Chapter 3 - MR. ORTEGA’S NOTEBOOK
Samuel Ortega lived in Pilsen with his wife and fourteen houseplants he spoke about as if they were children.
He opened the door at 8:00 a.m. wearing slippers.
Then saw Roman Black behind Detective Nina Patel.
“Absolutely not.”
Roman blinked.
Ortega pointed.
“You.”
“What?”
“You bring trouble.”
Fair.
Meera, standing farther back with Evan, covered her mouth.
Ortega spotted the boy.
His entire face softened.
“Professor.”
Evan ran toward him.
“Mr. Ortega!”
Roman looked at Meera.
“Professor?”
“He likes machines.”
Ortega corrected:
“He asks better questions than engineers.”
Evan immediately said:
“I broke glass.”
“I heard.”
“Am I bad?”
“No.”
“Mr. Black says he can buy another.”
Ortega looked at Roman.
“He’d better.”
Roman nodded solemnly.
“I will.”
Only then did Ortega let everyone inside.
His maintenance notebooks were immaculate.
Dates.
Sounds.
Measurements.
Incident numbers.
Evan sat beside him while adults reviewed pages.
Ortega explained that four months before retirement he noticed the executive elevator’s legacy monitoring system occasionally showed brief discrepancies.
Not mechanical failure exactly.
Signals that did not match expected car position.
He reported it.
Trent marked it resolved.
Then Ortega found a service access panel opened without his authorization.
Reported again.
Resolved.
Third time, he confronted Grant Mercer personally.
“What did he say?” Roman asked.
Ortega looked at him.
“That I was getting old.”
Roman went still.
“He said new digital systems confused older technicians.”
“Did they?”
“No.”
Ortega smiled without humor.
“I installed half of them.”
Then he described Evan.
The boy sat in service corridors after school or late at night when Meera’s childcare arrangements failed.
He never entered restricted areas alone.
Never touched equipment.
But he listened.
Ortega taught him simple safety principles.
Doors should sound a certain way.
Alarm tones meant different things.
Machines had sequences.
The emergency recall button?
Ortega showed him where it was because staff had once been locked out during a fire drill.
“I told him only if somebody is in immediate danger and no adult can reach it.”
Evan looked guilty again.
Ortega touched his shoulder.
“You heard falling equipment.”
“Yes.”
“You saw the position disagreement.”
“Yes.”
“You used emergency control.”
“Yes.”
“Then you followed the rule.”
Evan slowly exhaled.
Good.
No chosen-child mythology.
Training.
Observation.
Fear.
Decision.
Then Ortega brought out a separate notebook.
Not hotel property.
Personal.
“Why keep this?” Nina asked.
“Because reports kept disappearing.”
Roman felt something unpleasant.
Ortega continued.
“Your people liked verbal answers, Mr. Black.”
“They hated paper.”
Roman knew.
His organization had long valued speed and discretion.
Written records created vulnerability.
So managers learned not to write.
That culture had spread into legitimate hotel operations.
Bad decisions wrapped in loyalty.
Ortega opened a page.
Three weeks before retirement:
Grant Mercer entered machine control with Adrian Wolfe. No maintenance purpose stated.
Roman’s eyes lifted.
His CFO.
Adrian Wolfe.
Nina asked:
“You saw them?”
“Yes.”
“What were they doing?”
“Looking at executive-system schematics.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes.”
“They said insurance audit.”
Roman laughed once.
“There was no insurance audit.”
Ortega shrugged.
“I know now.”
Another entry:
Trent instructed staff to keep Collins child away from lower control areas. Says liability issue. Strange urgency.
Meera looked at Evan.
“They were watching him.”
Probably.
Not necessarily because they planned harm at first.
Maybe because he noticed things.
Then came the final entry.
Two days before Ortega retired:
Heard Grant tell Adrian: “Once the old man is gone, we can finish the tower problem.”
Roman raised an eyebrow.
“Old man?”
Ortega smiled.
“Me.”
Good.
Roman had briefly assumed himself.
Important correction.
Adrian Wolfe was brought in for questioning that afternoon.
He denied everything.
He said his visit with Grant concerned elevator insurance.
Records contradicted him.
No insurance review.
Then investigators found something financial.
Black Crown Casino had a large key-man insurance policy on Roman.
Not unusual.
Amount:
$80 million.
Beneficiary:
A holding company.
But Roman’s death would trigger more than insurance.
His voting shares would temporarily transfer into a management trust.
Trustees:
Julian Black.
Adrian Wolfe.
And Grant Mercer as security representative.
Three people.
Roman looked at the document.
“When did this change?”
His lawyer answered:
“Eighteen months ago.”
“Who approved it?”
“You.”
Roman stared.
Then remembered.
A stack of estate-planning documents.
Adrian’s office.
Twenty signatures.
He read summaries.
Not attachments.
“Convenience,” Roman whispered.
His attorney did not comfort him.
Good.
Then:
“Where does Julian fit?”
Nobody knew yet.
Roman called his brother.
Straight to voicemail.
Twenty minutes later, Julian texted:
DO NOT TRUST ADRIAN. I’M COMING IN.
Then another:
GRANT TRIED TO PAY ME TO LEAVE CHICAGO LAST WEEK.
Roman looked at Nina.
“Looks helpful.”
She shook her head.
“Or strategically helpful.”
May you like
Right.
Evidence first.
