Chapter 11 - The Call Vincent Never Forgot
Vincent Moretti had admitted many mistakes.
But there was one he'd kept buried.
The last phone call from my father.
I confronted him at Rebecca's office the following morning.
Detective Mitchell attended after I reported Anthony's call.
Vincent entered looking exhausted.
Then he saw my expression.
"Elena?"
I didn't waste time.
"Did my father call you the night he died?"
Vincent stopped.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he lowered his eyes.
"Yes."
My chest tightened.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He sat slowly.
"Because I was ashamed."
I stared.
"What did he say?"
Vincent looked toward Detective Mitchell.
"I gave investigators my phone records this morning. I'll provide a formal statement."
I nodded.
"Then tell me."
He took a breath.
"Thomas called around eleven. He said he'd found documents proving Anthony and Dominic were moving hazardous materials."
My heart hammered.
"And?"
"He said someone had followed him home."
I covered my mouth.
Vincent's voice broke.
"He asked me to send help."
I stared.
"Did you?"
A terrible silence followed.
"No."
The word struck harder than anything else he'd said.
My knees weakened.
I gripped the chair.
"Why?"
"Because Anthony told me Thomas was trying to blackmail the company."
I stared at him.
"You believed Anthony."
Vincent nodded.
"Yes."
"My father was frightened."
"I know."
"He begged you for help."
Tears streamed down my face.
Vincent looked devastated.
"I told him we'd discuss it the next morning."
I covered my mouth.
"And there wasn't a next morning."
He shook his head.
"No."
For a long moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered, "You could have helped him."
Vincent's eyes filled.
"Yes."
I turned away.
The room was silent except for my breathing.
Finally, Vincent said, "I called Thomas back the next day. There was no answer. When I learned he'd died, I asked Anthony what happened."
I looked toward him.
"What did Anthony say?"
"That Thomas had a heart condition. That he'd been under stress."
Vincent swallowed.
"And I accepted it."
I felt sick.
He continued.
"Then I paid for the funeral because I couldn't face what I'd failed to do."
The admission hurt.
But it was also the first time the entire story made sense.
My father had tried to expose wrongdoing.
He'd reached out to the most powerful man he knew.
And that man had chosen convenience over responsibility.
I wiped my cheeks.
"Vincent, I don't know if I'll ever forgive you."
He nodded.
"I understand."
"But I want you to tell investigators everything."
"I will."
"And if your negligence harmed people, you need to accept the consequences."
He lowered his head.
"Yes."
I took a breath.
Then stood.
"I need to leave."
Vincent didn't stop me.
For once, he let me go.
Outside, Baltimore's winter wind struck my face.
I walked toward the harbor and stood beside the water.
I thought about Dad.
About the man who used to teach Caleb how to repair engines.
The man who worked late so I could afford college classes.
The man who saved every birthday card I'd ever written him.
I cried until my chest hurt.
Then I whispered, "I'm sorry, Dad."
Not because I'd failed him.
But because he'd spent his final night so frightened.
And I hadn't known.
That afternoon, Detective Mitchell called.
The phone records confirmed Thomas had contacted Vincent.
They also revealed another call.
One made shortly after midnight.
From Thomas's phone.
To a number registered to Blackwater Maritime.
The call lasted forty-three seconds.
I stared.
"Who answered?"
Mitchell hesitated.
"We're still establishing that."
Then she added something that made my heart stop.
"The number was assigned to Anthony Russo's private office."
My stomach twisted.
"What does that mean?"
"It means your father may have contacted Anthony after speaking with Vincent."
I closed my eyes.
Then Mitchell continued.
"And we recovered part of a voicemail from that number."
My heart pounded.
"Can I hear it?"
She agreed to arrange an appropriate review.
Hours later, Dad's voice filled a small conference room.
He sounded breathless.
Frightened.
But determined.
Anthony, I know what you did at Pier Nine.
A pause.
And I know who helped you.
The recording crackled.
Then Dad said one final sentence.
If anything happens to me, Elena has the original evidence.
I stopped breathing.
Because I didn't.
At least, I didn't think I did.
Then I remembered something Dad had given me two days before his death.
An old silver key.
May you like
He'd told me it belonged to a storage locker.
And I'd been carrying it on my keychain for sixteen months.
