Chapter 3 - The Weight of the Canvas
Miller was good. He was the kind of operative who didn't exist on paper—a gray-haired, nondescript man in a wet-weather utility jacket who could blend into a Chicago subway platform like a drop of water in Lake Michigan.
At 7:15 p.m., Tessa Cole punched her card, zipped her threadbare coat, hoisted the olive-green bag over her shoulder, and walked out into the teeth of an Illinois gale.
Miller was fifty feet behind her, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the distinctive patch of reflective tape she had sewn onto the back of her hood.
Zo sat in the study, his laptop open to a live audio feed linked through a hidden directional mic in Miller’s lapel, combined with the encrypted GPS tracker Miller had slipped into his own pocket.
The audio was a symphony of miserable urban transit: the hiss of pneumatic bus doors, the grinding screech of the CTA Brown Line wheels against wet steel, the wet slush of boots on concrete.
“She’s heading south,” Miller’s voice crackled softly through the encrypted earpiece, muffled by the sound of wind. “Avenue K. Working-class neighborhood. Lots of triple-deckers with peeling paint.”
"What is she carrying?" Zo asked, his voice low in the silent study.
“Can't tell yet, boss. She’s keeping the bag clutched tight against her ribs like it's made of spun glass. She didn't buy anything at the bodega on the corner. Walked right past the deli.”
Zo listened to the rhythm of her footsteps through Miller’s microphone—uneven, the right shoe making a wet squeak-drag, squeak-drag against the pavement. It was the sound of a person running on sheer willpower and empty calories.
Forty minutes passed. The audio picked up the heavy, reverberating hollow sound of an old wooden staircase groaning under weight.
“She’s entering 412 North Ashland,” Miller reported. “Third-floor walk-up. The light in the hallway is burnt out. I’m waiting in the vestibule.”
"Stay out of sight," Zo warned. "If there's a deadbolt, don't try to pick it yet. I want to know what’s inside that room before we kick the door."
Twenty minutes went by.
Zo didn't move from his desk. The scotch in his glass had gone warm, but he hadn't touched it. On his secondary monitor, the red dot representing Miller’s position remained steady at 412 North Ashland.
Then Miller’s voice came back through the earpiece, and for the first time since Zo had hired him, the veteran operative sounded unsettled.
“Boss... you’re not gonna believe what’s happening in this building.”
"Speak."
“The window across the alley from her unit is open six inches. I climbed the fire escape to get a visual through the blinds. You need to see this on your feed. I'm routing my body-cam stream directly to your terminal.”
Zo hit a keystroke. The main monitor flickered, shifting from the courtyard security cameras to a grainy, low-light digital feed captured by Miller’s chest-mounted lens.
The view showed a cramped, freezing attic apartment. There was no rug on the scarred plank floor, no television, no microwave. A single bare bulb hung from a frayed cord over an iron cot piled high with gray woolen blankets.
Standing in the center of the room was Tessa.
She had dropped the olive-green canvas bag onto the floor. It fell with a heavy, solid thud that suggested bricks or metal rather than clothing or papers.
May you like
She unzipped it.
Zo leaned forward, his hands flat on the edge of the mahogany desk, his breath catching in his throat as the camera zoomed in on the contents of the bag.
