo nodded.
“Nora knew?”
“I don’t know how much.”
Maggie’s stomach twisted.
Her mother had never said Patrick knew the Morettis.
Never mentioned a trust.
A fire.
Carlo.
Dominic.
Nothing.
Carlo looked down.
“After Patrick’s funeral, Dominic began sending Nora money.”
Maggie stared at him.
“No.”
“Every month.”
“No.”
“She accepted it.”
Maggie shook her head.
“My mother would never take your money.”
May you like
Carlo’s expression held no triumph.
“Then perhaps you should ask yourself why she did.”
