Chapter 3 - The Blueprint of Pilsen
Declan Marsh liked things that had clear rules.
If a hydraulic pump failed, it was either the seal, the fluid level, or the valve. You checked them in order. You found the variance. You fixed it. The machine didn't have feelings; it didn't hide its structural weaknesses because it was embarrassed or afraid. It just waited for someone with the right wrenches to understand it.
His daughter Emmy, however, did not follow clear rules.
At 6:30 AM on Saturday, Emmy was sitting on the linoleum floor of their small kitchen in Pilsen, wearing mismatched pajamas—a striped top and bottoms covered in small cartoon trucks. She was currently organizing a pile of copper washers by their outer diameter.
"Daddy," she said, her voice high and bright, small fingers sliding a washer across the floor. "If a washer gets lost from its bolt, does the bolt get sad?"
Declan smiled, pouring pancake batter into a seasoned cast-iron skillet that had belonged to his grandfather. "I think the bolt just waits around until we find another washer that fits, Em."
"Like you and me?"
Declan stopped the pour, the spatula hovering over the pan. He looked down at her small, messy head of brown hair, the curls sticking out in three different directions. His chest ached with that sudden, fierce burst of protective love that always felt slightly terrifying.
"Exactly like you and me," he said softly.
His phone rang on the counter. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel and picked it up, expecting his assistant, Marcus (who was actually just an nineteen-year-old apprentice named Toby who forgot to oil the van's sliding door), telling him they were out of half-inch bolts.
It wasn't Toby.
The screen showed an unlisted number. When he answered, the background noise wasn't the hum of a workshop; it was the distinct, low rumble of a high-end luxury engine idling.
"Mr. Marsh," the voice said. Natalie Kessler. She sounded less like a CEO today and more like a woman who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours, though she was trying very hard to hide it behind a layer of crisp authority. "I’m outside."
Declan frowned, looking out the small kitchen window that faced the street.
A black Cadillac Escalade was parked illegally next to his neighbor’s rusted Chevy Malibu. The Escalade’s tinted windows were rolled up, its polished black paint reflecting the gray morning light of the Pilsen neighborhood.
"Ms. Kessler," Declan said, his tone dropping an octave. "It’s seven in the morning on a Saturday."
"I know," she said. "And I apologize. But I’ve spent the last two days watching my daughter stare at that hex key you gave her. She won't talk to me about it. She won't talk to her doctors. But she keeps it under her pillow. I don't want to buy you, Mr. Marsh. I know how that sounded on the phone, and I was wrong. But I need your help. Please."
The "please" was what did it.
It wasn't a word Natalie Kessler used often, Declan guessed. It sounded heavy, like it had been dragged out of her through a narrow space.
Declan looked at Emmy, who was now trying to see if a copper washer could function as a ring for her thumb.
"Give me ten minutes," Declan said.
He flipped the pancakes, set them on a plate for Emmy, and called down the hall to his sister, Clara, who lived in the apartment upstairs and usually handled Emmy on Saturday mornings when Declan had emergency calls. Five minutes later, Clara was in the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, and Declan was walking down the front steps of his three-flat brick building, wearing his grease-stained Carhartt jacket.
The rear door of the Escalade opened before he even reached the curb.
Natalie Kessler was sitting inside. She wasn't wearing the sharp navy suit from the summit. She had on a gray cashmere sweater and dark jeans, but she still looked like she could fire an entire board of directors with a blink. Her hair was pulled back into a neat, severe ponytail.
Beside her, sitting in a high-backed booster seat, was Iris.
The little girl looked up when Declan leaned into the vehicle's air-conditioned interior. She didn't smile—she wasn't a smiling kid, he could tell—but her eyes widened slightly, and her small hand went straight to the pocket of her pale blue jacket.
"Hey," Declan said, ignoring the mother and focusing entirely on the child. "You still got that tool?"
Iris dug into her pocket and pulled out the hex key. She held it up like a passport.
"Good," Declan said. "Because I’ve got a real problem today, and Toby—my helper—is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. I’ve got a freight elevator down at an old bakery four blocks from here. The counterweight guide shoes are rubbing, making this awful squealing sound like a pig in a gate. You know anything about guide shoes?"
Iris shook her head slowly.
"Didn't think so," Declan said. "Most people don't. But they’re important. They keep the whole elevator from shaking sideways when it goes up. I could use an extra set of eyes to watch the alignment while I adjust the rail."
Natalie watched the exchange from the leather seat, her breath caught in her throat. She looked at Declan, then at her daughter.
"Can she come?" Declan asked, finally looking at Natalie. His eyes were a light, clear green—completely devoid of the deference or intimidation Natalie was used to seeing in men who looked at her. "It’s a dirty shop, Ms. Kessler. There’s flour dust from forty years ago in the rafters and grease on the floor. Your shoes won't survive it."
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Natalie looked down at her pristine leather ankle boots. Then she looked at the slight, hopeful tilt of Iris’s chin.
"My shoes will be fine," Natalie said.
