The dog bowl was still warm from the kitchen when I set it down in front of her. Leftover eggs. Torn pieces of toast. Something that had once been bacon, floating in cold grease.

"You think a few financial documents and a crooked doctor's statement will hold up in court?" Arthur sneered, leaning heavily on his cane now. The confidence was a facade, but he was an experienced gambler. "I built this city’s port authority. Half the judges in this state owe their appointments to my firm. You are a glorified dock worker who got lucky with a few shipping routes."

"I was a dock worker," I agreed. "And dock workers know how to record conversations."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small digital recording unit that Geno had retrieved from the iron safe behind the map rack.

I hit play.

The speaker crackled, and then a distinct, high-pitched audio played into the room.

—"Are you sure the dosage won't trigger an immediate autopsy?" Bianca’s recorded voice asked.

—"It mimics a postpartum pulmonary embolism," Arthur’s voice replied crisply through the speaker. "Aris knows what to put on the certificate. Just make sure Vittorio is kept at the docks until the body is moved to the funeral home. Once he's grieving, he'll sign the joint venture agreements without reading the fine print."

—"And the baby?" Bianca asked.

—"Let it live for now. A grieving widower with a newborn is easier to control than a bitter single man. When the time is right, we’ll handle the inheritance."

The recording stopped.

Bianca let out a long, shuddering wail and collapsed fully against the floor.

Arthur stood completely motionless. The color slowly drained from his weathered face, leaving him looking frail, old, and defeated.

"Marcus recorded you," I explained quietly. "He didn't trust you, Arthur. He kept this safe key as his insurance policy in case you ever tried to eliminate him the way you eliminated Clara. He was waiting for the right moment to blackmail you for millions. Instead, he brought the tape right into my house."

Marcus pulled against his handcuffs, groaning. "I was gonna leave the country, man! I didn't want no part of the kid stuff! That was all her!"

"Shut up, Marcus," Geno snapped, slapping the back of his head.

Sirens wailed in the distance. They were coming up the long, winding driveway of the estate. Red and blue lights flashed through the heavy rain, casting rhythmic patterns across the high ceiling of the breakfast room.

"You have two minutes before the State Police walk through those doors, Arthur," I said, looking at the man who had ruined my life two years ago. "Give me the rest of it."

"The rest of what?" Arthur whispered, his voice finally trembling.

"The names of the port officials you paid off to sabotage Clara’s transport truck the night she went into labor," I said. "Give them to me, or I will make sure you spend the remainder of your life in a maximum-security state penitentiary, rather than a federal facility with a medical wing."