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“Which part?”
Looking up from the pile of papers, Corrado eyed his lawyer across the room. Rocco Borza sat at a small round table, studying the hundreds of documents and photographs sprawled out in front of him. Three others worked alongside him, silently and studiously sifting through the stacks. Mountains of evidence surrounded them like thick fortress walls, threatening and mocking, the only thing standing between Corrado and his future.
Somewhere in their midst, tucked into the boxes or hidden in the audiotapes, lay the final nail that could be pounded into his coffin, taking his life away. Their job was to find it and make it disappear.
Exasperated, Corrado stood and strolled to the window, peering down at the street below. The office was located on the fifteenth floor of a newly remodeled skyscraper in the heart of downtown Chicago. People appeared to be little more than flecks of colored dust at this distance, tiny pests doing their best to not be squished as they went about their days.
“All of it,” Corrado muttered. “Every bit of it is wrong.”
A sharp, sudden laugh echoed through the room, cutting off as quickly as it had sounded. Corrado didn’t turn around or try to figure out which man it had come from. It wasn’t worth it. He would only want to kill them for mocking him, and the last thing he needed was another death on his hands.
Besides, if his life hadn’t been on the line, he would have likely laughed, too.
Corrado had little hope of finding help anywhere in that room. The indictment, while vexing, mostly rang true. The government had done their homework. His only saving grace would be sabotaging their case.
“Do you want to take these audio recordings home to listen to them?” Mr. Borza asked after a moment.
“Depends,” Corrado said. “How many are there?”
His question was met with silence. Corrado turned around, glancing at his lawyer, and saw the man peering into a massive box. “Two hundred and twenty CDs, I believe.”
Corrado blinked rapidly as he took that in. Two hundred and twenty, each one eighty minutes long. “That’s almost three hundred hours of recordings.”
“That it is,” Mr. Borza said. “Had they included Vincent’s, it would be double that.”
The prosecution had been granted its request to separate Vincent’s and Corrado’s cases under the assumption they had a better chance of a conviction that way. Mr. Borza opted to defend Corrado, likely because he was terrified of rejecting the man. And while Corrado sympathized with his brother-in-law, having to start over on a defense with his life on the line, he certainly wasn’t upset about the new development.
For Corrado suspected Vincent was a man who had already given up hope.
Corrado let out a deep sigh as his cell phone started ringing. He pulled it from his pocket, shaking his head when he saw it was his brother-in-law. Speak of the devil . . . “Yes?”
“We have a bit of a predicament with the girl,” Vincent said, pausing before adding, “again.”
Frustrated, Corrado rubbed his hand down his face. She had turned out to be more of a problem than he originally thought she would be. “I’ll be there as soon as possible. Tomorrow, maybe, or the next day. Keep her out of trouble until then.”
He hung up, turning back to his lawyer. “Get them to throw out the recordings. There’s too many for me to go through.”
Mr. Borza shook his head. “It won’t be easy.”
“I didn’t say it would be,” Corrado replied. “But do it anyway.”
* * *
Drops of rain trickled from the overcast sky, just enough moisture to annoy Vincent. He sat behind the wheel of his car, listening to the rubber of his wipers scraping against the mostly dry windshield. Wincing, he turned them off, only to turn them right back on again. Back and forth he went—on and off, on and off, until he finally said the hell with it and turned them off for good.
His car idled in a vacant section of the park in Charlotte, tucked in along some trees that led to a jogging path. Even with his headlights off, Vincent could see the rugged dirt trail weaving past, disappearing into a dark section of woods.
Perfect place to hide a body, he thought.
After a few minutes, a bright glow turned the corner nearby, a car slowly driving straight toward him. He cringed as the headlights shone right through his windshield, blinding him temporarily until they turned off. Vincent blinked a few times, trying to clear the sudden colored splotches from his vision, as the car came to a stop a few feet in front of him.
Vincent didn’t hesitate, anger and frustration fueling the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He climbed out of the driver’s seat, the evidence bag containing Haven’s notebook gripped tightly in his hand. His feet carried him briskly toward the other vehicle as the door opened, a man stepping out. The guy started to speak, a single syllable barely escaping his lips before Vincent was upon him, shoving him back against his car. He thrust the notebook against his chest so hard he nearly knocked the wind from the man. “You have some nerve, Agent Cerone.”
“Ah, Vincent, I don’t think—”
“Doctor,” he spat, cutting him off immediately. “I’ve told you before—it’s Doctor DeMarco.”
“Vincent,” he said again. There was no humor in his eyes, no yielding in his expression. “I don’t think assaulting a government official is in your best interest.”
