Chapter 3: Thirty-Seven Minutes
Adrian left the pie untouched.
He folded two bills under the saucer — enough to cover the coffee and a generous tip — and stood without hurrying.
Emma looked up from her coloring book.
"You didn't eat it."
"Save it for tomorrow."
Her face went serious, the way children's faces do when they sense an adult is carrying something heavy.
"Are you coming back tomorrow?"
"Yes."
He said it before he decided it was true.
Then he walked out.
Lucas straightened when he saw Adrian approaching.
Six years of reading that walk, and he still couldn't tell when something was wrong until it was already too late to matter.
"Ready, Boss?"
"Get in."
They drove four blocks before Adrian spoke.
"Tell me about your Tuesday morning routine.
Walk me through it."
Lucas kept his eyes on the road.
"Same as always.
I check the route, confirm the location, arrive early to sweep the perimeter—"
"How early?"
"Twenty, twenty-five minutes before you."
"And you sit inside?"
A pause.
Small.
Almost nothing.
"Sometimes.
If the weather's bad."
"Which table?"
Lucas changed lanes.
"Whichever one's open near the window."
Adrian watched the side of his face.
"Emma says the same man sits at my table every time.
Before I arrive.
With a notebook."
Lucas said nothing.
"She's six years old, Lucas.
She noticed because children notice patterns.
They don't know enough yet to look away."
"Kids see all kinds of things—"
"Stop the car."
Lucas pulled to the curb on a quiet block near the waterfront.
A container ship moved slowly through the harbor beyond the chain-link fence.
Adrian watched it for a moment.
"I've been coming to that diner for a month," he said.
"Same day.
Same time.
Same table.
If someone wanted to know my schedule, that diner is where they'd confirm it."
"Boss, I would never—"
"I haven't accused you of anything." Adrian turned to look at him directly.
"I'm telling you what I know.
You can tell me what I'm missing."
Lucas's jaw worked.
His hands stayed on the wheel at ten and two, like a man trying to look calm by following a rule.
"There's nothing to tell."
"Then you won't mind if Caruso pulls your call logs."
The hands tightened.
Barely.
But Adrian had spent twenty years reading men under pressure, and barely was enough.
"Caruso works for you," Lucas said.
"Whatever he pulls, you'll read it however you want to read it."
"That's true." Adrian opened the door.
"Which is why I'm going to walk from here.
You'll take the car back to the garage.
You won't make any calls on the way."
Lucas turned.
For the first time, something behind his eyes moved that wasn't control.
"You're serious."
"I'll know within the hour whether I should be."
Adrian stepped out onto the pavement.
The wind off the harbor was cold and smelled like diesel and deep water.
He buttoned his coat and walked without looking back.
His phone buzzed before he reached the corner.
It was Caruso.
"I've got the logs," Caruso said.
"You're going to want to sit down."
"Tell me."
"Thirty-seven outgoing calls from Lucas's personal cell in the past six weeks.
Twenty-nine of them went to a number registered to a holding company in Delaware.
The company dissolved eight months ago." A pause.
"But the number is still active.
And it's registered to a name you know."
The container ship moved through the harbor, slow and enormous, carrying weight that couldn't be seen from shore.
"Whose name?" Adrian said.
May you like
Caruso said it.
Adrian stopped walking.
