Chapter 9 - Union Station
The cavernous interior of Union Station smelled of roasted coffee, diesel exhaust, and old limestone. The afternoon commuter rush was just beginning to swell, filling the grand hall with a chaotic tide of travelers, rolling suitcases, and hurried footsteps echoing off the vaulted marble ceiling.
Genevieve walked through the central rotunda wearing a dark cap pulled low over her forehead, her wool coat collar turned up against the chill draft sweeping off the tracks. Salinger moved beside her like a shadow, her dark eyes scanning the perimeter for any sign of Whitmore Security or local plainclothes officers.
“Locker 412 is down on the lower concourse, near the old baggage handling tunnels,” Salinger murmured, not looking at Genevieve as they descended the wide stone staircase. “If Preston’s men are here, they’ll have the exits covered.”
“They’re not watching the baggage tunnels,” Genevieve said, her steps steady and purposeful. “Preston thinks in terms of boardrooms and penthouse suites. He doesn't know anything about how my father moved freight in the nineties.”
At the end of a dim, fluorescent-lit corridor lined with rows of weather-beaten green steel lockers, Genevieve stopped in front of number 412. The brass key felt heavy in her coat pocket. She pulled it out, her fingers steady as she slid it into the rusted lock and turned it counterclockwise.
The door popped open with a dry, metallic squeak.
Inside sat a battered metal tape recorder from the late nineties, three cassette tapes labeled in her father’s handwriting with the date May 2001, and a thick manila envelope sealed with red wax bearing the personal stamp of David Vance.
Genevieve reached inside, her fingers wrapping around the envelope, but before she could pull it out, a heavy shadow fell across the front of the locker.
“I wouldn't touch that, Gen,” a voice said softly from behind her.
Genevieve froze. She didn't need to turn around to recognize the low, perfectly modulated cadence of Preston’s voice.
She slowly turned her head. Preston stood five feet away in the center of the corridor, his tailored charcoal coat unbuttoned, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. But he wasn't alone. Two men in dark suits—the same ones who had searched the alley outside St. Jude’s—flanked him on either side, blocking the exit toward the main concourse.
“Preston,” Genevieve said, her voice remarkably even as she withdrew her hand from the locker, keeping the manila envelope clutched tightly against her ribs. “I thought you’d be busy explaining to the federal marshals why your corporate accounts are frozen.”
Preston offered a slow, tragic smile—the same look of pained affection he had worn at the altar while whispering threats in her ear. “Arthur handles the federal marshals, Gen. I handle my wife.” He took a step closer, his eyes scanning the contents of the locker over her shoulder. “You really thought you could outsmart us with a dead man’s ghost stories?”
Before Preston could reach for the locker, a heavy clatter echoed from the far end of the service corridor.
From the shadows of the baggage tunnel stepped Miller, flanked not by security guards, but by four burly union dockworkers in oil-stained canvas jackets carrying heavy iron wrenches.
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“You’re a long way from Oak Street, Mr. Whitmore,” Miller said, his voice gravelly and low as he cracked an iron wrench against his palm. “And around here, we don't like trespassers touching the boss’s things.”
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