Chapter 4 - The Cicero Delivery
The Cicero distribution center of Holloway Select Markets was a massive, concrete fortress that sat at the end of a gravel road near the railroad tracks. At 2:00 AM on Wednesday, the building was surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire, the security lights casting a harsh, orange glare through the cold, misting rain.
I sat in the passenger seat of Frank’s old Ford pickup, the heater blowing a dry, dusty warmth against my knees. Frank was behind the wheel, his hands resting on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the security gate where a lone guard sat in a small glass shack.
"Tommy’s shift ends at three," Frank said, reaching into his pocket for a thermos of coffee. "He’s got the keys to the logistical office. He said he’d leave the side door unlocked after the last delivery truck from Indiana unloads."
The side door of the warehouse opened with a soft, metallic click, a figure in a high-visibility yellow vest slipping out into the shadows near the loading dock. He waved once—a quick, horizontal motion of his arm—before disappearing back inside.
"Let’s go, Eve," Frank said, pulling his collar up against the rain as he opened his door.
We walked quickly across the wet asphalt, our boots silent against the gravel. The air inside the warehouse was cold, smelling of ammonia, cardboard, and the sweet, slightly rotten scent of overripe fruit from the refrigeration units.
Tommy DeLuca was waiting for us in the small, windowless office near the loading docks. He looked nervous, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, frantic beat against the laminate desk.
"My uncle told me what they did to Hannah, Aunt Evelyn," Tommy said, his voice a quiet whisper as he opened a filing cabinet in the corner. "It’s not right. Nobody should be treated like that. Especially not by people who think their name makes them kings."
He pulled a thick, blue plastic binder from the bottom drawer and laid it on the desk.
"This is the dual-logging system," Tommy said, opening the binder to reveal two sets of manifests. "The white sheets are what we show the agricultural inspectors. They show delivery from the family farms in southern Illinois. The pink sheets are the actual bills of lading from the processing facility in Indiana. They’re signed by Grant Holloway himself."
I looked down at the pink sheets. There was his signature—a bold, sweeping G. Holloway that looked exactly like the signature on the pre-nuptial agreement he had forced Hannah to sign three weeks before their wedding.
"We need copies of these, Tommy," I said. "Every single one from the last six months."
"I’ve already scanned them to a secure drive," Tommy said, reaching into his vest and pulling out a small, silver thumb drive. "And Aunt Evelyn... there’s more."
He pointed to a folder marked Internal Maintenance.
"The Cicero facility’s refrigeration system has been leaking freon for three months," Tommy said. "The repair estimates were forty thousand dollars, but Grant rejected the work order. He said they’d wait until the winter to fix it when the ambient temperature would keep the product cool anyway. It’s a direct violation of the state food safety act."
I took the silver thumb drive from his hand, my fingers closing around the cold metal with a sudden, overwhelming sense of clarity.
"Thank you, Tommy," I said softly, my hand resting on his shoulder. "Your father would be proud of you."
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"Just tell Hannah to keep her head up," the boy said, his eyes bright in the dim light of the office. "My family doesn't forget who helped us when the stove went cold."
As we walked back to the truck through the cold, gray Cicero rain, the clock in my head struck thirty-six hours.
