I'll process this now. The Song That Broke the Silence

I made the call at seven in the morning from the library.

The girls were still asleep.

Grace had made coffee and left a cup on the desk without being asked, then closed the door behind her without a sound.

Holt picked up on the second ring.

"This is Dominic Romano," I said.

"I think you know who I am."

A pause.

Not surprise — he had been expecting this, or something like it.

Just the pause of a man organizing his thoughts.

"Mr.

Romano," he said.

"Yes.

I know who you are."

"Then you know why I'm calling."

"I have some idea.

Why don't you tell me in your own words."

"I have a notebook," I said.

"My wife's handwriting.

Fourteen months of documentation on Enzo Caruso's cooperation arrangement with your office, his financial movements, and the shell company in Delaware." I paused.

"I also have a signed written statement from a man named Marco Vitelli describing the conversation in which Caruso told him I had authorized my wife's death.

I have phone records placing Caruso in contact with your office on the same day Isabelle was kjlled.

And I have a witness — a child, three years old at the time — who can place Marco Vitelli at the scene in Garden City."

The silence on the other end was longer this time.

"Mr.

Romano," Holt said carefully.

"I want to be very clear that any conversation we have—"

"I'm not calling to negotiate," I said.

"I'm calling to give you what my wife died trying to give you.

She was coming to me first.

She never got the chance.

I'm finishing what she started."

Another pause.

"You understand what you're offering."

"I understand exactly what I'm offering."

"And you understand what it will mean for your own — situation."

"I have a lawyer," I said.

"His name is Farrell.

He'll be in contact with your office by nine o'clock.

Everything I just described will be delivered to you by noon." I looked at the notebook on the desk.

"I want one thing in return."

"What's that?"

"I want it on record that Isabelle Romano was not an informant.

She was not working with your office.

She was a private citizen who found something she wasn't supposed to find and was kjlled before she could tell her husband.

I want her name clean."

Holt was quiet for a moment.

"I can do that," he said.

"Then we have something to talk about."

I ended the call and sat for a moment.

Then I picked up the phone again and called Farrell.

While it rang, I heard the sound of small feet on the stairs.

Then the library door opened three inches and Nora's face appeared in the gap — her hair loose, her eyes still soft with sleep, one hand gripping the doorframe.

"Daddy?"

It was the first time in fourteen months she had called me that.

I set the phone down.

"Come here," I said.

She pushed the door open and ran across the room and climbed into my lap, and I held her there with both arms and said nothing, because there was nothing that needed to be said.

The phone rang on the desk.

Farrell calling back.

Nora looked at it.

"Do you need to answer?"

"In a minute," I said.