Chapter 21
Bree traced the rim of her coffee cup, watching the steam curl and vanish in the bright light of Harbor Station.
Morning rush had tapered off; a few tables were still occupied by fishermen in faded ball caps and a pair of tourists poring over a paper map like it was a treasure.
The big front windows framed the harbor, boats bobbing gently.
Behind the counter, the barista worked the espresso machine like an instrument she knew by heart.
Diaz sat across from Bree and Hank, sleeves pushed up, badge clipped to her belt, a notebook open beside her untouched muffin.
“So,” Diaz said, tapping her pen against the margin. “We got confirmation from the state last night. Your sedan friend’s shell company is on their list. They’re running it under organized crime, interstate trafficking, all the fun labels.”
Bree’s fingers tightened around the cup. “Trafficking in what exactly?” she asked.
“Parts, money, people,” Diaz said. “These guys don’t specialize. The plate that pinged here matched sightings near two other tracks. The pattern’s strong enough that the feds are sniffing around. Which means they’ll move slower, but they’ll move big when they do.”
Hank’s jaw flexed. “What does that change for us?”
“On paper?” Diaz said. “Nothing. You still go to work, you still buy your building, you still take your girl out on dates instead of camping in stairwells. Practically? You keep doing what you’re doing. You’re careful. You notice things. You call me when something tastes off.”
Bree swallowed. “Are we targets?” she asked. “I mean, specifically.”
Diaz held her gaze for a long beat. “You’re visible,” she said. “You embarrassed someone who doesn’t like being embarrassed. That makes you interesting. But you’re also useful. The more you see, the more you can feed us. And you’re not alone out there. That’s important.”
Useful. The word settled oddly in Bree’s chest; not heavy, exactly, but solid.
“What about the locals?” Hank asked. “People around the track, the businesses on Bay Street. Should we be warning anybody?”
“I’m working with the mayor on that,” Diaz said. “We’re drafting a bulletin that doesn’t cause a full-scale panic. ‘Hey, watch out for guys selling miracle horsepower out of the back of vans’ kind of thing. We’ll roll it out through the Chamber, the track, social media.”
Bree nodded slowly. “Is it ridiculous that I’m more nervous about meeting with the mayor this afternoon than I am about your federal friends?” she asked.
“Zoning boards have crushed more dreams than the FBI,” Diaz said dryly. “Your priorities are fine.”
Hank huffed out a laugh. “We should get going soon,” he said. “Jason’s meeting us at the warehouse to go over the latest quote before the mayor brings her binder of rules.”
Diaz slid something across the table: a business card with her name, the station number, and a handwritten cell number on the back. “You already have this, but I’m giving it to you again,” she said. “Repetition helps.”
Bree tucked it into her sketchbook. “Thanks,” she said. “For everything. I know we’re not your only problem.”
“You’re the ones trying to fix something instead of breaking it,” Diaz said. “That puts you on my priority list.” She pushed her notebook aside. “Okay, enough doom. Tell me your good news. Last time we spoke, you’d just told the mayor you were serious about the warehouse.”
Hank’s mouth curved. “We signed the purchase agreement yesterday,” he said. “Bank’s processing the loan. Assuming today’s meeting doesn’t turn into a bonfire, it’s happening.”
Diaz’s smile was brief but real. “Congratulations,” she said. “Copper Moon could use a few more people crazy enough to plant roots.”
Bree felt a little flutter at that; at the way Diaz said plant roots as if it were a commendation.
“We’ll keep you posted,” Hank said, standing. “And we’ll be here tomorrow. Same time. You’ll want a refill on that muffin intel.”
Diaz raised her coffee in a half-toast. “Count on it,” she said.
The warehouse didn’t care about shell companies or federal cases.
It sat at the end of Bay Street, its brick face catching the midmorning sun, windows like tired eyes. The big bay door was rolled up, the inside cool and shadowed. Jason’s truck was already parked out front; so was the mayor’s hybrid, the chirp of its lock sounding as Bree and Hank walked up.
“Let’s hope this isn’t a portent,” Bree muttered.
Hank’s hand brushed her lower back. “We’ve handled worse than a meeting,” he said. “If they tell us the place is secretly full of asbestos, I’ll just add hazmat suits to the budget.”
“That’s not funny,” she said.
“Little bit,” he replied.
Inside, Jason stood near the center of the open floor, a roll of blueprints in one hand, and a tape measure hooked to his belt. Mayor Liz Harper leaned against a scaffolding plank, tablet in hand, reading glasses perched on her nose.
“There they are,” Liz said. “Our new neighborhood investors.”
Bree tried to read her tone. It sounded mostly warm, with a hint of mayoral briskness.
“Hey,” Jason said. “You two ready for the fun part? Numbers and forms.”
“More ready than you know,” Hank said.
They gathered near the makeshift table Jason had fashioned from two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. Jason spread the blueprints out. The lines and measurements looked like a language Bree was only beginning to understand.
“So here’s where we’re at,” Jason said. “Structurally, she’s sound.
We need to reinforce a couple of beams if we’re going to hang the lift you want, Hank, and if you’re serious about that mezzanine for Bree’s office, we’re talking some steel work.
Electrical’s going to need a full upgrade if you want both the shop and the studio pulling power without tripping every breaker on Bay. ”
“We knew that,” Bree said, her mind leaping ahead to the Bryn wall, to the way light would fall across it after they opened the second set of windows.
“Right,” Jason said. “So the issue isn’t the renovation itself. It’s what we’re allowed to do under current zoning.”
Liz tapped the tablet. “This block is zoned light industrial with restricted commercial overlay,” she said.
“Which is a fancy way of saying you can fix things here, you can ship things, you can sell wholesale. But retail and public assembly uses are limited. Your machine shop? Perfect fit. Your art studio with classes and gallery openings?” She winced. “Not so much.”
Bree’s stomach swooped. “Wait,” she said. “We talked about community events at the council meeting. Nobody said anything about… limits.”
“At that point, you were hypothetical,” Liz said. “It’s easier for a lot of people to nod along when something’s hypothetical. When the forms hit their desks, they start reading the fine print.”
“So what does that mean?” Hank asked. “In plain English.”
“It means,” Liz said, “if you do nothing, you can operate the shop as planned, and Bree can have a private studio. She can sell online, ship from here, and do commissioned work by appointment. But you won’t be able to host regular public events or have walk-in gallery hours without a special use permit. ”
Bree’s chest tightened. “The whole point was to have a space people could come into,” she said. “Workshops. First Fridays. Kids’ art days. Bryn’s wall isn’t just for us.”
“I know,” Liz said gently. “I remember.”
“So we apply for the permit,” Hank said. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” Liz said, “is that special use permits for mixed commercial on this block have been… contentious. We tried it five years ago with a microbrewery. The neighboring property owners fought it hard. Noise, parking, drunk tourists. The board denied it on a three-two vote. Two of those three are still on the board.”
Silence dropped like a weight.
Bree looked around the empty space, seeing it for a second the way a stranger might: old brick, oil stains, echoing roofline. A warehouse, nothing more. Her throat burned.
“So they can just say no,” she said. “And that’s it?”
“They can,” Liz said. “But it’s my job to make sure they don’t do it quietly.”
Jason glanced at Bree, then Hank. “Financially, losing that public-facing piece changes the equation,” he mumbled. “Your projections assume workshop income and gallery sales. If the board drags this out or denies it, you’re looking at a longer road to break even.”
There it was. The snag. Not a dramatic collapse, but a tightening of margins, a slow bleed.
For a moment, Bree felt an old reflex twitch. Walk away before it hurts more. Pack up, go back to what you know. Safe jobs, safe spaces, safe grief.
She looked at Hank instead.
He studied the blueprints, jaw set, thumb rubbing idly over the edge of the table. When he lifted his gaze to hers, she saw her own fear reflected there, but also something steadier underneath.
“We knew it wouldn’t be simple,” he said. “Simple’s not our brand.”
Her laugh came out shaky. “You sure you’re not just addicted to forms?” she asked.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “I hate forms. I’m just more scared of living the rest of my life sitting on the sidelines.”
That hit her right in the sternum.
Liz cleared her throat. “I’m not neutral here,” she said.
“I want this. I want you here. Mixed-use like this is exactly what we need if we want this block to be more than just storage units and empty lots. So here’s what I propose.
We file the special use application this week.
I’ll get it on the agenda as soon as the board will let me.
Between now and then, we build a coalition. ”
Bree blinked. “A coalition?”
“Letters of support from neighboring businesses,” Liz said. “Petition from residents. Testimonials from people who think it’s a good idea to have a memorial wall instead of another warehouse full of old boat parts. We show up to that meeting with more than pretty renderings.”
A name flashed in Bree’s mind. Charlie.