I wonder if I’ll ever be able to speak with Frankie again. He’s as much of a casualty in this war as I am. He doesn’t know who his father is, not really. I’m convinced that no matter how deep Frankie’s ties go, he’s not involved in murder. Whether he will side with his father or stick his neck out to protect me remains to be seen. I feel awful about using him the way I did. If I had a chance, I would at least try to explain myself. It’s not like I’m chasing a byline or anything so selfish. I just want justice for someone who meant the world to me, who was killed in the line of duty.
More than ever, I’m convinced that Danny was working on something when he died. The subject of his research got wind of his inquiries and silenced him before he could publish anything. It’s possible the police are involved in a cover-up, although it’s also possible that they are simply incompetent.
Either way, I can’t look to them for help right now. There is no way I’m going to walk into a police station and explain what I’ve been up to. They won’t be sympathetic, and they probably won’t even believe me.
Taking my water bottle back to the couch, I resume my vigil. This is the best spot in the entire apartment, I think. When they kill me, all I will have to do is lie down, and I’ll fall into the same position as my brother. We’ll be twins in death the way we never were in life. The only difference is that Danny knew what he was writing about, while I only have vague clues.
The word “clue” sticks in my mind. I turn it over in my thoughts as if I’m running my fingers along the lip of a rare vase. It starts out with a harsh sound, and the “l” in the middle makes it seem almost funny. I remember a board game from years ago, the one that Danny and I used to play after dinner most nights.
“Clue,” I say out loud. I have a clue. I took it from Corello’s desk before he caught me.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the tiny journal. Its cover is nondescript; there is no writing or pattern on the leather binding. Opening it up, I can see a list of numbers in columns. I page through it, sensing a pattern. On each page, there are three columns. Each column has a set of digits in pairs.
I page through the rest of the journal, discovering that it is only halfway full. There are no words, no symbols, no anything except these cryptic numbers. It takes me a while to recognize what I’m looking at. It must be some kind of ledger.
I get excited. If this notebook is what I think it is, then it contains receipts of transactions of some kind. Maybe one column is the originator, and the next is the receiver. Following that logic, one of the columns should stand for the dollar amount. There are no decimals or anything indicating that the transactions are monetary, but I notice that the columns on the right have bigger numbers than either of the other two.
Following up on my hunch, I study the first column. There is some repetition to the numbers, as if maybe they are transactions between the same people. I hunt down instances within the diary where the same two numbers are present. This must be repeated transactions between the same two people. I further narrow it down by date, considering that the journal must be in chronological order.
I don’t notice how much time has passed until my stomach signals that I’m hungry. It seems irrelevant to eat when the mafia is about to break my door down, but I can’t ignore my stomach too much longer.
CHAPTER 27
FRANKIE
After discovering who Sofia really is, I start an internet search. My father has people who can do this much more effectively than I can, but I don’t want to ask them. I’m filled with shame at my part in the whole debacle. I am the one who let Sofia into the house. I’m the one she led around by the nose, pretending to care.
I should be the one to fix this.
I go back upstairs to my room and open my laptop. I begin with social media, hoping she’s less clandestine with her online friends. I remember my father telling me that people are incredibly stupid when it comes to posting sensitive information. They let their desire to be a part of the conversation get the better of them.
This isn’t the first time I’ve done research on somebody. Occasionally my father asks me for help when there is a new recruit. My job is to go through their feeds from the very beginning, looking for anything suspicious. So, I turn my attention to Sofia, amazed at the snow job she did on me.
There I was, trying to date this woman, and it never once occurred to me to ask for her social media handles. She could have been posting anything for all I knew, and it would have been highly suspicious if she refused to share.
I find her right away, under the name she gave me. At least that’s something. She didn’t lie about her identity. I discover that she’s not a heavy user of social media at all. There are a few posts, but most of them are years old. There’s one picture where Sofia’s arm is wrapped around a man who almost looks like her twin. I’m guessing that’s her brother who passed away. After that photo, there isn’t much else except an announcement that she’s working for the newspaper.
I switch over to another platform and another, each time discovering the same thing. She had a robust online presence until her brother died. Then it was crickets most of the time, with the occasional newsworthy update. I’m not going to learn very much from a basic search.
I move onto the next level of surveillance by switching to the various databases I have access to. In his dealings with government officials, my father has opened doors that didn’t used to exist ten years ago. We can search for people in several different online places, which helps whenever we are attempting to meet anyone new.
Uncle Gio had me run a few background checks on some shopkeepers we met with recently. All I have to do is turn that spotlight onto Sofia. I enter her name and address into one of the databases, and I’m able to see her entire rental history. There’s not much there, so I check out another resource.
After two hours’ worth of work, I don’t know a whole lot more than I did when I began. She’s a private person who suffereda tragedy. It looks like she threw herself into her work, and I suspect she has some kind of vendetta against my family.
My father is pretty high-profile, though he does his best to keep his name out of the papers. I can’t imagine what specific story Sofia has been working on, but obviously it’s important to her. I don’t want to consider how heartless she must be to have used me the way she did, but I have a hard time not dwelling on it. She broke my heart and made me look like a fool.
Eventually, I realize I’m not going to learn anything more about her, so I close down the laptop and take a break. I go downstairs to help myself to a sandwich. It’s almost lunchtime, and I’m running on fumes.
Uncle Gio and my father are in the kitchen. There’s a lot we could say to each other, but I’m not in the mood. I almost turn around at the first sign of other people, but I force myself to continue. I grab a loaf of bread and the leftover chicken from two days ago. Slicing a tomato, I make myself a sandwich and I’m about to take it back upstairs with me when Gio stops me.
“How are you doing?”
“Fine,” I mutter.
“Sit down,” Gio commands, pulling out a chair.
I’m stuck. I can’t disobey a direct order from either my uncle or my father, and they know it. I’ve been in this family too long to buck tradition. I sit down, sliding my plate onto the table. I stare at the bread for a long time, waiting for someone to get to the point.
