Chapter 2 - The Woman Everyone Was Watching
By Saturday afternoon, Beatrice Gallagher had changed her mind eleven times.
At four thirty, she stood in her apartment staring at three dresses hanging from the bedroom door.
One had come from Macy’s.
One from a consignment boutique.
The third had arrived that morning in a black garment bag without a receipt.
Beatrice knew exactly who had sent it.
She had almost returned it.
Then she had found a note tucked into the zipper.
No obligation. No diamonds. No stylist. I was informed green does not count as choosing for you. — A.C.
She hated that the note made her smile.
The gown was deep emerald, elegant without being absurd, cut with long sleeves and a simple neckline.
More importantly, it fit.
Perfectly.
Which meant Arthur somehow knew her measurements.
That stopped being charming immediately.
She called him.
“How do you know my dress size?”
Arthur answered after one ring.
“Good afternoon.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Camila asked Leo, Leo asked human resources, human resources refused, and then my assistant called the boutique where you bought the gray suit you wore at last year’s tax conference.”
Beatrice stared at the wall.
“That is somehow worse.”
“I thought honesty would help.”
“It has not.”
“Are you wearing it?”
“No.”
A pause.
Then, “Fine.”
She looked at the dress.
“What does that mean?”
“It means wear whatever you like.”
“You’re not going to persuade me?”
“No.”
That irritated her.
She did not know why.
“Six o’clock,” Arthur said.
“I remember.”
“And Beatrice?”
“Yes?”
“Bring the document Tommy found.”
Her humor vanished.
“You think someone at the wedding will recognize it?”
“I know someone will.”
At six twelve, Arthur’s car arrived.
At six fourteen, Beatrice walked out of her building wearing the green gown.
Arthur was waiting beside the rear door.
For once, he was not speaking.
His black tuxedo had been tailored with the kind of precision that made clothing seem less like fabric and more like authority.
Beatrice stopped at the curb.
“What?”
Arthur looked at her.
Nothing in his expression changed.
His eyes did.
“You’re late.”
She narrowed hers.
“That is what you decided to say?”
“Yes.”
“You stared for nine seconds.”
“I was assessing whether the dress was acceptable.”
“And?”
“It is.”
Beatrice climbed into the car.
“Coward.”
Arthur followed.
By the time they reached the Lakeview Conservatory, her stomach had become a knot.
Black sedans curved beneath stone arches lit by hundreds of lanterns.
Valets hurried beneath umbrellas.
Women in silk stepped onto carpets without ever appearing to touch the rain.
Men with political connections, shipping fortunes, construction empires, and carefully concealed criminal histories filled the entrance hall.
Beatrice leaned toward Arthur.
“If I die, delete my browser history.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’ll need evidence.”
She looked at him.
He almost smiled.
Inside, the wedding looked like something designed by people who believed subtlety was an insult.
Five thousand white roses climbed steel arches.
Candles floated inside glass cylinders.
A string quartet played beneath the dome.
Beatrice recognized aldermen, judges, television anchors, CEOs, union leaders, and at least two men who had appeared in federal indictments.
Then the room shifted.
Not physically.
Socially.
People noticed Arthur.
Conversations did not stop, but they changed direction.
Arthur Costello walked through the crowd with one hand near Beatrice’s back without touching her.
The restraint surprised her.
So did the way people looked at them.
Some stared at him.
Almost everyone stared at her.
“Your people need hobbies,” she whispered.
“They have hobbies.”
“Tax fraud?”
“Among others.”
Leo appeared first.
He looked genuinely delighted.
“You came.”
“I enjoy free food.”
Leo kissed her cheek.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed.
Beatrice noticed.
Interesting.
“You look incredible,” Leo said.
“She knows,” Arthur replied.
“I was speaking to Beatrice.”
“So was I.”
Leo’s eyebrows rose.
Beatrice stepped between them.
“Where’s the bride before one of you begins measuring shoulders?”
Leo laughed and pointed toward the bridal suite.
Camila Carmichael appeared twenty minutes later.
She was beautiful in a way that did not require effort from anyone observing her.
Dark hair swept back.
Ivory silk.
No enormous crown, no dramatic train.
She saw Leo and forgot everyone else existed.
Beatrice’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
Love that obvious felt almost private.
Then Sophia Vale appeared.
Sophia was not related to anyone at the wedding.
She was simply rich enough to be treated as though she were.
She had known Arthur for fifteen years and had spent at least five of those being publicly described as the woman he would eventually marry.
Beatrice understood immediately why.
Sophia was tall, blond, polished, and wearing a silver gown that seemed created specifically to remind other women that genetics could be cruel.
Her gaze moved over Beatrice.
Slowly.
Then she smiled.
“Arthur.”
“Sophia.”
“I thought you were coming alone.”
“Plans changed.”
“I see.”
Sophia extended a hand.
“Beatrice, isn’t it?”
Beatrice shook it.
“Still.”
“I’ve heard so much about you.”
“No, you haven’t.”
Sophia blinked.
Beatrice smiled.
“If you had, you would know I can tell when people say that automatically.”
Arthur looked down, hiding amusement.
Sophia recovered.
“That dress is lovely. Very… accessible.”
There it was.
Beatrice took a sip of champagne.
“Thank you. Yours looks heavily financed.”
Arthur coughed.
Sophia’s eyes hardened.
Then Camila’s mother called her name from across the room, saving everyone from escalation.
Beatrice watched her go.
“Was that full volume?” Arthur asked.
“Forty percent.”
“I look forward to seventy.”
“No, you don’t.”
He did.
The ceremony began.
For thirty minutes, the dangerous people of Chicago behaved.
Leo cried when Camila walked down the aisle.
Arthur pretended not to notice.
Beatrice noticed him pretending.
The vows were simple.
No power.
No money.
No alliances.
Just two people promising to choose each other even when choosing became difficult.
Beatrice glanced toward Arthur.
He was looking at Leo.
Something in his face had changed.
Loneliness, maybe.
Then he caught her watching.
The expression vanished.
At the reception, Arthur’s attention shifted from family to surveillance.
Beatrice knew because she had seen the same look during audits.
He was cataloging.
Richard Spatafora arrived late.
Fifty-six.
Gray suit.
Red carnation.
Carmichael’s chief financial administrator for seventeen years.
He smiled too often.
Patrick O’Malley appeared thirty minutes later.
Beatrice’s hand tightened around her glass.
Arthur noticed.
“That him?”
“Yes.”
“Stay beside me.”
“I don’t take orders well.”
“Tonight, practice.”
She turned.
“Do not confuse my agreement to attend with obedience.”
Arthur’s expression remained steady.
“I’m not.”
“Then ask.”
His jaw flexed.
“Stay beside me, please.”
Beatrice stared.
“That looked painful.”
“It was.”
“Fine.”
Dinner passed beneath speeches and crystal chandeliers.
Then came dancing.
Arthur stood.
“No.”
“You agreed to be my date.”
“I agreed to attend.”
“You listed conditions.”
“Dancing was not included.”
“It was implied.”
“Nothing is implied in accounting.”
Arthur held out his hand.
Beatrice looked at it.
Then she looked around the room.
Three hundred people were pretending not to watch.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
She put her hand in his.
Arthur led her onto the floor.
“Can you dance?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“My mother.”
“Was she terrifying too?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Beatrice looked up.
Arthur rarely discussed his mother.
“She died when you were young?”
“Twelve.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
His hand rested at her waist.
He had asked permission with his eyes before placing it there.
She hated that she noticed.
“You’re less awful tonight,” she said.
“A glowing endorsement.”
“Don’t get excited.”
They moved slowly among the other couples.
Then Beatrice saw Richard.
He was walking toward a service corridor.
Patrick O’Malley followed thirty seconds later.
She stiffened.
Arthur followed her gaze.
“I saw.”
“Should we—”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because there are cameras.”
Beatrice frowned.
“So?”
“Not those cameras.”
He nodded almost imperceptibly toward a floral arrangement.
Hidden between white roses was a miniature lens.
Arthur had placed surveillance inside his brother’s wedding.
“Romantic.”
“Necessary.”
They finished the dance.
Ten minutes later, Leo’s security chief approached Arthur and whispered something.
Arthur’s face changed.
“What?” Beatrice asked.
“The camera went dark.”
“When?”
“Thirty seconds after Richard entered the corridor.”
Beatrice set down her glass.
Arthur grabbed her wrist.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Beatrice.”
“The document Tommy found came from Richard. If he sees me, he may react.”
“That is exactly why you stay here.”
“You brought me because you needed someone who could recognize financial evidence.”
“I brought you because—”
He stopped.
“Because what?”
Arthur released her wrist.
“Because I wanted you here.”
Her heartbeat stumbled.
Then a server dropped a tray across the room.
The crash broke the moment.
Arthur looked toward the corridor.
“Fine,” he said. “But behind me.”
“Beside you.”
“Beatrice.”
“Beside.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Beside.”
They slipped through the service door.
The music dimmed behind them.
The corridor smelled of bleach and flowers.
At the far end, a door stood slightly open.
Voices carried through.
Richard.
Patrick.
“You said Costello didn’t know.”
“He didn’t until the accountant started digging.”
Beatrice froze.
Arthur looked at her.
Patrick continued.
“Then remove the accountant.”
Richard’s reply was too quiet to hear.
Arthur’s entire body went still.
Beatrice felt the change beside her.
Not anger.
Something colder.
They moved closer.
Patrick again.
“The brother worked. She came exactly where we needed her.”
Beatrice’s stomach turned.
Arthur’s hand touched her elbow.
Steadying.
Inside the room, paper rustled.
Richard said, “After tonight, it won’t matter. The Carmichael transfer clears Monday. Costello gets blamed. Carmichael walks. O’Malley controls the docks.”
Arthur’s eyes hardened.
Beatrice leaned toward the opening.
She could see a table.
Richard’s hand.
A folder.
And a USB drive.
Then her heel struck a metal service cart.
The tiny sound was catastrophic.
Silence inside.
Arthur pushed Beatrice behind him just as the door opened.
Patrick O’Malley stepped into the corridor.
For one second, everyone stared.
Then Patrick smiled.
“Arthur.”
Arthur’s voice was calm.
“Patrick.”
Richard appeared behind him.
His face went white when he saw Beatrice.
That was all the confirmation she needed.
“What transfer?” she asked.
Richard swallowed.
Arthur did not look away from Patrick.
“Give me the folder.”
Patrick laughed.
“You’re at your brother’s wedding.”
“Yes.”
“So let him enjoy it.”
“Give me the folder.”
“You don’t own every room in Chicago.”
“No.”
Arthur stepped forward.
“Only the ones you’re foolish enough to lie in.”
Patrick reached inside his jacket.
Arthur moved first.
Not for a weapon.
For Beatrice.
He shoved her behind the stone corner as two security men appeared from the opposite hall.
Patrick stopped.
Slowly withdrew his empty hand.
“Relax.”
“No,” Arthur said. “You threatened my employee.”
Beatrice peeked around the corner.
“Date.”
Every man looked at her.
She cleared her throat.
“For tonight.”
Patrick laughed.
Arthur did not.
Then alarms screamed.
Not wedding alarms.
Fire alarms.
Sprinklers erupted throughout the reception hall.
Guests shouted.
Music stopped.
Arthur turned toward the ballroom.
The interruption lasted only seconds.
When he looked back, Richard was running.
“Damn it.”
Arthur’s men pursued him.
Patrick disappeared through a rear service exit.
Beatrice entered the room they had abandoned.
The folder was gone.
The USB was gone.
But something remained beneath the table.
A torn sheet.
She picked it up.
Arthur returned moments later.
“Richard got outside.”
“Patrick?”
“Gone.”
Beatrice held up the paper.
“I think we have something.”
It was a partial wire transfer.
Twenty-eight million dollars.
Carmichael Logistics to an offshore holding company.
Scheduled Monday.
Authorization code attached.
Arthur read it once.
Then again.
His face became unreadable.
“What?” Beatrice asked.
He handed the paper back.
At the bottom was the approving executive’s name.
ARTHUR J. COSTELLO.
Beatrice stared.
“You didn’t authorize this.”
“No.”
“Someone forged your credentials.”
“Yes.”
From the ballroom, guests began moving toward the exits.
Arthur looked through the open service door at the wedding he had promised his brother would be peaceful.
Then he looked at Beatrice.
“The sixty-thousand-dollar debt was never about Tommy.”
“I know.”
“It was bait.”
“For me.”
“For you to investigate.”
“And once I did?”
“They planned to make it look as if you discovered fraud Arthur Costello had committed.”
Beatrice felt cold despite the heat of the corridor.
“So when the transfer happens Monday—”
“I become the thief.”
“And I become your accountant who helped cover it.”
Arthur nodded.
Then a thought hit her.
“Arthur.”
“What?”
“Richard knew I would investigate.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Arthur’s gaze sharpened.
Beatrice looked toward the ballroom full of Costello employees, Carmichael executives, family advisers, attorneys, and security.
“Someone told him how I work.”
The same realization reached Arthur.
May you like
This was not simply an attack from outside.
Someone close to him had opened the door.
