Chapter 9 - The Ghost of Columbus Circle
The peace didn't last through the winter thaw.
In late March, when the snow began to turn into dirty gray slush along the edges of the North Fork driveway, a gray town car with municipal plates arrived at the high iron gates. It wasn't the marshals—the marshals were currently under federal suspension pending the grand jury inquiry.
The man who stepped out of the front seat was Miller—Norah’s old editor from the Ledger. He looked older, his wool coat hanging loosely from his thin shoulders, his face pale from the long drive from Staten Island.
“They’re setting up a special prosecutor, Norah,” Miller said as he sat by the fire, a porcelain cup of black coffee between his shaking hands. “The Governor wants a clean slate before the next election. They’re looking for the source of the Vanguard Logistics logs. They think Luca Moretti didn't just find those files—they think he manufactured them to clear the Lucchese family out of the Red Hook terminal.”
Norah sat across from him, her legs crossed at the ankle, her face a perfect mask of professional calm she had learned from the man who owned the house.
“The logs are authentic, Miller,” she said, her voice steady against the roar of the wind in the chimney. “The state transport office verified the signatures three weeks ago. The special prosecutor can check the digital index themselves.”
“The special prosecutor is Councilman Harding’s former law partner, Norah,” Miller whispered, leaning forward, his eyes cutting toward the study door where Luca’s shadow was visible through the frosted glass. “They don't want the truth about the concrete. They want the name of the person who gave the files to the Ledger. If they can prove Luca was the source, they can throw out the indictments on a conflict-of-interest motion. The whole case will collapse before the summer hits the water.”
The study door opened with a soft, clean click.
Luca walked into the room, his jacket gone, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms as he held a small brass key in his hand.
“The case won't collapse, Miller,” Luca said, his baritone voice filling the room like the low rumble of a furnace.
Miller stood up, his cup rattling against the saucer. “Luca... you don't understand the legal mechanics. If they subpoena the desk logs from the fish market—”
“The desk logs were delivered to the federal judge’s private residence in Brooklyn two hours ago,” Luca said, walking over to the long table and dropping the brass key into Norah’s hand. “Not by a courier. By the commander of the state police detail—the one who replaced the boy Harding had in his pocket. The special prosecutor was replaced at four this afternoon by order of the Governor’s council. The new prosecutor is a man named Vance—the brother of the foundry owner who died in Cleveland.”
Miller looked at the key in Norah’s hand, then at the heavy gold signet ring on Luca’s finger, his old jaw tightening as the reality of the network settled into his brain.
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“You’re always three miles ahead of the news, Moretti,” the old journalist muttered, sitting back down with a long, tired sigh.
“I’m not ahead of the news, Miller,” Luca said, his hand resting gently on Norah’s shoulder, his fingers warm through the silk of her blouse. “I’m just the one who pays for the ink. Go back to the city. Tell your desk editors to print the bridge schedule. The N-line will be running by Monday morning.”
