Chapter 8 - The Confrontation at Pier Nine
Claire looked at the ledger again.
117 M.
4418 S.
Pier Nine.
Her eyes narrowed.
“What number was Warehouse Twelve?”
Roman looked confused.
“What?”
“The official property number.”
Roman thought.
“Forty four eighteen South Dyer.”
Claire turned the ledger around.
4418 S.
Diane stared.
Claire pointed to 117 M.
“What was the address of the apartment where I was born?”
Diane covered her mouth.
“One seventeen Mason.”
Claire’s pulse quickened.
“These aren’t accounts.”
“They’re addresses.”
Roman leaned over the page.
Claire scanned the remaining entries.
Each ended with a letter.
Every number could be a street address.
Then she reached the final line.
9 P.
Pier Nine.
The same place the kidnappers had chosen.
“No coincidence,” Rebecca said.
Claire looked at the silver key.
“My father planned something at Pier Nine.”
Roman stared at the ledger.
“He hid the evidence there.”
“Maybe.”
Diane shook her head.
“Pier Nine was demolished.”
Roman answered.
“The original warehouse was.”
“The foundation remains under the new terminal.”
Rebecca was already calling federal agents.
Claire looked again at the ledger.
The numbers formed a sequence.
Birthplace.
Warehouse.
Pier.
A path.
Not an account book.
A set of directions.
At 11:38 p.m., Claire entered Pier Nine wearing her diner uniform.
Roman hated the idea.
That was partly why she insisted.
The torn apron had been replaced.
The silver key rested visibly against her chest.
She carried no weapon.
Rebecca’s agents watched from positions Claire did not know.
Roman remained somewhere nearby.
He had objected to that too.
Claire had told him protection she could not refuse was simply another cage.
He had gone silent.
Then he agreed to stay out of sight unless she asked for him.
Pier Nine smelled of salt, diesel, and wet concrete.
Marty sat in a chair beneath a floodlight.
His hands were tied.
He looked furious rather than frightened.
“Claire, if I die because of your weird family drama, I’m haunting the pie case.”
She almost laughed.
A man stepped from behind a cargo container.
Caleb Shaw.
Claire recognized him from the photograph despite the years.
White hair.
Dark coat.
Calm face.
The same black anchor cufflinks she had seen on one of the men inside the diner.
The clue was so small she almost hated herself for missing it.
Caleb smiled.
“Evan’s daughter.”
Claire stopped twenty feet away.
“Let Marty go.”
“When I have the key.”
“No.”
Caleb chuckled.
“You look like your father when you’re angry.”
“I’m told I got his bookkeeping brain too.”
His smile weakened.
Claire noticed.
“You understood the ledger.”
“Enough.”
“Then you know where the evidence is.”
“No.”
Caleb studied her.
Claire realized she had surprised him.
Good.
“Roman told you it was here.”
“Roman didn’t understand the ledger.”
Caleb’s expression changed again.
Smaller this time.
Claire kept going.
“You recorded that message at my diner.”
“Yes.”
“You planted the memory card.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted me to believe Roman murdered my father.”
“He did.”
“No.”
Claire took one step closer.
“He made a stupid decision.”
“He trusted you.”
“That put my father in that warehouse.”
“But you arranged the ambush.”
Caleb’s smile disappeared.
“You cannot prove that.”
Claire touched the key.
“I think my father did.”
Caleb’s eyes dropped to it.
There.
That was the reaction she needed.
Not greed.
Fear.
Claire understood.
“You don’t know what it opens.”
Caleb said nothing.
Claire almost smiled.
“You’ve been searching for twenty eight years.”
“You found the ledger.”
“You found my mother.”
“You found Roman.”
“You found me.”
“But you still don’t know what the key opens.”
Caleb’s voice hardened.
“Give it to me.”
Claire removed the chain.
She held the silver key between two fingers.
“Let Marty walk.”
Caleb gestured.
One of his men cut Marty’s restraints.
Marty stood.
“Go,” Claire said.
He hesitated.
May you like
“Marty.”
He walked.
