Chapter 3 - The Waitress on Camera
Clara expected Adrian Moretti to send her home with two bodyguards.
Instead, he took her downstairs.
The Marlowe Opera House basement contained offices, storage rooms, dressing rooms and corridors older than most Chicago skyscrapers.
Marco walked ahead.
“You're staying between us.”
Clara sighed.
“I've heard.”
“You wander off, I carry you.”
“Try it.”
Marco glanced back.
“I understand why you like her.”
Adrian stopped.
“I don't like her.”
“Good.”
Clara looked between them.
“Wonderful. We're all bonding.”
They reached the security room.
The operator had been found unconscious in a nearby supply room but alive.
The surveillance system showed a twenty-three-minute gap.
Clara studied the monitors.
“Play the footage before the deletion.”
Marco did.
Guests entered.
Staff crossed corridors.
Adrian appeared at the ballroom entrance.
Clara pointed.
“Stop.”
Marco froze the image.
“What?”
“That waiter.”
A man wearing catering clothes pushed a cart through a service corridor.
Marco leaned closer.
“He's staff.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“His shoes.”
Adrian looked down at the screen.
Black polished leather.
Clara explained.
“Our catering company requires nonslip work shoes. Management checks because of insurance.”
Marco zoomed in.
The man's face was turned away.
Adrian said, “Follow him.”
They tracked the stranger through three cameras.
He entered a maintenance stairwell.
Seven minutes later, the surveillance feed disappeared.
Marco's phone rang.
He answered.
“What?”
His expression changed.
“Where?”
Adrian watched him.
Marco ended the call.
“The photographer was found outside.”
“Alive?”
“Yes. His camera was stolen.”
Clara exhaled.
“Then the assassin needed those photographs.”
“Why?” Marco asked.
“To see whether he was photographed on the catwalk.”
Adrian nodded.
“Exactly.”
Marco looked at Clara again.
This time with less suspicion.
A guard entered carrying a black catering jacket.
“Found in the west stairwell.”
Marco searched it.
One pocket contained a key card.
Another contained a folded employee schedule.
Clara recognized it.
“That's ours.”
Several names were circled.
One was hers.
Adrian took the paper.
Clara stared.
“My name was marked before the chandelier fell.”
Marco's expression hardened.
“That changes things.”
Adrian asked, “Why would someone care about you?”
“I don't know.”
“Think.”
Clara hesitated.
“My father.”
“What about him?”
“He worked at the Marlowe.”
Marco looked up.
“When?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“Why did he leave?”
“An accident.”
Adrian's eyes narrowed.
“What kind?”
“A rigging failure.”
Nobody spoke.
Clara continued.
“A stage counterweight dropped during an overnight inspection. It crushed his leg. He survived, but he never worked again.”
“When?”
“Eight years ago.”
Adrian looked at Marco.
“Who owned the building?”
Marco already understood.
“The Moretti Restoration Group.”
Clara turned toward Adrian.
“You?”
“My company.”
“My father's settlement barely covered his surgery.”
“I wasn't managing the company then.”
“Who was?”
Adrian didn't answer immediately.
Marco did.
“Victor Moretti.”
Clara recognized the name.
“Your uncle.”
Adrian nodded.
Victor Moretti had spent twenty years appearing beside mayors, judges and charitable boards.
He was also sitting upstairs at table seven.
Clara looked toward the ceiling.
“Was he beneath the chandelier?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“Near the west exit.”
Marco's phone suddenly rang.
He answered.
Then looked at Adrian.
“Victor left.”
“When?”
“Two minutes after the chandelier fell.”
Adrian's jaw tightened.
“Find him.”
Marco started walking.
Clara caught Adrian's arm.
“Wait.”
Everyone stopped.
Adrian looked at her hand.
She released him.
“If Victor wanted you dead, why circle my name beforehand?”
Adrian said nothing.
“Someone knew I'd be here,” Clara continued. “Someone knew my father taught me rigging.”
Marco understood.
“You weren't an unexpected witness.”
Clara shook her head.
“I might have been part of the plan.”
Adrian looked toward the employee schedule.
“To do what?”
Clara stared at the ruined chandelier visible through the open corridor.
May you like
“To take the blame.”
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