Chapter 4 - A Ballroom Full of Liars
Damian did not reach for a weapon when Victor Shaw climbed from the sedan.
That frightened me more than if he had.
He simply stood still.
Victor looked exactly as I remembered him.
Forties.
Silver beginning at his temples.
Dark tailored coat.
Perfect posture.
The kind of man who could enter a boardroom and make everyone else instinctively straighten their shoulders.
Six months earlier, I had watched him walk into Crosswell Clinic and accept an envelope removed from beneath Anthony Rusk’s bloody shirt.
Tonight, he looked at me once before turning to Damian.
“Interesting evening.”
Damian’s voice was flat.
“Where have you been?”
“Fixing your mistake.”
“What mistake?”
Victor gestured toward the tattooed waiter.
“Leaving him alive.”
The man beside the container laughed.
“There he is.”
Victor’s expression hardened.
Damian stepped between them.
“Start talking.”
Victor looked around.
“This isn’t the place.”
“It became the place when you ignored twelve calls.”
“I had a reason.”
“I’m running out of interest in your reasons.”
For the first time, something emotional flickered across Victor’s face.
Hurt.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Hurt.
That confused me.
He looked toward me again.
“Ms. Ellison should leave.”
“No,” Damian said.
“Damian.”
“She stays.”
Victor’s jaw tightened.
“This has nothing to do with her.”
The tattooed man laughed again.
“You’re six months too late for that.”
Damian turned toward him.
“Name.”
“Leo Ferris.”
“Who do you work for?”
Leo smiled.
“You know.”
“Say it.”
“Ethan Mercer.”
The name carried weight even for me.
Boston newspapers referred to Mercer as a shipping executive and real-estate investor.
At Crosswell, we heard another version.
Mercer controlled warehouses north of the city, trucking routes, dock contracts, unions through men who officially had nothing to do with him.
For years, he and Damian had maintained an uneasy boundary.
Lately that boundary seemed to be disappearing.
Damian looked at Victor.
“Did you authorize Rusk at Crosswell?”
Victor hesitated.
“Yes.”
Marcus cursed.
Damian remained terrifyingly calm.
“Why?”
“Because Rusk called me.”
“A Mercer soldier called you.”
“He said he had information.”
“And you believed him?”
“I believed what he showed me.”
“What?”
Victor’s eyes moved toward Leo.
Leo’s expression had gone serious.
“Documents,” Victor said.
“What documents?”
“Shipping records.”
Damian waited.
Victor continued.
“Containers bearing Cross Holdings identification moving through terminals we don’t control.”
“What was inside?”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because your father taught us what happened when people brought accusations without proof.”
The temperature of the conversation changed.
Damian’s expression became unreadable.
“My father is dead.”
“His habits aren’t.”
I felt as though I had accidentally entered an argument that had begun twenty years earlier.
Victor stepped closer.
“Anthony Rusk claimed someone was using Cross shipments to move contraband without your knowledge.”
“What kind?”
“Weapons. Narcotics. Cash.”
Damian’s voice sharpened.
“I don’t move narcotics.”
“I know.”
That sentence told me something important.
There were lines even men like Damian Cross refused to cross.
Victor continued.
“Rusk said Mercer believed you were behind it.”
“Why would Mercer believe that?”
“Because the containers carried your numbers.”
Damian glanced toward Marcus.
“Possible?”
Marcus looked unhappy.
“With internal access.”
There it was again.
Inside.
Every road returned to somebody within Damian’s organization.
“What was in Rusk’s envelope?” Damian asked.
“Partial manifests. Port entry codes. Three photographs.”
“Of?”
“One container. Two drivers. And a meeting.”
“Who was meeting?”
Victor hesitated.
Damian took one step closer.
“Who?”
“One of ours.”
“Name.”
“I never identified him.”
“You’re lying.”
Victor’s eyes flashed.
“I’m protecting you.”
“By hiding information?”
“By making sure it was real before you started a war.”
Leo snorted.
“You did a fantastic job.”
Victor spun toward him.
“You were supposed to disappear after Rusk died.”
Leo’s face hardened.
“Mercer wanted me alive.”
“Mercer doesn’t want anyone alive unless they’re useful.”
“That includes you.”
Damian raised a hand.
Both men stopped.
I was still kneeling beside the injured guard.
His bleeding had slowed.
He looked at me.
“You understand any of this?”
“Less every thirty seconds.”
“Good. Thought it was just me.”
Despite myself, I nearly laughed.
Then I noticed headlights moving beyond the far fence.
More vehicles.
Marcus noticed too.
“We need to move.”
Damian looked at Victor.
“You ride with me.”
Victor nodded.
“And Ferris?”
“Also with us.”
Leo blinked.
“That sounds uncomfortable.”
“That’s intentional.”
Within minutes we were back inside the SUVs.
The injured guard was transported separately to Crosswell.
I ended up across from Damian, Victor, and Leo in a large armored vehicle that felt far too small for the amount of mistrust inside it.
Nobody spoke at first.
Finally, I did.
“You tried to poison him?”
Leo looked offended.
“No.”
“The champagne.”
“I was supposed to make him think it was poisoned.”
Damian narrowed his eyes.
“Explain.”
“The glass contained nothing more dangerous than terrible hotel champagne.”
“You reached under your jacket.”
“For a phone.”
Marcus looked back from the front.
“You escaped a secured room.”
“Your guard helped me.”
Silence.
Damian turned toward Marcus.
Marcus’s face hardened.
“Name?”
“Didn’t give me one,” Leo said. “But he had access.”
More confirmation.
Someone inside.
“What was your purpose at the gala?” Damian asked.
“To get close enough to the nurse.”
I felt Damian become very still.
“Why?”
Leo looked at me.
“Because Mercer knew she treated Rusk.”
“How?”
“Rusk talked before he died.”
“About what?”
“The nurse who saw the envelope.”
I swallowed.
“What did Mercer want from me?”
“He thought Rusk might have said something while you were treating him.”
“He didn’t.”
“Mercer didn’t know that.”
Damian leaned forward.
“So you staged the poisoned glass.”
“Yes.”
“To do what?”
“Create panic. Security pulls you away. I approach her later.”
“You planned to kidnap her?”
Leo looked at me.
“Question her.”
“That wasn’t what he asked,” Victor said.
Leo sighed.
“Yes.”
Damian’s face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that Leo leaned slightly backward.
“You will never go near her again.”
“Fine.”
“You will never speak to her without permission.”
“Fine.”
“You will never—”
“I understand the concept.”
Damian stared at him.
Leo stopped smiling.
I touched Damian’s sleeve.
“Enough.”
He looked at my hand.
Then at me.
I removed it.
Victor noticed.
That bothered me for reasons I did not understand.
“So Mercer wanted the envelope too?” I asked.
Leo nodded.
“Rusk stole evidence from whoever was running the fake Cross shipments.”
“Meaning whoever is doing this knows both sides,” I said.
Nobody answered.
I continued thinking aloud.
“They know Damian’s container codes.”
“Yes,” Marcus said.
“They know Mercer’s routes.”
“Yes.”
“They knew Crosswell procedures.”
Victor frowned.
“And tonight they knew where Leo would be held at the Harbor Crown.”
The vehicle became silent.
I looked toward Damian.
“That means this person has information from your organization and Mercer’s.”
Damian’s gaze sharpened.
“Or two people are working together.”
Victor slowly nodded.
“One on each side.”
That possibility seemed worse.
Two traitors.
Two organizations.
One hidden operation.
Marcus received another message.
“Boss.”
“What now?”
“We checked tonight’s original East Boston container.”
“What about it?”
“Manifest says construction equipment.”
“And?”
Marcus turned around.
“The seal was replaced before it reached our yard.”
Damian’s face hardened.
“What was inside?”
“They opened it.”
Marcus paused.
“Medical supplies.”
I blinked.
“Medical supplies?”
“Boxes labeled as surgical equipment.”
That made no sense.
Until it did.
“Crosswell?” I asked.
Marcus nodded.
“The labels use Crosswell Clinic purchasing codes.”
Every person in the vehicle looked at me.
I felt a cold pressure behind my ribs.
Someone was using Damian’s shipping network.
Someone was using Crosswell.
And somebody had enough access to make both look legitimate.
“What exactly was in the boxes?” I asked.
Marcus read from his phone.
“Most were empty.”
“Most?”
“One wasn’t.”
Damian leaned forward.
“What?”
Marcus’s expression became grim.
“A sealed refrigerated medical case.”
“What was inside?”
Marcus looked directly at me.
“Blood samples.”
My stomach turned.
“How many?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Names?”
“No names. Numbers.”
I looked at Damian.
“Take me there.”
“No.”
“I can tell you whether the storage method is legitimate.”
“We have doctors.”
“You have me.”
His eyes held mine.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he sighed.
Victor almost smiled.
Damian pointed at him.
“Not a word.”
Victor’s smile vanished.
Thirty minutes later, we stood inside a secure warehouse while the refrigerated case rested beneath bright overhead lights.
I put on gloves.
Inside were thirty-two tubes.
Each labeled with coded numbers.
Dates.
Initials.
Collection times.
I studied them.
“These aren’t ordinary diagnostic samples.”
“How do you know?” Damian asked.
“The labeling.”
“What about it?”
“Chain-of-custody format.”
Marcus frowned.
“For evidence?”
“Sometimes.”
I picked up one vial.
Then another.
My pulse changed.
“These collection numbers…”
“What?”
“I’ve seen this format.”
“Where?”
“At Crosswell.”
Damian stepped closer.
“When?”
“Private toxicology screens.”
Victor’s face changed.
“For who?”
I examined another label.
The initials were partially abbreviated.
But one pair was visible.
C.H.
My eyes lifted toward Congressman Hale’s name in my memory.
The woman at the orchestra.
His repeated glances.
His anxiety.
My mouth went dry.
“I think I know one of these patients.”
“Who?” Damian asked.
“Charles Hale.”
Victor frowned.
“The congressman?”
“Maybe.”
Damian’s gaze darkened.
I continued inspecting the case.
Then saw another code.
A date from eight months earlier.
Patient initials.
D.C.
I stopped breathing.
Damian noticed.
“What?”
I slowly turned the vial so he could read it.
His own initials stared back at him.
D.C.
Collection source: Crosswell.
Damian looked at the blood vial.
Then at me.
“I’ve never had blood drawn at your clinic.”
Nobody moved.
Because that meant someone had been storing blood under Damian Cross’s name.
And whoever had done it had access to the most private medical system in his empire.
I looked at the remaining thirty-one vials.
Suddenly the mystery was no longer about stolen shipments.
It was about identities.
And someone had been building a collection.
“Damian,” I whispered.
“What?”
“I don’t think these are samples.”
His gaze remained on the case.
“What are they?”
May you like
I felt the answer forming before I wanted to say it.
“Leverage.”
