Chapter 4 #2
Derek the salesman was nowhere to be seen. Dax let himself out and crossed the parking lot to his truck, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid with tension he couldn’t quite shake.
His instincts were screaming. Wheeler was dirty. Every word out of his mouth had been calculated, rehearsed. The man was hiding something.
But instincts weren’t evidence. And Dax needed evidence.
He sat in his truck and pulled out his phone, the leather seat creaking beneath him as he settled in.
He searched for property records, fingers moving quickly across the screen, his other hand drumming against the steering wheel.
The county assessor’s database was public, accessible online.
He started searching for properties owned by Wheeler Development LLC.
What he found made his jaw clench, his teeth grinding together.
In the past three years, Wheeler’s company had bought seventeen properties. All commercial. All purchased at significantly inflated prices. And all of them—every single one—had been bought from shell companies with untraceable owners.
Classic money laundering. Buy property from yourself using fake companies, inflate the price, move the money around, and suddenly your dirty cash is clean real estate equity.
David Barrett had figured it out. So had Thomas Crane, apparently. Both had died before they could expose it.
And now Quinn Barrett was asking the same questions.
Dax’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. Damn it.
He pulled out his phone and dialed the number Quinn had written on the back of one of her documents, his thumb hesitating only a second before pressing call.
She answered on the third ring. “Hello?” Her voice was breathless, like she’d been moving.
“It’s Detective Mercer.”
A pause. He could hear her breathing change, hear the surprise. “I thought you couldn’t help me.”
“I looked at your father’s files.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the exhaustion settling into his bones, the stubble rough against his palm.
“And?”
“And you need to back off. This is dangerous.”
Quinn’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “So you do think Wheeler’s involved.”
“I think you’re a civilian playing detective, and you’re going to get hurt.”
“I’m an investigative journalist. This is literally what I do.”
“Not with murderers, it’s not.” His voice came out harder than he intended, his free hand gripping the steering wheel until his fingers ached.
“My father was murdered investigating this. Thomas Crane was murdered. You think I’m just going to walk away because it’s dangerous?” Her voice rose, echoing through the phone. “I’m not afraid of some businessman who thinks he’s above the law.”
Dax’s patience snapped, his free hand slamming against the steering wheel hard enough to send a sharp pain up his wrist. “You should be. Wheeler’s not just some businessman. He’s smart, he’s careful, and he’s already killed twice that we know of. Maybe more.”
“Then help me prove it!”
“I am helping you. By telling you to stay away.”
“That’s not help, that’s—”
“That’s me trying to keep you alive.” Dax forced his voice to stay level, his grip on the phone tight enough that the case creaked.
“Look, I get it. You want justice for your father. But you can’t investigate this alone.
You don’t have training, you don’t have backup, and you sure as hell don’t have the resources to protect yourself if Wheeler decides you’re a threat. ”
“So what do you suggest? I just forget about it? Let my father’s murder go unsolved?”
“I suggest you let the police handle it.”
“The police already closed the case!”
“I didn’t.” He let the words hang there, simple and final.
That stopped her. Dax could hear her breathing on the other end of the line, could almost see her processing what he’d just said.
“What?” she finally said, her voice smaller now.
“I said I didn’t close it. I’m looking into the connection between Crane’s death and your father’s.
Quietly. Without broadcasting it to everyone in Blackridge.
” He paused, his gaze drifting back to Wheeler’s dealership in his rearview mirror.
“But I can’t do that if you’re running around asking questions and putting yourself in danger. ”
“You’re actually investigating?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say that before?”
“Because I needed to verify your theory first. Make sure I wasn’t wasting time on a journalist’s conspiracy fantasy.”
“And?” The hope in her voice was almost painful to hear.
Dax looked back at the dealership through his rearview mirror, at Wheeler’s office window where the man probably still stood, confident and untouchable. His hand tightened on the phone. “And your theory checks out. Your father was right about the money laundering. Wheeler’s dirty.”
Quinn’s voice went soft, barely above a whisper. He could hear the tremor in it, the emotion she was trying to hold back. “My father was right.”
“Yeah. He was.” Dax felt an unwelcome stab of sympathy, his jaw tightening against it. His thumb rubbed absently against the phone case. “Which means he was dangerous to Wheeler. Just like Crane was dangerous. Just like you’re dangerous if you keep investigating.”
“I can take care of myself.” But her voice wavered, uncertain.
“Can you disarm a car bomb? Because your father’s brakes were probably cut.” Dax’s voice hardened, his grip on the phone tightening. “Can you tell if your food’s been poisoned? Because that’s another favorite method. Can you—”
“I get it!” Quinn’s voice shook slightly, breaking on the words. “I get that it’s dangerous. But I can’t just do nothing.”
“You’re not doing nothing. You’re letting a trained detective handle it.” He pressed his fingers against his temple, feeling a headache building behind his eyes.
“How do I know you’ll actually investigate? How do I know you won’t just drop it like everyone else?”
Fair question. Dax had given her no reason to trust him. He’d kicked her out of a crime scene, dismissed her theory, and told her to go home. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble rasp against his palm, the exhaustion pulling at him.
“You don’t,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “But it’s the best option you’ve got. Unless you want to end up like your father.”
The silence on the other end was heavy, loaded. He could hear her breathing—quick, shallow breaths like she was trying to keep herself together. Could hear the moment she made her decision, the way her breath steadied, resolved.
“I want updates,” Quinn finally said, and her voice was different now—controlled, determined. “If you’re investigating, I want to know what you find.”
“This isn’t a collaboration.” Dax shifted in his seat, his back straightening. “I’m not keeping a civilian in the loop on an active investigation.”
“Then I’ll investigate on my own.”
“Damn it, Barrett—” His hand hit the steering wheel again, softer this time but no less frustrated. The dull thud echoed in the cab.
“Those are my terms. Either we work together, or I do this alone.” Her voice was steel now, no tremor, no uncertainty. “Your choice, Detective.”
Dax wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her she couldn’t dictate terms. Wanted to arrest her for obstruction just to keep her safe and out of his way.
But he knew that tone. Knew that determination. She was going to investigate whether he liked it or not.
At least if he kept her close, he could try to protect her.
“Fine,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “But you follow my rules. No going off on your own. No confronting suspects. No doing anything without clearing it with me first.”
“Deal.”
“I mean it, Barrett. This isn’t a game. One wrong move and you’re dead.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Because your father understood too, and it didn’t save him.”