Page 6 of The Voicemail

It isn’t far from one of Silvio Bianchi’s dead properties. It could be a coincidence, but I’ve learned in this life that there’s no such thing. As we drive, I search Elena Hart and see she’s a gallery assistant at Bellamy Fine Art.

That confirms it’s no coincidence. Bianchi has been moving his money through Bellamy for months. A woman who works at Bellamy, being watched, receiving flowers, calling my private number by mistake. That isn’t random.

I call Luca before the message even ends.

He answers immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“I need everything on Elena Hart. Address is 418 West Seventeenth, apartment 4B. Check Bellamy Fine Art.”

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know yet. She just called me by mistake.”

“That’s a hell of a mistake.”

“She says someone followed her home.”

There’s a pause. I hear keys moving on his end.

“Sending men,” he says.

“Send them fast.”

I end the call and listen to the last of the voicemail.

“I’m scared,” she whispers.

The car goes quiet except for the rain and the engine.

I’ve heard people afraid before. Most of the time it’s because they’re afraid of me. Elena Hart is afraid because someone is stalking her, and apparently nobody believes her. I do. Bianchi’s stink is all over this. I don’t know why he cares about a gallery assistant, but she needs help right now.

The message ends with her whispering that she has to go. I call her back immediately.

She answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“Lock your door,” I tell her.

She goes silent.

“What?”

“Lock your door. Now.”

“Who is this?”

“The man you called.”

“Elena,” I say, but she hangs up before I can get another word out.

I groan and tell Marco to drive faster. A delivery truck blocks half the street ahead, and I don’t wait for him to find a way around it. I open the door before the car has fully stopped.

“Stay with the car,” I tell him.

Rain hits my face as I step onto the street, half a block from her building. I take off at a run and see the black sedan exactly where Elena said it was, parked across from her building near an old walk-up with plywood over the lower windows.

I don’t cross to check it. The outer door of her building hasn’t latched. I pull it open and take the stairs two at a time. Somewhere above me, thumping, and the sound of splitting wood.

Then a woman’s voice lets out a shrill sound that isn’t quite a scream. I race to the fourth floor. Apartment 4B, she said. It’s halfway down the hall, and a man in all black is trying to force his way inside.