Chapter 3 - Roman Mercer and the Truth About Evan
A black Cadillac SUV waited fifteen feet away with the passenger door open.
No driver.
No explanation.
Claire hesitated.
From inside the diner came a crash.
Then a shout.
She ran.
She climbed into the Cadillac, slammed the door, and locked it.
Her hands were shaking now.
She hated that.
Not the fear.
The shaking.
Fear could keep a person alive.
Shaking made it harder to think.
Claire looked around.
Black leather.
A paper cup in the console.
A folded newspaper.
No restraints.
No second man.
No obvious sign she had just entered a kidnapper’s car willingly.
The rear door opened.
Claire screamed and grabbed the metal travel mug from the cup holder.
The stranger slid inside.
“Front seat,” he said.
Claire raised the mug.
“I will hit you.”
“I believe you.”
He moved into the driver’s seat.
“That’s one reason your father would have liked you.”
Claire wanted to ask ten questions.
The diner’s back door flew open.
One of the gray suited men appeared.
The stranger started the engine.
The man raised his arm.
The Cadillac shot forward.
Claire ducked before she knew whether a shot had been fired.
Something struck the rear side window.
The glass held.
“Armored,” the stranger said.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
He turned sharply onto a side street.
“It’s supposed to keep you alive.”
Claire grabbed the door handle.
It opened.
That surprised her.
The stranger noticed.
“I’m not locking you in.”
“You expect credit for that?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He drove another four blocks before speaking.
“My name is Roman Mercer.”
Claire knew the name.
Everyone in Providence knew the name.
Mercer Shipping owned warehouses along half the waterfront.
Mercer Hotels had properties in six states.
Mercer Construction seemed to appear anywhere a historic building suddenly became luxury apartments.
The newspapers called Roman Mercer a businessman.
Her mother called men like him something else.
Gangsters with accountants.
Claire stared.
“You’re that Roman Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“The Mafia guy?”
His mouth tightened.
“That is a simplistic description.”
“It’s also a description.”
“Yes.”
Claire looked through the rear window.
No car followed them.
Yet.
“You knew my father?”
Roman’s answer took too long.
“I loved your father like a brother.”
Claire laughed once.
It came out broken.
“Stop the car.”
“Claire.”
“Stop the car.”
Roman pulled to the curb.
She opened the door.
He did not grab her.
That mattered.
She put one foot on the pavement.
Then Roman said something that stopped her.
“Your father’s name was Evan Bennett, and he died on November seventeenth, nineteen ninety eight, in Warehouse Twelve on Dyer Street.”
Claire turned.
Her mother had always said Evan Bennett left Rhode Island in the summer of nineteen ninety eight.
No forwarding address.
No goodbye.
No interest in the baby his girlfriend was carrying.
Claire had spent twenty eight years imagining a coward.
Roman continued.
“He was thirty one.”
Claire slowly closed the door.
“What happened?”
“He stole something from people who kill for much less.”
“The people in the diner?”
“Their employer.”
“Who?”
Roman looked toward the traffic mirror.
“The Rourke organization.”
Claire had heard the name.
Everyone had.
The Rourkes had once controlled waterfront unions, gambling rooms, trucking contracts, and half a dozen businesses that somehow stayed open despite having no customers.
Most people believed the organization disappeared after federal prosecutions twenty years ago.
Roman shook his head.
“Families like that don’t disappear.”
“They change letterheads.”
Claire looked at him.
For the first time, something like approval touched his face.
“Yes.”
“What did my father steal?”
“Records.”
“Of what?”
Roman started driving again.
“Routes.”
Claire waited.
“Payments.”
She waited longer.
“Names.”
“Roman.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Your father helped build their transportation network.”
Claire felt an unexpected stab of anger.
“You just said he stole evidence from criminals.”
“I did not say he was innocent.”
The answer landed harder than she expected.
Roman continued.
“Evan worked for them for eleven years.”
“He moved contraband.”
“He bribed officials.”
“He helped hide money.”
Claire stared out the window.
The city passing outside suddenly looked artificial.
A stage somebody might dismantle if she asked the wrong question.
“Why would he turn on them?”
“Because one shipment contained people instead of merchandise.”
Roman’s voice changed.
“He refused to be part of that.”
Claire said nothing.
“He copied the organization’s financial records and enough names to dismantle the entire operation.”
“Why wasn’t anyone arrested?”
“Because they discovered what he had done before the evidence reached federal prosecutors.”
“And they killed him.”
Roman nodded.
Claire touched the silver key.
“Why are they after me twenty eight years later?”
Roman glanced at the key.
“Because Evan died without telling them where he hid the records.”
May you like
“That has nothing to do with me.”
“Your mother would disagree.”
