“The police said they found it inside his jacket.”
I felt that familiar coldness return.
Not anger. Calculation.
“What kind of key?”
“Small. Brass. No markings except one number.”
“Which number?”
“214.”
I knew that number.
Not immediately.
But somewhere deep within my memory, it connected to something.
A storage unit. A deposit box. A locker.
I couldn’t place it.
“What did you do with it?”
“Nothing. At first.”
“At first.”
“For nearly two years, I kept it inside a drawer.”
“And then?”
“I found a photograph.”
She reached into the pocket of her cardigan.
My body responded before my mind could.
Old instincts.
I watched her hand.
She noticed.
Slowly and deliberately, Maria pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Nothing d@ngerous.
A photograph.
She crossed the room and placed it on the table.
I looked down.
The picture was old.
Not ancient.
Maybe fifteen years.
Four men stood beside a black sedan outside a warehouse.
Two of them I recognized immediately.
Vincent Russo.
And me.
I looked younger.
Twenty.
Maybe twenty-one.
Lean.
Cold-eyed.
Standing beside the car with my arms crossed.
The third man had been one of my father’s drivers.
