Chapter 6 - THE FATHER WHO NEVER WENT TO CALIFORNIA
Mom said the photograph was impossible.
She said it six times.
Then Vincent came back and placed it on the kitchen table.
I was asleep by then.
Or pretending to be.
I listened from the bedroom doorway.
In the photograph, Leon Voss was younger.
He had dark hair.
He was standing outside a hospital.
A baby was wrapped in a pink blanket.
Me.
Mom recognized the blanket.
Grandma had made it before she died.
On the back of the photo someone had written:
Carter girl. April 17.
Mom stared at it.
“Where did David get this?”
“We don’t know,” Bell said.
“Why does Leon Voss have my baby?”
Vincent studied her.
“You tell us.”
“I’ve never met him.”
“You said you heard his name.”
“That was three months ago.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“Megan.”
“Nothing!”
She stood so quickly the chair fell backward.
I came out of the bedroom.
Mom stopped.
“Baby.”
“I’m not asleep.”
“I can see that.”
“Who is that man?”
Nobody answered.
I pointed at the photo.
“Why is he holding me?”
Mom looked like her heart was breaking.
“I don’t know.”
Vincent looked toward Bell.
Bell took out a folder.
“We ran Leon Voss through several databases.”
“And?”
“He has no biological children on record.”
Mom looked relieved.
Too relieved.
Vincent noticed.
“But,” Bell continued, “there’s something else.”
He pulled out another photograph.
A man stood beside Leon Voss.
He was younger.
Blond.
Smiling.
Mom sat down.
I knew him.
“Daddy.”
Everyone turned toward me.
I pointed.
“That’s Daddy.”
Mom started crying.
Vincent looked at her.
“You said her father was in California.”
Mom covered her face.
I walked to the table.
My father looked different from the one picture Mom kept in the back of her closet.
But it was him.
Daniel Carter.
The man who sent one birthday card when I turned two.
The man Mom said lived far away.
Vincent’s voice became quiet.
“Who was Daniel Carter?”
“My husband.”
“You told me you weren’t married.”
“I’m not.”
“Divorced?”
Mom shook her head.
“Widowed.”
I stared at her.
Daddy wasn’t in California.
Daddy was dead.
I didn’t understand the word immediately.
Then I did.
Children understand more than adults think.
“You lied.”
Mom looked at me.
“Rory.”
“You said he moved.”
“I know.”
“You said maybe he would call.”
Her face crumpled.
I ran into the bedroom.
Mom followed.
I climbed under the blankets and pulled them over my head.
She sat beside me.
“Baby.”
“Go away.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m your mother.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
That answer made me peek out.
Adults usually explained.
Mom didn’t.
She just said yes.
“Why?”
She rubbed her hands together.
“Because your daddy died when you were fourteen months old.”
“How?”
Her eyes filled.
“A car accident.”
“Was Vincent there?”
“No.”
“Was Leon?”
She hesitated.
That was enough.
“You lied again.”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Was Daddy bad?”
Mom closed her eyes.
“I don’t know that either.”
We went back to the kitchen.
Mom told the truth.
Or as much as she knew.
Daniel Carter had worked as an accountant.
Not the boring kind.
The dangerous kind.
He handled numbers for construction companies, restaurants, trucking businesses and private investment groups.
Mom thought he had a normal job.
Then one night, when I was eight months old, he came home terrified.
“He said he had found money that wasn’t supposed to exist,” Mom said.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“What kind of money?”
“He never told me.”
“Voss?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he mention him?”
“No.”
Mom looked at the photograph.
“Daniel wanted us to leave Chicago.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“He changed his mind.”
“Why?”
“He said it was handled.”
Four months later, Daniel died.
His car went through a guardrail outside Joliet.
Police called it an accident.
Mom believed them.
Until now.
Detective Bell looked uncomfortable.
“I pulled the crash report.”
Mom went still.
“And?”
“Daniel’s blood alcohol level was high.”
“He didn’t drink.”
Bell nodded.
“That’s the problem.”
“What?”
“The toxicology sample was retested six months later.”
“Why?”
“Insurance dispute.”
“And?”
“The second report found no alcohol.”
Mom stared at him.
Vincent leaned back.
“First test was falsified.”
Bell nodded.
Mom’s face went white.
“Who signed it?”
Bell looked at his notes.
“Officer Martin Hale.”
Vincent and Marco exchanged a look.
Mom noticed.
“You know him?”
Vincent said, “Hale works private security now.”
“For who?”
Nobody wanted to answer.
Mom stood.
“For who?”
Vincent finally said it.
“Leon Voss.”
The room went silent.
Mom grabbed the counter.
I didn’t fully understand.
But I understood enough.
Someone bad knew Daddy.
Someone bad might have hurt Daddy.
And the same person had a baby picture of me.
Vincent opened the ledger.
“Daniel’s name appears here.”
Mom stared.
“Where?”
He turned the book around.
Daniel Carter.
Next to it was a series of dates.
Amounts.
And one handwritten note.
REFUSED FINAL TRANSFER.
Below that:
CHILD REMAINS LEVERAGE.
Mom stopped breathing.
Then she grabbed the ledger.
“Who wrote this?”
“We don’t know.”
“Child?”
Her voice cracked.
“That means Rory?”
“Likely.”
“What did Daniel refuse?”
“We’re still decoding the accounts.”
Mom looked at Vincent.
“You said David was laundering two million.”
“David was laundering a fraction.”
“How much?”
Vincent glanced at Bell.
Bell shook his head slightly.
Mom slammed the ledger shut.
“How much?”
“Eighty-seven million dollars.”
Mom laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because numbers that large didn’t feel real.
Vincent continued.
“Spread across fourteen shell companies over six years.”
“And Daniel found it.”
“Maybe.”
“And died.”
“Maybe because of it.”
Mom looked at me.
Then at the door.
“We leave Chicago.”
Vincent shook his head.
“You won’t make it out.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Voss has photographs of your daughter from years ago.”
“Then staying is worse.”
“Running makes you predictable.”
Mom stared at him.
“What do you suggest?”
Vincent looked at the ledger.
“We finish what Daniel started.”
Mom laughed again.
“You want a waitress and a preschooler to help you take down Leon Voss?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I want the preschooler somewhere safe.”
“I’m four and a half.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“Right.”
“And the waitress?”
“You know David’s operations.”
“I know table numbers.”
“You know suppliers.”
“Some.”
“Employees.”
“Yes.”
“Daily deposits.”
“Yes.”
“Who visited after closing.”
Mom stopped.
Vincent saw it.
“Who?”
She said nothing.
“Megan.”
“There was a man.”
“What man?”
“He came every other Thursday.”
“What did he look like?”
“Sixties. Gray hair. Gold glasses.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
“Name?”
“David called him Judge.”
Detective Bell swore.
“Judge?”
Mom nodded.
“He always used the private room.”
Bell pulled out his phone.
“Retired Judge Arthur Kessler?”
He showed her a photograph.
Mom’s face changed.
“That’s him.”
Bell paced toward the window.
Vincent looked grim.
“What?”
Bell turned.
“Kessler signed the sealed order transferring Daniel Carter’s crash evidence to state storage.”
Mom stared.
“Why would a judge do that?”
Bell’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“Where?”
He listened.
“When?”
Then he lowered the phone.
Vincent stood.
“What happened?”
Bell looked at Mom.
“David Sterling was found.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
Mom exhaled.
Bell wasn’t finished.
“He walked into a precinct twenty minutes ago.”
Vincent frowned.
“Just walked in?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Bell looked directly at me.
“He asked to speak to Rory Carter.”
Mom moved in front of me.
“No.”
May you like
Bell continued.
“He says Leon Voss is coming for her before midnight.”
