Chapter 4 - The House Manager's Ledger
I emerged into the library, clicked the walnut panel shut, and walked straight out into the main hall.
Mrs. Donnelly was walking out of the kitchen holding a silver tray with a porcelain teapot and three cups. She froze when she saw me standing by the grand staircase.
Her smile came up quickly, practiced and warm, but I saw the micro-tremor in her left wrist—the subtle shaking of a woman who had just been arguing about her own survival.
“Mr. Romano,” she said smoothly, her voice rich with Irish cadence. “I didn't hear you come in. The girls are upstairs with Grace. I was just bringing them some warm tea.”
“Put the tray down, Martha,” I said softly.
She paused, her eyes flickering to my coat hanging over the chair in the library doorway. “Is something wrong, sir?”
“Where were you on October 14th of last year at 8:15 in the morning?”
The silver tray rattled slightly against her apron. “Sir?”
“You told the homicide detectives you were at the fish market in Fulton,” I said, stepping closer. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't reach for a weapon. I simply closed the space between us until she had to tilt her head up to look at my eyes. “But the toll transponder on the estate’s Buick registered a pass through the Meadowlands plaza at 7:40 AM. That’s twenty minutes from Garden City.”
Mrs. Donnelly’s throat worked hard as she swallowed. “I… I made a mistake that morning, Dominic. I went to visit my sister in Jersey before going to the market—”
“My wife is dead, Martha.”
“I know,” she sobbed, the tears coming quickly now, well-rehearsed tears I had seen a hundred times over the last fourteen months. “It breaks my heart every single day—”
“My daughters spoke today,” I cut her off.
Mrs. Donnelly went dead still. The fake tears froze on her cheeks.
“They told me about the man who smells like clove cigarettes,” I whispered, leaning down so only she could hear me. “They told me he comes out of the library wall to talk to you.”
She dropped the tray.
The porcelain cups shattered against the marble floor, splashing hot chamomile tea across my polished shoes and her orthopedic shoes. She didn't look at the mess. She backed away toward the front door, her hands flying to her mouth.
“Dominic… please…”
“Where is Pauly?”
“He’s… he’s in the basement,” she stammered, her voice breaking into a terrified shriek as I took another step forward. “He has a key to the Newark office safe! He was just getting the bearer bonds! He made me do it, Dominic! He owed twelve hundred grand to the Russians in Brighton Beach! Isabelle found the offshore accounts on the laptop—she was going to tell you that night!”
“And you helped him.”
“He threatened my son!” she screamed. “He said he’d put Sean in the river!”
I didn't care about Sean. I didn't care about the Russians. I didn't care about the twelve hundred grand.
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I reached out, grabbed Mrs. Donnelly by the back of her collar, and dragged her toward the study door, opening it and shoving her inside. I locked the heavy oak door from the outside, turning the brass key.
Then I walked back toward the library, pulled my gun from my coat holster, and clicked the safety off.
