Chapter 5 - Warehouse Twelve

Warehouse Twelve smelled like oil and river water.

Frankie entered first.

Enzo behind him.

Khloe stayed between two guards.

She hated that.

She also understood it.

Tommy was in the back office.

Alive.

Terrified.

One bruise near his temple.

Nothing worse.

Khloe cut the tape from his wrists.

He looked at her.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“The pitcher.”

“You were forced.”

He nodded.

“Sal told me if I didn’t spill it, Mr. Davis would fire me.”

Khloe frowned.

“Davis?”

Tommy looked ashamed.

“He was in on it.”

Silence.

Enzo turned toward Frankie.

“Find Davis.”

Frankie called the restaurant.

No answer.

Tommy continued.

“Sal wanted you to speak.”

Khloe nodded.

“I know.”

“He said if you did, he’d know you were her daughter.”

“My mother.”

“Yes.”

Khloe stared.

“You knew about her?”

“No.”

Tommy shook his head.

“He only said a woman named Rosa might have left a daughter.”

Khloe’s throat tightened.

Rosa Romano.

Rosa Maro after America.

Her mother.

Enzo asked:

“What else did Sal say?”

Tommy swallowed.

“That Carlo wants something she hid.”

“The ledger.”

Tommy looked confused.

“I don’t know.”

Khloe asked:

“Why kidnap you after?”

“He thought I heard too much.”

Enzo laughed without humor.

“Everyone hears too much in my buildings.”

Tommy looked at Khloe.

“There was another man.”

“Who?”

“I never saw his face.”

“Voice?”

“Older.”

“Accent?”

Tommy thought.

“American.”

Enzo frowned.

Carlo’s English still carried Sicily.

Victor Dane was American.

Father Luca spoke almost accentless English.

Mr. Davis was from Ohio.

Too many possibilities.

Khloe asked:

“What did he say?”

Tommy closed his eyes.

Then repeated:

“Rosa’s daughter will lead us to the book.”

Khloe stared.

“Lead them how?”

Tommy shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

Then remembered.

“He said her father kept the last box.”

Khloe froze.

“My father.”

Enzo looked at her.

She shook her head.

“He was an accountant.”

That surprised him.

“You said medical debt.”

“He was an accountant before he got sick.”

“For who?”

Khloe felt cold.

She had never asked.

Her father worked long hours.

Never discussed clients.

Always said:

“People pay accountants to keep boring things boring.”

Enzo asked:

“Name of the firm?”

“Bennett and Crowe.”

Frankie looked up.

“What?”

Enzo noticed.

“You know it.”

Frankie nodded.

“Shell firm.”

Khloe stared.

“No.”

Frankie continued.

“Used by Bianke companies twenty years ago.”

Enzo looked at Khloe.

Her father.

Her mother.

Both connected.

Khloe whispered:

“They met through the family.”

Enzo nodded.

“Probably.”

She felt sick.

Her parents had spent her entire life pretending the Biankes were only newspaper names.

Tommy said:

“Sal mentioned a storage unit.”

Khloe turned.

“What number?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Think.”

“Forty…”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Forty-three.”

Khloe stopped.

Her checking account.

Forty-three dollars.

No.

That was coincidence.

Then she remembered something.

Her father’s old keyring.

One key had a metal tag.

43.

She had kept it after his death.

Because she did not know what it opened.

Khloe looked at Enzo.

“I have the key.”

Silence.

They returned to her apartment.

The key was inside a coffee tin with her father’s watch.

Stamped:

B&C STORAGE — 43.

Frankie found the address.

Old commercial storage.

Closed at midnight.

Enzo called the owner.

It opened.

Unit 43 contained one desk.

One locked filing cabinet.

And a cardboard box labeled:

KHLOE — WHEN YOU ARE READY.

She stopped at the doorway.

Her father’s handwriting.

Her knees almost weakened.

Enzo stayed behind her.

Not touching.

Not pushing.

Khloe opened the box.

Inside:

Her mother’s passport.

Her father’s accounting books.

A cassette recorder.

One letter.

And the ledger.

Black leather.

Carlo Bianke’s name inside.

Khloe stared.

Twenty years of payments.

Police.

Judges.

Port workers.

Politicians.

Then pages marked:

MISSING.

Enzo frowned.

“Missing what?”

Khloe turned pages.

Several had been cut out.

Her father’s letter explained.

ROSA TOOK THE PAGES THAT PROVED WHO ORDERED THE PORT KILLINGS.

Khloe looked at Enzo.

“Port killings?”

His face changed.

He knew.

“Four men died in 2009.”

“My mother knew who ordered it.”

“Yes.”

“Carlo?”

Enzo did not answer.

Khloe opened the cassette.

Her father’s voice.

“Khloe, if you found this, then both of us failed to keep you outside.”

Her eyes filled.

“Your mother did not steal Carlo’s money.”

A pause.

“She stole proof.”

Enzo went still.

The tape continued.

“And the man who helped her was Enzo Bianke’s father.”

Khloe looked at him.

Enzo stared at the recorder.

His father had been dead six years.

The voice continued.

“They planned to expose Carlo together.”

Silence.

“But one of them betrayed the other.”

Khloe whispered:

“Which one?”

The recording answered.

“I never learned.”

Then footsteps sounded outside the unit.

Frankie reached for his weapon.

Enzo killed the light.

A shadow moved under the door.

And a voice said:

“Khloe.”

Mr. Davis.

The restaurant manager.

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He had found them.

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