Page 47 of The Voicemail

“We think she got a message,” Luca says when I call him for his read. “Someone lured her out into the alley. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“What about carrier records?” I ask. “Is there any way to see who she might have been in contact with?”

“I’m working on it,” he says. “There isn’t much to go on. The number she called isn’t listed anywhere. It’s a dummy number.”

“It’s not enough to pin on Bianchi.”

“Not really,” he answers. “But you know I’m ready to move in on your word.”

“I just don’t want to give you the wrong one,” I admit. “This is delicate. If we go after Bianchi for this and we’re wrong, he’ll retaliate.”

“Even if we’re right, he’ll retaliate if we can’t prove it. Did Elena say anything to you?”

I shake my head even though I know he can’t see me.

“She was too rattled by all of it. She cried for a long time, and then I sent her to bed. What about you? You were actually there with her.”

“Yes and no,” he answers hesitantly. “I was in the building, but I thought she might appreciate some space.”

“That wasn’t your call,” I remind him harshly.

“Maybe not, but she’s not a prisoner, Alessandro,” he says darkly. “We can’t be at her side every second of every day. She isn’t a client. She’s not an ally. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but she really is just a woman who got tangled up with the wrong people.”

“Enough,” I snap.

“Alessandro, you need to hear this,” he says firmly. “It’s all well and good to protect her, but I think you’ve gotten more personally involved than you’re admitting and⁠—”

“I said that’s enough, Luca,” I cut him off. “It isn’t your place to say any of this and you’d do well to remember that. We need to stick to the facts. Why is Bianchi after Elena? What do we know?”

He sighs heavily and I can almost hear him holding back his commentary.

“He thinks she took something from him. Something that would’ve come in a shipment.”

“The Marchesi crate,” I say. “Whatever the hell was in it that wasn’t a painting.”

I turn my chair toward the desk, where I already have the file Luca compiled on the crate. The name Elio Marchesi appears on a manifest, a shipping invoice, a valuation form, and two emails.

Of course, the man doesn’t really exist. Not in any real sense. The accounts under his name funnel straight to Bianchi. We’re sure of that. He’s buried all his operations under the pseudonym, and it looks legitimate. Elio Marchesi may even have been a real person he knew, someone long dead. Bianchi is careful with his record keeping.

“Walk me through it again,” I tell Luca.

“The crate came into Bellamy Fine Art a few weeks ago,” he answers patiently, though we’ve already talked this to death. “The manifest says it’s a nineteenth-century landscape with a mid-seven-figure valuation. Belongs to a collector. Standard bullshit. But no painting ever arrived.”

“Bellamy told Elena not to worry about it,” I say. “So, he knew there wouldn’t be a painting in that crate. He probably didn’t intend for any of his employees to lay their hands on it. Elena’s just too good at her job. So what was in the crate and why does Bianchi think she has it?”

“My best guess is that it’s a ledger,” he says hesitantly.

“What, like names of his clients?”

“Could be,” he says. “Names and payment dates. Account routes, customs contacts, city permits. Anything. Enough to burn a lot of dirty cops and politicians.”

“So Bianchi isn’t the only one after it,” I say, standing.

“No, but Tomaso is definitely his. That we know with certainty.”

“He goes after her for the file and becomes obsessed with her instead. That’s how we ended up here.”

He hums on the other end of the line. “So, where’s the file?”