Page 2 of Evidence of Secrets

Manny was a friend from the service who needed a job and was a perfect fit for the building. People misjudged Manny because of his slight build. Big mistake. Hank knew Manny was more than proficient in self-defense and a top-notch sharpshooter. No one would get into the building to harm the residents and live to talk about it. Not that security was an issue in this part of town. But the size of Hank’s personal wealth plus his concern for the welfare of his renters warranted it.

Hank inserted the elevator key to his penthouse. The five-story brick building he owned overlooking the water was money well spent. He could decide who he wanted living there.

There were two units Hank had combined for his personal space on the top floor and two nine-hundred-square-foot apartments on each of the four floors below. Each had a balcony overlooking the water.

The eight units housed a couple of single women, two couples working hard to get ahead, and several older women. Manny had an apartment and worked the front desk in exchange for rent. One apartment was empty since the last tenant left.

There wasn’t much Hank could control in life, but offering people down on their luck a safe place to live and pay a reasonable rent gave him a sense of purpose and pleasure. The rents weren’t so low that someone would feel they were a charity case or so high they kept out people who needed help. It was a win-win, and they were quiet neighbors.

The substantial trust Hank had inherited from his mother paid for the building and its upkeep; he lived modestly, so his salary covered his living expenses.

He placed the money his father had given to him in a trust that he touched only to help nonprofits. His father helped no one unless he got something in return. That wasn’t Hank. He’d seen too many good people falling by the wayside when all they needed was a little help.

Hank opened the door to his condo, turned on the light switch, and instantly felt at peace. The front door led into a large living room overlooking the riverfront.

A decorator chose the grays, navy blues, and browns that created the calm interior. She was a looker and offered him several invitations to go out with her. While he was tempted, he hadn’t—it wasn’t a good business practice to have sex with an employee.

The living room had comfy furniture and a big-ass flat screen. There were modern appliances in the eat-in kitchen and three bedrooms, one of which he used as an office, the other as a guest room.

Hank grabbed a beer from the fridge and opened the sliding doors to the balcony overlooking the river.

The twinkling lights of Black Pointe and the muted voices of people at the Riverwalk restaurants carried over the water. Hank never tired of the view. Hints of barbecue and charred beef wafted in the breeze. His mouth watered, and then his stomach rumbled. He took a slug of beer.

Only two Army buddies knew he owned this building, since Hank never invited anyone over—he valued his privacy. Danny was one and Logan Reed the other. He didn’t need the money he won at poker tonight, and didn’t need to work—ever. Work gave him a sense of worth and the money he gave away a sense of purpose.

And life was good.

The occasional nagging thought that something meaningful was missing in his life came and went like the river’s ebb and flow.

CHAPTERTWO

Ryan Hall sat at his late father’s Louis XIV mahogany desk and stared at the pile of papers strewn across the leather top. He’d already separated them into categories.

His dad died a month ago, and Ryan finally felt up to going through his father’s personal papers. Alone.

Rocco, Dad’s right-hand man and enforcer, offered to help, but these were very personal papers. Ryan didn’t need help. If his dad wanted anyone looking at them, he wouldn’t have hidden them. Besides, Rocco would report back to the big boss, who would come a-calling. Ryan didn’t want anyone to come a-calling, especially the big boss.

Ryan checked to see if the door to the study was locked. Yes. He drew the heavy damask drapes.

He turned on the green, antique Tiffany Turning Leaf green table lamp, a gift to his father from an associate.

First up, he reached for the stack of papers labeled “donations.” He noticed the huge donations made out to the prestigious college Ryan attended. So that was the minimum dollar value to ensure your child got into the school. He never knew, and never asked. There were no legacy preferences in his family. He was the first in the family to graduate from college.

He could have gotten into most schools with his grades, but Ryan had his heart set on going to Harvard.

Besides meeting the upcoming who’s who of business, it would be a great experience, and his father agreed.

Ryan’s degree in business administration opened many doors for both of them. Working in the private sector and having access to movers and shakers not only helped legitimize his father’s business, but helped Ryan get ahead. He could live comfortably for the rest of his life on what he saved.

His dad used to say one could never have enough money or power. It was true. Money was the tool that bought power and respect. Dad had plenty of money and power, and if he didn’t get respect one way, he got it another.

Ryan picked up another stack of papers. Organization charts. Charts of the who’s who in the organization—who ran the front end, which businesses laundered money, who they called for the dirty work, and who the enforcers were. This information was pure gold.

Dad shared little with him about being in the mob. He didn’t mind having Ryan help him with personal projects, but for some strange reason, he wanted to keep Ryan out of the everyday mob business. However, Ryan knew a lot without being told. From the bulked-up bodyguards with the strange nicknames to the sometimes shady deals Ryan helped with and the all-hours-of-the-day meetings his father attended; it was clear what his dad was into.

He reached for a small white envelope. Unsealed it and found a safe deposit key. Ryan’s father had him co-sign at a bank miles from Atlanta years ago. In the next couple of days, he’d visit the bank and make a withdrawal. He wondered how much money was in it now.

Ryan moved the pile aside, and a small brown envelope slipped out and fell on the floor. Ryan bent over to pick it up, then reached for the letter opener to slit it open. Old records fell out.

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