CHAPTER 3

James Stanley arrives at St. Michael's to retrieve the thumb drive from Father Callahan, but the priest reveals it was already taken by someone posing as a detective hours earlier. Stanley realizes the cabal is always one step ahead and that his every move is being watched.

The rain had let up by the time Stanley reached Baxter Street, but the cobblestones still gleamed under the few working streetlights. St. Michael's rose from the row of tenements like a dark monument to a forgotten era, its spire lost against the low clouds. The front doors were locked, but a light burned in the rectory window next door.

Stanley knocked. He waited. Knocked again.

The door opened a crack, held by a chain. A pair of pale eyes peered out from a weathered face.

"Father Callahan?"

"Who's asking?"

"Detective James Stanley, NYPD. I need to speak with you about a man named Leo Weston."

The chain slid free. The door opened wider, revealing a short priest in a black cassock, his white collar stark against the fabric. He was older than Stanley had expected, maybe seventy, with thin white hair and the kind of deep wrinkles that came from decades of listening to other people's sins.

"Come in, Detective. It's cold out there."

The rectory was small and cluttered, books stacked on every surface, the smell of old paper and candle wax thick in the air. Father Callahan led him to a modest sitting room and gestured to a worn armchair.

"Can I offer you something? Coffee? Tea?"

"No, thank you. Father, I'm here about something Leo Weston left in your confessional. A thumb drive. He told me you'd know about it."

Callahan's face shifted, a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps, or concern—passing over his features before settling into a careful neutrality.

"You're the second person to ask about that tonight."

Stanley's blood went cold. "Second person?"

"A detective came by about three hours ago. Said he was working the Weston case. He had a badge, a proper ID. I gave him the drive."

"What did he look like?"

"Tall. Dark hair. A scar on his chin, I think. He was polite enough. Said it was evidence in a homicide investigation."

Stanley closed his eyes for a moment. They'd been ahead of him. They'd known about the drive before he'd even listened to Weston's message.

"Father, that wasn't a real detective. I need you to tell me everything about that drive. How did Weston give it to you?"

Callahan sat down heavily in the chair opposite Stanley, his hands clasped in his lap. "He came to confession last Tuesday. But he didn't confess. He asked me to hold something for him. Said he was scared, that people were following him. He told me if anything happened to him, someone would come asking for it. He said I'd know the right person because they'd mention his name and the word 'ledger.'"

"And the man who came tonight—he said those things?"

"He said Weston's name. He didn't say 'ledger.' But he had a badge, Detective. I thought... I thought it was procedure."

Stanley stood and began to pace, the small room suddenly feeling like a cage. Weston had been dead less than twenty-four hours. The drive had been taken within hours of his murder. That meant someone on the inside had known about the confession, or they'd been monitoring Weston's movements before he died.

"Father, I need you to think carefully. Did Weston say anything else? Any other names? Any location?"

Callahan was quiet for a long moment, his eyes distant. "He said... he said they were building something. Something underneath the city. He said the waterfront project was just the cover. The real work was below."

"Below where?"

"He didn't say. But he mentioned a number. 127. I remember because it's the same as a psalm I used to recite in seminary. Psalm 127. 'Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain.'"

Stanley stopped pacing. "127. Could be an address. A floor number. Anything else?"

"No. He was in a hurry. He kept looking over his shoulder, even in the confessional. I gave him absolution, but I don't think it was sin he was afraid of."

"Father, I'm going to ask you to keep this conversation between us. If anyone asks, you never saw me. I wasn't here."

"Detective, what's going on? Who are these people?"

Stanley met the old priest's eyes. "I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out."

He was halfway to the door when Callahan spoke again.

"Wait. There's something else. When the man came for the drive, he asked if Weston had left anything else. A journal, a letter, anything. I said no. But after he left, I found this in the back of the confessional."

Callahan reached into his cassock and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He handed it to Stanley.

It was a receipt. From a storage facility on the edge of the port district. Unit 127.

Stanley stared at the number. 127. Not a psalm. A unit number.

"Thank you, Father. I mean it."

"Be careful, Detective. The man who took the drive—he knew things. Things I didn't tell him. He knew Weston had a sister in Ohio. He knew the date of his mother's funeral. That's not the kind of information you get from a case file."

Stanley pocketed the receipt. "No, it's not. That's the kind of information you get from a wiretap."

He stepped out into the night, the door clicking shut behind him. The street was empty. The rain had stopped entirely now, leaving the air cold and still. He looked up at the rectory window and saw the old priest watching him from behind the curtain.

The shadows were growing. And they were already inside the precinct.

He got in his car and sat for a moment, the engine idling. The storage facility was on the other side of the port, a twenty-minute drive. He checked his rearview mirror. A black sedan sat at the end of the block, its headlights off, engine running.

They were watching St. Michael's. Waiting to see who else would come.

Stanley put the car in gear and pulled away slowly, not speeding, not signaling that he'd seen them. He took a left, then another, weaving through the narrow streets until he was sure no one was following.

But he knew better than to be sure. They'd been ahead of him all night. The only question was whether they were ahead of him now, or whether the receipt in his pocket was something they didn't know about.

Unit 127. He'd find out soon enough.