Chapter 5 - The Ledger in the Dark
The study on the second floor of the main house was the only room in the estate that still used coal for the fireplace. Vincent liked the dry, sulfurous heat of it; it reminded him of the winters in the North End before his father’s shop was bought out by the city to make room for the expressway.
He sat at the mahogany desk with the ledger open between his elbows.
The page he was looking at was dated March 14, 2004.
Vasquez, Robert — 5,000 USD (Equipment repair). Note: Repayment deferred per agreement. Additional note: Child born at St. Jude’s. Female. Mother deceased.
Vincent’s thumb traced the ink—faded now, turning the color of dried tea leaves.
The door behind him opened without a sound. Marco didn’t need to knock; he had the keys to every deadbolt from here to the river.
“She ate the bread,” Marco said, leaning against the bookshelf beside the leather armchairs. “Didn’t touch the medicine yet. She’s reading a book on infant care she bought at a thrift store on South Street.”
“Is she alone?” Vincent asked.
“Her mother’s been dead twelve years. No brothers. No husband listed on the clinic intake sheet—left her when he found out she was pregnant. Some guy from a logistics firm out in King of Prussia.”
Vincent’s pen stopped moving. “Name?”
“Vance.”
The room went very still. The coal in the grate shifted with a soft, metallic ping as a piece of anthracite split down the middle.
“Vance,” Vincent repeated. His voice didn't rise; it dropped into that flat, dangerous register that made Marco check the safety on his shoulder holster out of pure habit. “As in Alan Vance? The hospital director?”
“His nephew,” Marco said. “Grant Vance. Works in private equity out by the bypass. Bought a house in Gladwyne last year with a woman from a development board.”
Vincent closed the ledger. The sound was like a pistol shot in the paneled room.
“She’s carrying that man’s child,” Vincent said, more to himself than to the security chief.
“She doesn’t know who his family is,” Marco said quietly. “She thinks he’s just some clerk who didn't want to pay child support. She met him through an temp agency when she was cleaning the regional offices downtown.”
Vincent stood up. He was taller than most men who ruled cities—leaner, too, built like a long-distance runner who had survived three decades of being shot at and two decades of eating alone at a twelve-person dining table.
“Get the car,” Vincent said.
May you like
“Where are we going, Boss?”
“Gladwyne,” Vincent said, reaching for his charcoal overcoat where it hung over the back of the leather chair. “It’s time to see what kind of men the Vance family are producing these days.”
