Chapter 5 - The Cookbook
Harriet refused to cry.
Not because she wasn’t afraid.
Because anger was easier to organize.
Dominic’s medical team treated two wounded guards while the rest of the house became a command center.
Phones rang.
Monitors filled with traffic-camera feeds.
Men moved in and out carrying tablets, maps, weapons, coffee.
Harriet sat alone at the kitchen island.
Her mother’s cookbook was still in her apartment.
Assuming Victor’s people had not found it.
She closed her eyes and pictured the book.
Red cover.
Gold thread along the spine.
The words MARGARET’S KITCHEN written in black marker.
Her mother had used it almost every day.
Harriet remembered sitting at the table while Margaret wrote grocery lists.
Sometimes numbers appeared in the margins.
Harriet had assumed they were prices.
What if they were codes?
Dominic placed a cup of tea in front of her.
Harriet opened one eye.
“I asked for coffee.”
“You’ve had four.”
“I’m trying to stay awake.”
“You’re vibrating.”
She looked at the tea.
“What is this?”
“Chamomile.”
Harriet stared at him.
“Your father gets kidnapped and you serve chamomile?”
“My father is dead.”
Harriet closed her eyes.
“Sorry.”
Dominic sat beside her.
“It was funny.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It was a little.”
She looked at him.
His bandage had been changed again.
He seemed pale beneath the bruising.
“You should be in bed.”
“So should you.”
“My father got kidnapped.”
“I got stabbed.”
Harriet considered that.
“Fine. Draw.”
Dominic smiled faintly.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then Harriet said, “If Victor searched my apartment, he may already have the cookbook.”
“He doesn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he asked you to bring it.”
“That could be a trick.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“Victor is arrogant.”
“You say that like you aren’t.”
Dominic accepted the hit.
“He wants you to know he needs something from you.”
Harriet looked at the monitors.
“How do we get Dad back?”
“We don’t trade immediately.”
“He’ll kill him.”
“No.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Victor waited twenty-two years for the evidence. Henry is leverage.”
Harriet’s voice dropped.
“So am I.”
“Yes.”
“Would you trade me?”
Dominic turned toward her.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Harriet noticed.
“So the alleged crime lord has principles.”
“A few.”
“Terrible business model.”
Dominic’s expression became serious.
“Harriet.”
“What?”
“Victor recognized you before tonight.”
Her stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
“You served him.”
“Twice.”
“He knew who you were.”
“No.”
“He had Cynthia taken within hours.”
Harriet thought back.
Victor sitting at Table Twelve.
Gray suit.
Gold cuff links.
Ordering sea bass without capers.
He had never looked directly at her.
Or maybe that was what she remembered because she expected not to be seen.
“What if he has watched me for years?”
Dominic said nothing.
Harriet stared at him.
“You think he has.”
“I think Victor Marano doesn’t leave loose ends.”
“Then why am I alive?”
“Because Henry convinced him you knew nothing.”
Harriet laughed bitterly.
“So my father’s disappearance worked.”
“Partly.”
That hurt.
Dominic saw it.
“He still made the wrong choice.”
Harriet looked at him.
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
“Your father helped him.”
“My father made many wrong choices.”
“Do you hate him?”
Dominic considered.
“No.”
“Even knowing what he did?”
“I can love the man and hate the decisions.”
Harriet looked down.
She wished emotions were as simple as restaurant tickets.
Table twelve.
Two steaks.
One salad.
No onions.
Done.
People were messier.
The front door opened.
One of Dominic’s men entered.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We have access to Lawson’s apartment.”
Harriet stood.
“Is the building clear?”
“Yes.”
“Cookbook?”
“We didn’t touch anything.”
Harriet grabbed her coat.
Dominic stood too.
“No.”
She turned.
“You can stay here.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“I know.”
“You are not going alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Dominic pointed at himself.
“Not you either.”
He looked offended.
“I own the cars.”
“You also leak.”
One of his men looked away.
Dominic sighed.
“Twenty minutes.”
“Doctor said forty-eight hours.”
“Doctor is dramatic.”
“Doctor had blood on both hands.”
“Mostly mine.”
“Exactly.”
Dominic came anyway.
Harriet’s apartment looked wrong.
Not destroyed.
Searched.
That was worse.
Cabinet doors stood open.
Couch cushions removed.
Drawers emptied carefully.
Whoever had entered knew what they wanted.
Harriet walked toward the kitchen.
The cookbook shelf was empty.
Her stomach dropped.
“No.”
Dominic entered behind her.
“What?”
“It’s gone.”
Harriet searched the counter.
Nothing.
Then she remembered something.
Three months earlier, a pipe leak had ruined part of the kitchen ceiling.
Harriet had moved several cookbooks into a plastic storage bin under her bed.
She ran toward the bedroom.
Dominic followed.
The mattress had been lifted.
Closet searched.
Storage bin opened.
Empty.
Harriet cursed.
“Victor has it.”
Dominic examined the room.
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean maybe?”
He pointed toward the floor.
A rectangle of dust remained beneath a small nightstand.
“Something was moved recently.”
Harriet frowned.
She moved the nightstand.
Behind it was a narrow gap between the baseboard and wall.
Her mother had taught her that trick.
Old Chicago apartments had strange little spaces everywhere.
Harriet knelt.
She reached inside.
Her fingers touched cloth.
She pulled.
Red cover.
Gold stitching.
MARGARET’S KITCHEN.
Harriet sat on the floor.
Dominic exhaled.
“Your mother was clever.”
“My mother hid Christmas money in flour bags.”
“Terrifying woman.”
“You would have liked her.”
Dominic looked at Harriet.
“I think I already do.”
She ignored the strange warmth that sentence created.
They carried the cookbook to the kitchen table.
Harriet turned pages slowly.
Recipes.
Chicken soup.
Meatloaf.
Cornbread.
At first, nothing unusual.
Then Dominic noticed a column of numbers beside a peach cobbler recipe.
4-12-9-7.
Harriet frowned.
“That’s not a measurement.”
“No.”
They turned another page.
More numbers.
11-3-22.
Then letters.
C.V.
H.L.
S.P.
V.M.
Harriet’s pulse quickened.
“Codes.”
Dominic nodded.
“Your mother probably thought they were old notes.”
Near the back, Harriet found a folded envelope glued inside the cover.
Her name was written across it.
HARRIET ONLY.
She stared.
Dominic stood.
“I’ll give you privacy.”
Harriet shook her head.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
Dominic sat again.
Harriet opened the envelope.
Inside was one sheet.
Her mother’s handwriting.
Harry,
If you are reading this, then something your father feared has found you.
He told me one thing before he left.
He said the safest person in the room is often the person nobody notices.
That sounded like Henry trying to be poetic.
I told him he was bad at it.
Harriet laughed through tears.
That was her mother.
The letter continued.
There is something inside this book that belongs to dangerous men.
I never wanted you involved.
If Henry comes back, be angry.
He earned it.
But listen before you decide what kind of man he is.
He loved us badly.
That is still love.
Harriet stopped.
Her vision blurred.
Dominic remained silent.
She continued.
The numbers in this book are not money.
They are locations.
The one Henry told me never to forget is:
19-8-5 / 12-1-11-5 / 8-15-21-19-5.
Harriet frowned.
Dominic leaned closer.
“It’s a letter-number cipher.”
A=1.
B=2.
Harriet began translating.
19 S.
8 H.
5 E.
SHE.
12 L.
1 A.
11 K.
5 E.
LAKE.
8 H.
15 O.
21 U.
19 S.
5 E.
SHE LAKE HOUSE.
Harriet whispered, “The lake house.”
Dominic looked at her.
“What lake house?”
“My grandparents had a cabin near Lake Geneva.”
“Still in the family?”
“No. Sold after Mom died.”
“Who owns it?”
“I don’t know.”
Dominic pulled out his phone.
Within minutes, one of his men found the property record.
Dominic read the screen.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“The cabin was never sold.”
Harriet frowned.
“I signed the papers.”
“You signed papers transferring management to a trust.”
“What trust?”
Dominic turned the phone toward her.
LAWSON FAMILY TRUST.
Trustee: Margaret Lawson.
Successor trustee: Harriet Lawson.
Harriet stared.
“I own it?”
“Yes.”
“I have been paying rent for twelve years and I own a lake house?”
Dominic almost laughed.
“Apparently.”
Harriet read the letter again.
One final line remained.
If anyone ever comes asking about Pier Nine, go to the lake house and look beneath the floor where you used to hide your shoes.
Harriet stood.
“I know where.”
Dominic closed the cookbook.
“We go now.”
Harriet looked at him.
“You are learning.”
The drive took ninety minutes.
Dominic brought four vehicles.
Harriet complained.
He ignored her.
The cabin sat in darkness at the end of an overgrown gravel road.
Harriet had not been there since she was nineteen.
Memories returned immediately.
Her mother hanging sheets.
Her father grilling burgers.
Harriet hiding muddy shoes beneath the loose floorboard so Margaret wouldn’t see them.
They entered carefully.
Dust covered everything.
No sign of recent intrusion.
Harriet crossed the small living room.
She knelt near the fireplace.
Third plank from the wall.
She pressed one end.
It lifted.
Beneath it sat a metal box.
Dominic crouched beside her.
Harriet opened it.
Inside were photographs.
Documents.
A cassette tape.
And a second key.
Not the one from the tire iron.
This one was brass.
A paper tag hung from it.
PIER 9 / LOCKER 17.
Dominic looked at Harriet.
“Another key.”
Harriet lifted the cassette.
A label had been written in Henry’s handwriting.
IF I DON’T COME BACK.
Dominic found an old cassette player on a shelf.
Harriet wiped dust from it.
They inserted the tape.
Static.
Then Henry’s younger voice.
“My name is Henry Lawson. It is September 14, 2004.”
Harriet’s chest tightened.
“If something happens tonight, Victor Marano is responsible.”
Dominic stared at the recorder.
Henry continued.
“But Victor is not working alone.”
Static crackled.
“There is someone inside Carlo Valenti’s family.”
Dominic went still.
Harriet looked at him.
The tape continued.
“Someone close enough to know every meeting, every account, every shipment.”
Dominic leaned closer.
Henry began saying a name.
Then the recorder clicked.
The tape stopped.
Harriet stared.
“What happened?”
Dominic removed the cassette.
The tape had been physically cut.
Someone had removed the final section.
Harriet looked at the metal box.
A fresh line of dust had been disturbed near the back.
Someone had been inside before them.
A floorboard creaked upstairs.
Dominic immediately stood.
His hand moved beneath his jacket.
Harriet gripped the brass key.
Another creak.
Closer.
Then a man’s voice came from the dark hallway.
“I wondered how long it would take you to find the box.”
Dominic froze.
Harriet turned toward the stairs.
A figure stepped into view.
Dominic’s face lost all color.
“No.”
May you like
The man smiled.
“Hello, brother.”
