Leo Driscoll bought a crashed 2012 sedan at a county auto auction for $850 to salvage its engine.
I spent the rest of the day tearing apart the sedan’s interior with a methodical fury. Every panel, every crevice. I used a scope to look behind the dashboard, under the seats. I was looking for anything out of place, anything hidden.
The radio was a newer aftermarket unit, not the original factory model. It hummed quietly, a tiny green light indicating power. I decided to pull it out.
Working carefully, I unscrewed the housing, disconnected the wires, and slid the unit from its cavity. Behind it, in the space where the original unit’s frame should have been, I noticed something odd.
The back of the dash wasn’t uniform. There was a section that looked like it had been hastily patched, covered by a thin layer of sound-dampening material that didn’t quite match the rest.
I peeled back the fabric. Beneath it was a double-walled cavity, clearly not factory-installed. It was a hidden compartment, built into the dash itself.
My breath hitched. My hands, calloused and strong, worked to pry open the thin metal cover. It gave with a soft pop.
Inside, nestled in the dark, were two items.
The first was a stack of rubber-banded cash. Crisp, new hundred-dollar bills, bundled tightly. I pulled them out, my fingers trembling slightly. I quickly counted them. $80,000.
The second item was a small, plastic card, about the size of a credit card. It felt heavy in my hand, with a metallic sheen. On one side, etched into the surface, was a symbol. A stylized “M,” intertwined with a lion rampant. The Moretti syndicate mark.
It was an encrypted ledger card. I had seen them before. The mob used them to keep track of their illicit earnings, their “books.”
“Maya!” I yelled, my voice echoing in the empty garage. “Carla! Get in here!”
They rushed over, their faces etched with worry. Their eyes fell first on the stack of cash in my hand, then on the plastic card.
Carla gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “$80,000? And that card… that’s Moretti’s mark. What is this, Leo?”
“This,” I said, holding up the ledger card, “is proof. Julian Brody wasn’t just a mechanic. He was involved. And this money… it connects him directly to Moretti’s operation.”
The texts about Marcus killing Julian for “the money” suddenly made a twisted kind of sense. But who was stealing what from whom? And why was this hidden in Julian’s car?
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