Chapter 9 - Building 17
Dr. Vaughn said Orson should remain in the surgical center for another night.
Orson listened carefully.
Then he got dressed.
"Absolutely not," she said.
"I appreciate your concern."
"That was not concern. That was a medical instruction."
"Noted."
"Mr. Dramore-"
"Doctor, there is a man trying to destroy evidence connected to three murders, my shooting, a kidnapping, and an attack on your surgical center. I am not staying in bed."
Dr. Vaughn looked at me.
"You seem marginally more reasonable."
"That's because you don't know me well."
She closed her eyes.
"Fine. Then hear this from the person who just spent six hours rebuilding his nerve. If he tears the repair, gets the wound infected, or uses that hand like an idiot, I will personally make the rest of his recovery unpleasant."
I looked at Orson.
"I like her."
"Everyone does when she's threatening me."
His right hand was heavily bandaged and secured in a protective brace. He could feel pressure in two fingers, but movement remained almost nonexistent.
Still, the black glove stayed in his coat pocket.
That felt important.
By 8:00 A.M., we had a plan.
Orson's attorneys had already delivered copies of Hector's recording, Walter's ledger, Victor Salen's audio, hospital records, kidnapping footage, and the fragment analysis to a federal organized-crime task force through Helen's retired prosecutor friend.
Aldric's men attacking a medical facility had accelerated everyone's interest.
Search warrants were being prepared for three properties.
But Building 17 belonged to a shell company that had changed ownership twice in six months.
By the time investigators got legal access, the dies could be gone.
Orson refused to wait.
So did I.
"You are not going," he told me.
We were standing inside the restored front half of my shop.
"Neither are you."
"That isn't an argument."
"It's exactly the same argument you're making."
"Aldric wants you."
"He wants the evidence. I know what the dies look like. You don't."
"Helen can identify them."
Helen shook her head from across the room.
"Don't involve me in your lovers' quarrel. I'm seventy-three. I have earned better judgment than both of you."
I turned toward her.
"We're not-"
Kellen coughed.
Mara, sitting beside him, smiled.
I gave up.
Orson lowered his voice.
"Rosie. Please."
That stopped me.
Not because he asked me to stay.
Because he said please.
"If I stay here," I said, "you wait for the task force."
"No."
"Then I go."
His jaw tightened.
"You negotiate like a criminal."
"I learned from recent company."
Kellen turned away, clearly hiding a smile.
In the end, we compromised badly.
Orson, Kellen, four trusted men, and I went to Building 17.
Two vehicles from the federal task force waited three blocks away after Orson's lawyer informed them that possible evidence destruction was in progress. They had not yet received full entry authority, but they were close enough to respond if violence started.
"This is the worst compromise I've ever seen," Helen said before we left.
She was right.
Building 17 looked different in daylight.
Less haunted.
More pathetic.
Rust covered the loading doors. Broken windows stared down from the second floor. Snowmelt and dirty rain collected in cracks across the concrete.
This was where men had hidden power for decades.
Now it looked like it could barely hold up its own roof.
We entered through the east side.
No one stopped us.
That worried Kellen.
"Too quiet."
Orson nodded.
His left hand rested near the pistol beneath his coat.
I carried nothing except my grandfather's two loupes.
The original brass one.
And the second one Aldric had sent.
We reached the old refrigeration floor.
"Below the floor," I said.
Kellen studied the concrete.
"That's a lot of floor."
I looked through the older loupe at the engraving beneath the rim again.
BUILDING 17. BELOW THE FLOOR.
Then I saw something else.
A tiny arrow cut after the final word.
Not an arrow.
A maker's alignment mark.
My grandfather used the same shape to indicate north when he sketched workshop layouts.
I turned toward the north wall.
There were seventeen iron floor plates set in rows.
"Of course," I whispered.
Orson looked at me.
"What?"
"Building 17. Plate 17."
The seventeenth plate sat near a collapsed conveyor.
Kellen and two men lifted it.
Beneath was a shallow service cavity.
Inside rested a metal case.
My heart pounded.
I knelt.
"Don't touch it," Orson said.
"I have to open it."
"It could be wired."
Kellen checked first.
No explosives.
No visible trigger.
I opened the latches.
Inside were six steel stamping dies wrapped in oiled cloth.
One carried three curved lines surrounding a diamond.
Hector Bell's original mark.
Beside the dies was a small paper envelope.
I opened it.
Twelve handwritten serial numbers.
Eleven had lines through them.
One did not.
Orson looked over my shoulder.
"What is that?"
I understood before I wanted to.
"Twelve rounds in the batch. Eleven accounted for."
Kellen looked around the room.
"Meaning one is missing."
A voice came from the darkness above us.
"Not missing."
Aldric stood on the old metal catwalk.
A pistol rested in his hand.
He smiled.
"Saved."
Everyone moved.
Orson's men raised their weapons.
Kellen stepped in front of me.
Aldric pointed the gun down.
"Drop them or the first shot goes into the girl."
Orson's face became still.
"You're surrounded."
"Am I?"
A second man appeared behind us.
Then a third.
Aldric had hidden his remaining loyalists inside the building.
"Guns down," Orson said.
Kellen looked at him.
"Boss-"
"Down."
One by one, weapons touched the concrete.
Aldric descended the stairs.
He looked older than he had at the Belmont Club.
Not weaker.
Just stripped of polish.
"All this," he said, looking at the metal case. "Because dead men couldn't leave anything alone."
Orson stared at him.
"My father."
Aldric sighed.
"Still that?"
"Did you kill him?"
"He was going to destroy everything I built."
"Did you kill him?"
Aldric's eyes hardened.
"Yes."
The word echoed through Building 17.
My pulse jumped.
Orson did not move.
"My mother?"
"She should have stayed out of business."
"Hector Bell?"
"Weak men create records."
"Walter Fenomore?"
Aldric looked at me.
"I didn't kill Walter. The old man actually had a stroke. Believe it or don't. By then he'd learned enough to keep quiet."
A strange relief moved through me.
Grandpa had died naturally.
Afraid, yes.
Silent too long, yes.
But not murdered.
Aldric turned back to Orson.
"And you. You were supposed to learn."
Orson's eyes narrowed.
"By losing my hand?"
"By understanding limitation. You were thirty-seven and thought you could cut me out of a world I built before you learned to shave. I did not want you dead. I wanted you dependent."
"So you ordered the round."
"I ordered a lesson."
"You bought Salen."
"I bought his silence. Then I made sure every other doctor saw what I wanted them to see."
Aldric smiled faintly.
"And it worked. Nine years you wore that glove. Nine years you never questioned me."
"I questioned everyone."
"Not me."
That was the wound Aldric was proudest of.
Not the hand.
The trust.
Orson looked at him for a long moment.
"You're right."
Aldric's smile returned.
"I know."
"I trusted you."
Orson took one slow step forward.
"That was my mistake."
Aldric pointed the pistol at his chest.
"Stop."
Orson stopped.
"But here's yours," he continued.
Aldric frowned.
"You still think fear is loyalty."
A shout came from outside.
Then another.
Sirens approached.
Aldric's face changed.
Kellen smiled without humor.
"Task force got the warrant."
Aldric looked at Orson.
"You brought federal agents into family business?"
"No. You brought them when you attacked a surgical center, kidnapped civilians, and left enough evidence to fill a courtroom."
Rage replaced control.
Aldric grabbed my arm and dragged me toward him.
The pistol pressed beneath my jaw.
Orson's entire body changed.
"Let her go."
"Move and she dies."
Kellen took half a step.
The second gunman aimed at him.
Aldric pulled me backward toward the loading door.
"You want the truth, nephew? Here it is. Everything you love becomes leverage. Your father loved honor. Your mother loved you. Hector loved Helen. Walter loved this girl."
His grip tightened.
"And now you love her."
Orson did not deny it.
He looked at me.
Not at the gun.
At me.
"Rosie."
I understood something in his voice.
Trust me.
I stopped fighting.
Aldric mistook it for fear.
"Good girl."
That annoyed me enough to become useful.
My grandfather's second loupe was still in my right hand.
Brass.
Heavy.
Sharp at one broken hinge.
I drove it backward into Aldric's wrist.
He shouted.
The gun moved away from my throat.
Orson lunged.
Aldric fired.
The bullet struck the concrete beside us.
Kellen fired once.
Aldric dropped.
His pistol skidded across the floor.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Orson pulled me behind him.
Federal agents flooded the building through three entrances.
"Weapons down! Hands visible!"
Kellen immediately placed his gun on the floor and raised both hands.
Orson did the same.
Aldric groaned.
Kellen's bullet had gone through his shoulder.
Alive.
Orson looked down at him.
Aldric's face twisted with pain and hatred.
"You think they won't come for you next?"
Orson's expression was calm.
"Maybe they will."
That answer surprised everyone, including me.
"But I'm done letting fear decide what I become."
Agents handcuffed Aldric.
One took possession of the dies.
Another photographed the envelope of serial numbers.
Orson's lawyer appeared at the entrance looking as if he had aged ten years in ten minutes.
"Nobody says another word," he announced.
I leaned toward Orson.
"I like him too."
"You like everyone who tells me what to do."
"Pattern recognition. Jeweler skill."
His eyes dropped to my hand.
I had cut my palm on the broken loupe.
"You're bleeding."
"So are you."
The fresh surgical dressing on his right wrist had a small red stain.
My stomach dropped.
"Orson."
"I'm fine."
"You are never allowed to say that again."
"That's unreasonable."
"Doctor. Now."
He looked at me.
Then at the agents carrying Aldric away.
Then back at me.
And to my absolute shock, Chicago's most feared Mafia boss obeyed.
Later, Dr. Vaughn informed him that he had strained the repair but not destroyed it.
She also called him several names I will not repeat.
I stood in the corner smiling.
Aldric Dramore survived his wound.
He also survived long enough to hear the recordings gathered from Building 17.
The warehouse had old security equipment installed by one of Orson's teams before we entered.
Every confession had been captured.
Vincent Dramore.
Marcella Dramore.
Hector Bell.
The custom ammunition.
Victor Salen.
Orson's shooting.
The kidnapping.
For decades, Aldric had survived because frightened people held pieces of the truth separately.
Walter kept a casing.
Hector kept a ledger.
Marcella kept a note.
Victor kept a recording.
Helen kept her memory.
None had been enough alone.
Together, they ended him.
Three days later, I returned to Fenomore Jewelry.
The burned back room still smelled faintly of smoke.
The polishing machine sat open.
The hidden cylinder was empty.
I thought I would feel sad.
Instead, I felt free.
Orson entered behind me.
No glove.
Bandaged hand visible.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"That Grandpa spent years protecting evidence because he thought truth had to hide to survive."
"He wasn't wrong."
"No. But maybe we get to live differently."
Orson stood beside me.
"Maybe."
I looked at his right hand.
"Can you feel this?"
I touched the tip of his ring finger.
He waited.
Then his eyes changed.
"A little."
I smiled.
"Good."
His finger moved.
Barely.
Less than half an inch.
May you like
But it moved toward mine.
And for the first time in nine years, Orson Dramore smiled at his right hand instead of hiding it.
