Chapter 4 - THE BLUE MUSIC BOX
The storage facility manager recognized Norah.
That should have been comforting.
Instead, he said:
“Your brother came by yesterday.”
Norah stopped walking.
“I don’t have a brother.”
The manager’s face changed.
Declan stepped forward.
“What did he look like?”
Norah touched Declan’s arm.
He stopped.
Her question.
Her storage unit.
“Did you let him inside?”
“No. He didn’t have your code.”
Good.
“Did he ask about anything specific?”
“A blue box.”
Not good.
They moved quickly.
The unit looked untouched.
Old furniture.
Winter coats.
Boxes labeled MOM.
Norah found the music box inside a carton of childhood photographs.
Blue velvet.
Plastic ballerina.
One broken hinge.
She sat on the concrete floor.
“I used to hide coins in this.”
Declan crouched several feet away.
“Your father apparently had better taste in hiding places than bankers.”
Norah turned the box over.
Nothing.
Then she remembered Maeve’s words.
Open the bottom.
The velvet lining lifted.
Beneath it was a thin metal plate.
Under that:
A tiny notebook wrapped in plastic.
Daniel Bennett’s handwriting filled the pages.
Dates.
Companies.
Account numbers.
Bannon Environmental.
Keane Consulting.
Greco Disposal.
Gallagher Freight.
Then initials.
S.G.
M.K.
P.G.
Norah felt sick.
“Patrick Gallagher is here.”
Declan took the notebook.
“Payments?”
Some entries were.
Others looked like notes.
P.G. REFUSED.
S.G. THREATENED.
M.K. MOVED 250.
Then:
WAREHOUSE 12 — DELETE SOURCE FILES.
Declan went pale.
“Martin Keane worked for Gallagher seventeen years ago?”
“Did he?”
“Junior controller.”
The boring CFO had been there from the beginning.
Norah turned another page.
Three-million-dollar entries appeared repeatedly.
Every few years.
Always labeled waste.
Always through a different shell company.
“What is it?”
Declan studied the dates.
Then his face changed.
“These aren’t garbage payments.”
“How do you know?”
“Because three of these dates match internal wars.”
Norah stared.
“You mean violence.”
“Yes.”
At least he did not soften it.
The three-million-dollar accounts were slush funds.
Bribes.
Cleanup.
Payoffs.
Contractors no legitimate company would place on payroll.
Then Norah found the newest entry.
Written not seventeen years ago.
Printed on a loose page added later.
Meaning someone had accessed the box after Daniel’s death.
Date:
THIS WEEK.
$3,000,000.
TARGET: D.G.
Declan Gallagher.
Norah’s heart stopped.
Below it:
SECONDARY: N.B.
Her.
The Row Forty-Two transfer was not embezzlement.
It was an assassination budget.
Payment for Declan’s death.
Payment for Norah’s death.
And whoever created it wanted the money trail to make Norah look responsible.
A sound came from outside the unit.
Footsteps.
Declan stood.
“Behind me.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“I’m not becoming furniture every time somebody enters a room.”
Fair.
Norah grabbed the metal flashlight from a shelf.
The unit door slammed upward.
A man charged inside.
Declan intercepted him.
The attacker drove a shoulder into Declan’s injured ribs.
Declan hit the wall.
The man came again.
Declan caught him and sent him over a stack of boxes.
He rose.
Charged a second time.
Norah swung the flashlight into the metal shelving beside his head.
The crash startled him just long enough.
Declan took him down decisively.
A second attacker appeared outside.
Security alarms suddenly screamed.
Norah had pressed the emergency button beside the unit.
Facility guards rushed in.
The second man ran.
The first remained pinned beneath Declan.
Norah searched his dropped phone.
One message filled the screen.
GET THE LEDGER.
Then:
IF GALLAGHER SURVIVES, MAKE SURE THE ACCOUNTANT DOESN’T.
Sender:
M.K.
May you like
Martin Keane was still alive.
And he wanted both of them dead before midnight.
