Chapter 6: Three Weeks Before the Bridge

The limousine driver was waiting in a back booth of a Staten Island diner, with both hands around a cup of coffee he had not touched.

He was fifty, heavy, with a gray mustache and a wedding ring worn thin.

He stood up when I came in, then sat back down.

Jasper took the stool at the counter, close enough to hear.

Greta had made me promise to bring someone.

She had not said who.

"Ms. Fairbanks," the driver said. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Show me what you have," I said.

He reached into his jacket and set a white envelope on the table.

The corner was printed with a gold crest.

Ackerly Hotels.

Inside was a fold of hundred-dollar bills and a printed receipt for two thousand dollars cash.

"Twelve drivers got one," he said. "Same envelope, same amount."

"Who handed it to you?"

"Your brother's assistant, at the staging lot on Friday." He wiped his mustache. "But he said it came from upstairs."

"Upstairs where?"

He slid his phone across the table.

On the screen was a text thread with a contact saved as Ackerly Sr. Office.

I read it with my thumb pressing the edge of the table.

Noon. Kill the engines on the bridge. The last car stays locked until we say. Say engine trouble.

The message was dated Thursday.

"Mr. Ackerly senior?" I said. "Preston's father?"

"I don't know who else has the crest," the driver said.

My stomach turned over.

"Preston's father told you to lock me in a car," I said.

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