Chapter 3 - The Woman in Blue
Emergency lights flooded the corridor red.
Nicholas grabbed Claire by the arm.
“Stay behind me.”
Gunshots were not fired.
That somehow made the darkness worse.
Men shouted through radios.
A glass alarm sounded upstairs.
Claire’s heart hammered.
Nicholas moved quickly.
Claire followed because arguing while armed security searched a dark mansion seemed unnecessarily stupid.
When they reached the third floor, Marco was already there.
“Clear.”
Nicholas looked toward Claire’s suite.
The door stood open.
Inside, the window had been shattered.
Cold Chicago air blew curtains into the room.
Her bag had been overturned.
Clothes covered the floor.
Nicholas checked the bathroom.
Empty.
Claire stepped inside.
“My mug.”
Nicholas turned.
“What?”
She stared at the floor.
Her blue ceramic mug lay shattered beside the bed.
Of all the things in the room, that was what hurt.
Her father had bought it for her during his last Christmas.
It had a crooked cartoon lobster printed on the side.
Claire had carried it through three apartments, two restaurant jobs, one disastrous engagement, and more bad mornings than she cared to remember.
Now it was broken.
Nicholas looked at the pieces.
“You’re upset about the mug.”
“My dad gave it to me.”
His face changed instantly.
“I’m sorry.”
Marco entered from the balcony.
“They climbed from the east drainage ledge.”
Nicholas’s expression became lethal.
“Inside security?”
“Possibly.”
“What did they take?”
Claire looked around.
“Nothing.”
Marco examined the dresser.
“They weren’t stealing.”
Claire saw something on the pillow.
A blue flower.
Small.
Dry.
Placed carefully in the center.
She pointed.
“That wasn’t there.”
Nicholas stared at it.
Marco pulled on gloves and lifted it.
“Violet.”
Claire remembered Evelyn.
Flowers.
She looked at Nicholas.
“This isn’t only a threat.”
“No.”
“It’s a message.”
“Yes.”
“To your mother?”
Nicholas stared at the violet.
“To me.”
The next morning they went to St. Agnes.
Claire argued.
Nicholas ignored her.
“I’m not part of your security team.”
“You heard Vincent.”
“So?”
“So you noticed the spoon. You understand food. You understand my mother.”
“That doesn’t qualify me for church-based criminal investigations.”
Nicholas opened the SUV door.
“Get in.”
Claire glared at him.
“You are unbelievably bossy.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You’re going to die alone.”
“Probably.”
She climbed inside.
“Move over.”
St. Agnes was a small stone church on Chicago’s South Side that seemed too peaceful to belong anywhere near the Caruso family.
Snow clung to the cemetery.
Nicholas walked toward a row of old graves.
Claire followed.
Michael Caruso.
Nicholas’s father.
Born 1956.
Died 2014.
Claire read the inscription.
A MAN’S NAME IS WHAT REMAINS WHEN HIS MONEY IS GONE.
“Your father wrote that?”
“My grandfather.”
“Did he believe it?”
Nicholas looked toward the church.
“Depends which version of him you ask about.”
Claire didn’t push.
Marco searched nearby graves.
Another guard checked the mausoleum.
Claire noticed fresh mud near Michael Caruso’s headstone.
“That.”
Nicholas looked.
A small metal object protruded behind the base.
Marco retrieved it.
A key.
Old brass.
A number engraved on one side.
Nicholas stared.
“Safety deposit?”
Claire asked.
“Maybe.”
A voice behind them said, “Not a bank.”
Everyone turned.
An elderly priest stood near the cemetery gate.
Father Thomas Brennan.
He had officiated Michael Caruso’s funeral.
Nicholas seemed surprised to see him.
“What is 317?”
Father Brennan looked at the key.
“Your father left something.”
Nicholas went still.
“What?”
“He said if Evelyn ever came here asking questions, I was to give her access.”
“Access to what?”
The priest looked toward Claire.
“This conversation is family business.”
Nicholas said, “She stays.”
Claire looked at him.
The words were simple.
But something about them landed heavily.
Father Brennan led them beneath the church into a basement archive.
Locker 317 stood against a stone wall.
Nicholas inserted the key.
Inside was a leather ledger.
A photograph.
And a sealed letter.
The photograph showed Michael Caruso standing with Vincent.
A younger Marco.
And a woman Claire did not recognize.
Elegant.
Dark hair.
Blue coat.
Claire’s pulse jumped.
“That’s her.”
Nicholas looked at the picture.
“What?”
“The woman Vincent remembered.”
Nicholas stared.
“You’ve never seen her.”
“No, but look at the coat.”
Father Brennan quietly crossed himself.
Nicholas noticed.
“You know her.”
The priest nodded.
“Dr. Helena Voss.”
Claire frowned.
“Doctor?”
“She worked for your father.”
Nicholas’s jaw tightened.
“She disappeared after he died.”
Father Brennan looked troubled.
“No.”
Nicholas turned.
“What?”
“She didn’t disappear.”
“Then where is she?”
“She came here three weeks ago.”
Silence.
“She asked whether Evelyn had opened locker 317.”
Nicholas’s voice dropped.
“What did you tell her?”
“That I had never seen your mother.”
Claire picked up the ledger.
The first pages contained property addresses.
Shell companies.
Payments.
Then she found something different.
Names.
Medical suppliers.
Private clinics.
A charitable pharmacy funded by the Caruso Foundation.
Claire looked at Nicholas.
“Your mother’s medication.”
“What?”
“Where does it come from?”
“Hospital pharmacy.”
“Before the poisoning?”
He thought.
“Some prescriptions came through the family foundation clinic.”
Claire pointed.
“This ledger tracks that clinic.”
Nicholas read.
His expression darkened.
Payments had continued for years after Michael Caruso’s death.
One recipient appeared repeatedly.
H. Voss Consulting.
Father Brennan said quietly, “Your father discovered someone was laundering money through medical contracts.”
Nicholas looked up.
“Who?”
“He never told me.”
Claire turned more pages.
Then she stopped.
A name had been circled.
A. CARUSO
Nicholas stared.
“There are six people in my family with that initial.”
Claire looked at him.
“That’s inconvenient.”
A sound came from above.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Marco drew his gun.
“Back wall.”
Father Brennan moved Claire behind a stone pillar.
The basement door opened.
A woman appeared.
Dark coat.
Gray hair now.
But the face matched the photograph.
Helena Voss.
She looked directly at Nicholas.
“You found it.”
Nicholas raised his weapon.
“Hands.”
Helena obeyed.
Claire stared.
“You broke into my room?”
Helena looked confused.
“What?”
“The violet.”
Her expression changed.
“Violet?”
Nicholas stepped closer.
“If you lie to me—”
“I didn’t poison Evelyn.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
Helena’s voice cracked.
“But if I wanted your mother dead, Nicholas, she would have died four months ago.”
Marco’s gun remained raised.
Helena looked at Claire.
“The cook?”
Claire frowned.
“How do you know me?”
“Because whoever is doing this is terrified of you.”
“That makes two of us.”
Helena almost smiled.
Then she looked at Nicholas again.
“The spoon was never supposed to kill Evelyn.”
Claire froze.
“What?”
Helena continued.
“The substance was designed to make her sick. Weak. Confused.”
Nicholas’s face went pale.
“Why?”
“To make her legally incompetent.”
Claire looked at the ledger.
Property.
Trusts.
Foundation.
Money.
Nicholas understood.
“My mother controls something.”
Helena nodded.
“Forty-two percent of Caruso Development voting shares.”
Nicholas stared.
“She transferred those years ago.”
“No.”
Helena shook her head.
“Your father secretly changed the trust before he died.”
“To what?”
“If Evelyn is declared mentally incompetent, control does not pass to you.”
Nicholas stepped closer.
“Who gets it?”
Helena looked toward the circled name.
“A. Caruso.”
Nicholas went still.
Claire saw realization hit him.
“No.”
Helena nodded sadly.
“Yes.”
Nicholas whispered the name.
“Aunt Alessandra.”
A gunshot exploded upstairs.
Father Brennan dropped.
Claire screamed.
Marco returned fire.
Helena grabbed Claire and pulled her behind the stone wall as bullets struck the door frame.
Nicholas shouted, “Claire!”
“I’m here!”
Another shot.
Then silence.
Marco ran upstairs.
Nicholas crouched beside Claire.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
He checked anyway.
Hands at her shoulders.
Her face.
Her waist.
Claire stared at him.
“I said I’m fine.”
“I heard you.”
“You don’t look convinced.”
“I’m not.”
Helena suddenly gasped.
Claire turned.
Blood spread across the woman’s coat.
A bullet had struck her side.
Nicholas caught her before she collapsed.
Helena grabbed his sleeve.
“Listen.”
“Save your strength.”
“No.”
She pulled him closer.
“Alessandra isn’t working alone.”
Nicholas froze.
“Who?”
Helena’s lips trembled.
“The person helping her is someone your mother trusts enough to let touch her every day.”
Claire’s stomach dropped.
The nurse.
The housekeeper.
A guard.
A doctor.
Helena struggled to breathe.
Nicholas leaned closer.
“Who is it?”
Helena whispered one word.
Then went unconscious.
Claire stared at Nicholas.
“What did she say?”
May you like
Nicholas slowly raised his eyes.
“Kitchen.”
