“Get her on the phone,” Arthur said.

“I tried six times,” Gregory said. “It goes straight to voicemail.”

There was a long silence on the recording.

I pictured Arthur standing by the high window, looking out over the wet lawn, his jaw tight.

“Where is the dock shipment?” Arthur asked.

“That’s the other thing,” Gregory said.

He paused, clearing his throat.

“Speak, Gregory.”

“The port authority seized the cargo at Pier 4,” Gregory said. “They say the customs declarations are incomplete.”

“Why are they incomplete?” Arthur shouted. “We pay the director ten thousand a month.”

“We do,” Gregory said. “But Clara always delivered the envelope to his sister’s gallery. I don’t know the sister’s name or where the gallery is.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, boss. Clara handled all the payments.”

I leaned back in my wooden chair.

The wooden floorboards beneath my feet felt cold.

The Costello empire was a machine of a thousand gears, and I had been the oil.

Without me, the metal would grind against metal until it broke.

On the audio feed, a heavy door slammed.