Chapter 2 - Thirty-One Days Earlier
At 2:47 a.m., Ronaldo Falcone listened to the entire call.
Then he placed his phone face down.
For three hours, he didn't move.
The voice had been altered just enough to prevent recognition.
Elsa was alive.
That was what mattered.
She had chosen to leave.
That was what Ronaldo told himself.
At 5:40, he called Salvatore Greco.
Sal arrived nineteen minutes later.
Ronaldo gave him three instructions.
Check every camera beneath the Wacker building.
Walk through Elsa's apartment without disturbing it.
Find everyone who knew her schedule.
“And nobody approaches her,” Ronaldo said.
Sal remained by the study door.
“If we find her?”
“You confirm she's alive.”
“And then?”
“You leave.”
Sal nodded.
“What if she didn't leave voluntarily?”
Ronaldo straightened a piece of paper on his desk.
He didn't answer.
Sal left.
By noon, they had the garage footage.
At 6:41 the previous evening, Elsa entered the garage.
She carried her usual black shoulder bag and a folder.
At 6:43, she stopped.
The camera image flickered.
At 6:44, the feed went black.
It returned eleven minutes later.
Elsa was gone.
Her car remained.
That bothered Ronaldo.
Elsa didn't abandon practical things.
She had once walked back six blocks because she couldn't remember whether she had locked a filing cabinet.
She wouldn't abandon her car.
Sal went to Pilsen.
Elsa's apartment was clean.
Her toothbrush remained.
Her winter coat remained.
Her passport was gone.
So were two pairs of shoes and several clothes.
That suggested planning.
But her mother's photograph remained beside the bed.
That suggested something else.
Sal found a coffee cup in the sink.
A half-read paperback rested open on the sofa.
A grocery receipt showed Elsa had bought milk, bread, eggs and coffee the previous afternoon.
Nothing looked like the home of a woman preparing to disappear.
Except one thing.
There was no laptop.
That evening, Sal returned.
“She planned something,” he said.
“Or someone wanted it to look planned.”
Ronaldo stood at his office window.
Sal watched him.
“You said not to bring her back.”
“I did.”
“You still mean it?”
Ronaldo took several seconds.
“Yes.”
The following morning, Beverly Vance entered at seven with two cups of coffee.
She stopped when she saw Elsa's empty desk.
Bev had worked for Ronaldo nine years.
She understood silence.
She placed one coffee on his desk.
Then she put the second where Elsa usually sat.
Neither of them mentioned it.
At 10:11, Ronaldo looked at the untouched cup.
That was the hour Elsa usually poured away coffee she'd forgotten to drink.
He looked away.
By the third day, Sal had found nothing.
By the seventh, Ronaldo stopped asking.
By the twelfth, he began checking the elevator whenever it opened.
He hated himself for it.
Elsa had asked for freedom before he hired her.
One year in which nobody waited on her for anything.
Perhaps she had finally taken it.
On the fifteenth day, Bev entered his office carrying payroll documents.
She placed them down.
Then she didn't leave.
“What?”
“Her final paycheck.”
Ronaldo looked at the envelope.
“What about it?”
“It bounced back.”
“From the bank?”
“No. Her account is closed.”
Ronaldo's eyes lifted.
“When?”
“The morning she disappeared.”
That was impossible.
Elsa's salary had been deposited into the same account for twenty-eight months.
Hospital debt had taught her to protect every dollar.
She would not close an account before her final paycheck arrived.
“Find Sal.”
Bev didn't move.
“There's something else.”
She placed a smaller envelope on the desk.
No stamp.
No mailing label.
Just Ronaldo's name.
“Where did this come from?”
“Under Elsa's desk.”
Ronaldo opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
No letter.
No explanation.
Only numbers.
Eleven columns.
Fourteen rows.
Ronaldo recognized them immediately.
Freight records.
But the totals were wrong.
Elsa never made numerical mistakes.
He examined the figures again.
Then he understood.
The errors were deliberate.
Each incorrect number differed from the correct number by one digit.
He wrote the differences in sequence.
Then a date.
Then a dock number.
Calumet.
Ronaldo stood.
Bev stared at him.
“What is it?”
Before he could answer, the office phone rang.
Bev picked it up.
Her face changed.
She handed it to Ronaldo.
No one spoke on the other end.
Then came breathing.
And finally a woman's whisper.
“Don't trust the man who brings you the Calumet books.”
The line went dead.
Ronaldo lowered the phone.
Bev whispered, “Was that Elsa?”
He didn't answer.
May you like
Because at that exact moment, the elevator opened.
Victor Marchetti stepped out carrying the Calumet books.
