Chapter 18 - THE LAST BRIEFING
By Friday afternoon, the trial had been adjourned for the weekend, and the federal building had emptied out into the gray Philadelphia drizzle.
In the small, private office on the seventh floor overlooking the Delaware River, Special Agent Miller sat behind his metal desk, reviewing a final set of photocopied financial summaries bearing Marco Falcone’s initials in the margin of every fifth page.
The door to the office clicked open.
Marco walked in without knocking, his gray wool overcoat dry, his spectacles polished, his leather notebook tucked neatly under his left arm. He didn't wait to be invited; he pulled out the wooden chair opposite the desk and sat down, resting his hands flat on the polished mahogany surface.
"The judge is leaning toward a twenty-year sentence with parole eligibility after eight," Miller said without looking up from the papers. "His lawyers are trying to claim the ledgers were obtained through an illegal search of a private residence."
"The ledgers weren't in a residence, Paul," Marco said calmly. "They were in a federal archive disguised as a wine cellar. Courts love historical preservation."
Miller leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach, and stared at his long-time informant with a mixture of professional respect and lingering unease. "And you, Marco? You gave us everything—the routing numbers, the judicial payoffs, the Trenton warehouse records from ninety-six. You’re a ghost now. Without an alias, you won't last six months if Dominic’s remaining crews decide to look for a loose thread."
Marco reached into his pocket, pulled out a small silver pocket watch, and flipped the lid open. The hands pointed to 3:00 PM.
"Dominic isn't looking for a thread, Paul," Marco said, standing up and smoothing the front of his jacket with a dry, precise motion. "He’s looking at the mint plant on his desk. And a man who spends his time watering a plant doesn't have time to chase ghosts."
"Where will you go?" Miller asked, watching him reach for the door handle.
Marco paused, his hand resting on the brass knob. He turned his head slightly, a faint, dry shadow of a smile touching his lips.
May you like
"Somewhere with fewer ledgers, Paul," Marco said softly. "And a house where the children know how to draw a mouth."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the federal agent alone with the quiet hum of the radiator and the gray river mist pressing against the seventh-floor glass.
