Chapter 4 - THE STAIRWELL THAT WASN'T THERE
Gideon Shaw was not the kind of man I expected to find beneath Miriam's apartment. He wore a navy raincoat, carried no briefcase, and seemed almost relieved when I stepped into the lobby accompanied by the building manager and two other tenants.
"Miss Clark," he said. "I hoped we could talk."
"How did you know where I was?"
"Someone told me."
"Who?"
He lowered his eyes. "I can't say."
"Then I can't talk."
I had called Detective Ellis before leaving the apartment. She told me not to meet him privately, and I didn't. The manager had stationed us beside the security desk, within sight of the camera. Gideon glanced up at the red indicator light and swallowed.
"I heard you'd been shown some old records," he said. "They're being misunderstood."
"Then give your explanation to the investigators."
"It's more complicated than that."
"Everything is complicated when the wrong person has the paperwork."
For a moment he looked offended. Then his mouth tightened into something almost like regret. "Your father was a good craftsman. I remember him."
I felt a wave of anger. "Don't use him to make me listen."
Gideon's gaze moved toward the exit. "There are documents about Anthony Russo that you shouldn't trust. Matteo was old and frightened."
"He was frightened of something."
"Of making the wrong accusation."
I stepped backward. "I'm done."
"Beatrice," Gideon said, raising his voice for the first time. "The key you found doesn't open what you think it does."
That stopped me, though I hated that it did.
"Which key?" I asked.
He realized his mistake. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do."
The building manager moved between us. Gideon left before the police arrived, but the camera preserved his visit. Ellis took my statement and asked me not to contact him again. Her investigator had already issued requests for records that might show how Gideon obtained my temporary address. Someone was watching the people around the inquiry, not merely the people inside it.
That night Dominic called.
"Alessia told me about Gideon," he said. "Are you safe?"
"I'm at Miriam's. Did he call you?"
"No. Naomi sent him a preservation notice. He's replied through counsel."
"He knew about the key."
Dominic exhaled. "Only a few people knew its description. We need to work out where the information leaked."
"Could it have been Victor?"
"Possibly. But I'm not going to decide that because it suits us."
I sat beside Miriam's window. In the distance, the city was a field of patient, indifferent lights. "Were you always like this?"
"Like what?"
"Careful."
He laughed without humor. "No. I used to mistake certainty for strength."
I didn't know what to say to that. After a moment he asked whether I had eaten. I informed him that Miriam had fed me enough stew for three people. He sounded pleased and ended the call before concern could become an instruction.
The next morning, Caleb Ross agreed to meet Detective Ellis in a recorded interview. With his consent, Alessia and Naomi attended; I was not invited and didn't ask to be. His testimony was his to give. Later Alessia called to tell me one detail he'd shared that changed the direction of the inquiry.
"The Mercator Exchange had two stairwells," she said. "The east stairwell was removed from the building plan submitted after Father's death. It still existed physically, but the revised plan marked it as a sealed storage shaft."
"Why would they do that?"
"We don't know. But Caleb says he saw a chain on its door. Investigators can compare permit files."
I thought of the clicking tool. "Maybe the missing coat was left inside."
"Maybe," Alessia said. "Don't go looking yourself."
It was nearly midday when Dominic came to the shop for a scheduled visit, accompanied only by Naomi and a uniformed investigator who had agreed to document the search. My broken window was covered with temporary plywood. I had taped a sign to the door: OPEN FOR APPOINTMENTS. The letters were uneven, and I refused to straighten them.
Dominic ducked beneath the low frame as though entering a place of worship. He surveyed the cutting table, the rows of spools and the photographs of satisfied customers.
"This is where you learned?" he asked.
"All of it. Including the trick of charging difficult men extra for alterations."
"How much extra?"
"Depends how difficult they are."
He smiled. "I'm probably going to regret that question."
I directed him to a wooden stand near the back. Across its base my father had carved tiny numbers for measuring pant hems: five, ten, fifteen. Hidden beneath was a wooden catch. I had discovered it as a child while searching for birthday presents.
"Dad used secret compartments for surprises," I said. "But I don't think he intended them for crime dramas."
With the investigator watching, I opened it. Inside lay an old brass measuring square, a repair receipt from a theater company, and a folded drawing of Mercator Exchange's service corridor.
The investigator photographed everything. Naomi leaned over the plan, careful not to touch it.
"Look," she said. "There is the east stairwell."
On the paper, a narrow passage connected Exit Three to a freight lift and service ramp. A handwritten note pointed to a gate: SELF-CLOSING HINGE STICKS. TEST BEFORE USE. The initials beside it read S.C.
My father had inspected that gate. He had warned someone. He hadn't been a building engineer; he had probably gone there to repair a ceremonial jacket and noticed a dangerous hinge on the way. That was exactly the kind of thing he did. He could not see a loose screw without reaching for his pocketknife.
"He put it in writing," I whispered.
Dominic stared at the drawing. "And someone filed a plan that pretended the stairwell didn't exist."
I looked at him. "Your family filed it?"
"A company my father controlled did. Whether he approved that version is one of the questions."
He seemed to be learning how to answer the uncomfortable question, not merely the convenient one.
The investigator found another mark beside the freight lift: a small outlined square, labeled 3B. The number matched a storage locker listed on an insurance inventory from the old building. Naomi said she'd ask Ellis to pursue access through the current property manager or an appropriate court order.
"What would have been stored there?" Dominic asked.
"Garments, perhaps," I said. "Tailors often used service lockers when formal clothing needed to be changed between meetings."
The investigator nodded. "We'll document that possibility."
As they prepared to leave, Dominic noticed my electric bill beneath a fabric swatch. He looked away quickly, but I saw his expression.
"Don't," I said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You thought about paying it."
He met my eyes. "I did."
"I'm handling my finances through the clinic. I want to keep my choices clear."
"Understood."
He paused at the door. "Would you let me buy you lunch? As a thank-you for helping?"
"Lunch sounds like another debt."
"Then I'll buy lunch and you can tell me how bad my suit fits."
I laughed. "It fits beautifully. That's the problem."
We went to the diner next door. He paid for his sandwich; I paid for my soup. For twenty minutes we talked about nothing that could appear in a police report. He told me he had ruined a cake when he was seventeen, and that Alessia still mentioned it on birthdays. I told him my father once sewed an entire suit jacket inside out because he was watching a baseball game.
When we returned, Ellis called Naomi. The manager of Mercator Exchange had given investigators access to a locked storage unit on the third basement level, following review of the old permits. A safety inspection was required before anyone could enter. The building had been partly vacant for years.
"Is it 3B?" I asked.
Naomi nodded. "Yes."
My heart beat faster.
"They've found clothing?"
"Not yet. But someone has recently disturbed the lock."
Before we could ask more, a delivery van pulled up outside my shop. A man stepped out carrying a long garment box. The return address was blank.
"For Beatrice Clark," he said.
I didn't touch it. I called Ellis from the doorway. The courier provided a dispatch number and left after the investigator recorded it. Police examined the box later that afternoon and confirmed it contained no hazardous device.
Inside lay a beautifully tailored charcoal coat.
Its lining bore Matteo's unmistakable stitching. Across the collar, someone had sewn three tiny black dots in red thread.
A card pinned to the lapel read:
THE FOURTH COAT IS NOT AT MERCATOR.
I studied the garment photograph Ellis sent me. The coat had a distinctive ivory button, just like the ones my father once ordered for formal mourning wear.
Then I noticed the embroidered name inside the collar.
Not Anthony. Not Victor. Not Gideon. Not Caleb.
May you like
SAMUEL CLARK.
My father had never appeared among Matteo's four recorded fittings. The coat made a fifth name, not a fourth. Either the message was lying, or someone wanted me to believe the man who taught me to sew had gone to Mercator that night wearing a garment he made for himself. I refused to choose between those possibilities without evidence.
