Chapter 3
Quinn spread her father’s files across the kitchen table and stared at them like they might suddenly rearrange themselves into a clear answer.
They didn’t.
She’d been up since five in the morning, going through every document, every receipt, every handwritten note.
Her father had been meticulous—probably the accountant in him—but his organizational system made sense only to him.
Numbers and dates and abbreviations that meant nothing to Quinn without context.
But she was a journalist. Piecing together puzzles was literally her job.
She just wished this particular puzzle didn’t involve her dead father.
Quinn took a sip of coffee—her third cup—and rubbed her tired eyes. In the distance, she could hear the hospice nurse moving around her grandmother’s room. Gran had been sleeping peacefully all night. Small blessing.
Focus. She needed to focus.
She pulled out a fresh legal pad and started making a timeline. Her father had started investigating something two months before his death. The earliest document was dated September fifteenth, ten years ago. A property deed for a commercial building on the east side of Blackridge.
The building had sold for $2.3 million. Market value at the time: $800,000.
Someone had paid nearly three times what the property was worth.
Quinn circled the number. That was her first red flag.
She flipped through more documents. Found another property sale. Same pattern—massively inflated price. Then another. And another.
Over the course of two months, her father had documented fifteen property sales. All of them sold for two to three times their actual value. All of them involving the same buyer: Wheeler Development LLC.
James Wheeler.
The name appeared over and over in her father’s notes. Wheeler was buying properties at inflated prices, then immediately reselling them to shell companies. The money would move through multiple accounts—so many transfers that tracking it became nearly impossible.
Classic money laundering.
Quinn’s pulse quickened. This was big. Really big. Her father had uncovered a major fraud operation.
And then he’d died.
She pushed that thought away. Couldn’t think about that yet. She had to stay focused on the facts.
Quinn pulled out her laptop and started searching for information on James Wheeler. Found his company website easily enough—glossy photos of commercial developments, testimonials from satisfied investors, Wheeler himself dressed in an expensive suit, smiling.
He looked so normal. Successful businessman. Pillar of the community. The website listed him as a member of the Blackridge Chamber of Commerce, sponsor of local Little League teams, donor to various charities.
Quinn’s stomach turned. Of course criminals didn’t look like criminals. They looked like everyone else.
She dug deeper. Found Wheeler’s business partner: a man named Thomas Crane.
Her breath caught.
Thomas Crane. The man who’d died three days ago. The “suicide” she’d been photographing yesterday when that grumpy detective had kicked her out.
This wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.
Quinn’s hands shook as she pulled out more of her father’s documents. There—a sticky note in her father’s handwriting: TC has evidence. Meeting Tuesday.
TC. Thomas Crane.
Her father had been working with Crane. They’d both been investigating Wheeler’s fraud. And now they were both dead.
“Oh my God,” Quinn whispered.
She jumped up from the table, pacing the small kitchen. Her mind raced, connecting dots, building the story.
Wheeler was laundering money through fake real estate deals. Her father and Thomas Crane discovered it. They were going to expose him. Wheeler had them killed and made it look like accidents.
It was perfect. Horrible, but perfect.
Quinn grabbed her phone, fingers flying over the screen as she typed notes. She needed to verify everything. Talk to people who knew her father. Find out who Crane had been planning to testify against. Get bank records, property records, anything that would prove the connection.
But first, she needed to tell someone. Someone with authority who could actually do something about it.
That grumpy detective from yesterday. What was his name? Mercer. Detective Dax Mercer.
He’d been investigating Crane’s death scene. He’d taken it seriously, even though everyone else was calling it suicide. Maybe he’d listen to her theory. Maybe he’d actually investigate instead of dismissing her like everyone else always did.
Quinn was naturally optimistic—her friends often joked that she could find a silver lining in a thunderstorm—but she’d learned the hard way that not everyone appreciated her enthusiasm. Especially cops. They tended to see journalists as nuisances at best, enemies at worst.
But she had to try.
She checked on her grandmother—still sleeping—then grabbed her bag and headed out. The Blackridge Police Department was a ten-minute drive from her grandmother’s house. Quinn had been there exactly once as a teenager when she’d found a lost wallet and turned it in, but it was easy to find.
The building looked the same as she remembered: squat brick structure, American flag fluttering in the breeze out front, parking lot half full even at eight in the morning.
Quinn pulled into a visitor spot and gave herself a quick pep talk in the rearview mirror.
“You can do this. You have evidence. You have a solid theory. Just present the facts calmly and professionally. Don’t let anyone intimidate you.”
Even if that someone was six-foot-three of solid muscle and bad attitude.
She grabbed her bag containing copies of her father’s key documents and headed inside.
The reception area was small and utilitarian. Beige walls. Hard plastic chairs. A bored-looking woman behind a thick glass partition.
The receptionist sat behind a desk cluttered with file folders and coffee-stained paperwork, her fingers flying across the keyboard without pause. She was maybe fifty, gray-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun that looked like it gave her a permanent headache. She didn’t look up.
“Can I help you?” The question came out automatic, bored.
Quinn’s palms were already sweating. “I need to speak with Detective Mercer. It’s about the Thomas Crane case.”
The woman’s fingers froze mid-keystroke.
She lifted her head slowly, eyes narrowing as they swept over Quinn—taking in her jeans and rumpled blazer, the canvas bag slung over her shoulder stuffed with file folders.
Her expression shifted from glazed disinterest to sharp curiosity, with a hint of wariness around the edges.
“You family?” Her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
“No, I’m—” Quinn shifted her weight, the canvas bag suddenly feeling heavier. “I have information relevant to his investigation.”
The receptionist reached for the phone without taking her eyes off Quinn, like she might bolt if she looked away. “Name?”
“Quinn Barrett.”
The woman’s manicured nail sporting chipped red polish jabbed at the phone buttons. She turned slightly away, voice dropping to a murmur Quinn couldn’t quite make out. Through the receiver she caught a male voice, clipped and impatient.
The receptionist hung up. Her gaze flicked back to Quinn, then away. “Someone will be out in a minute.”
Quinn nodded, throat tight, and moved toward the row of plastic chairs bolted to the wall.
The overhead fluorescents hummed, casting everything in that harsh institutional light that made everyone look slightly ill.
She sat down, gripping the strap of her bag, and tried not to think about what she’d say when Detective Mercer actually appeared.
If he appeared.
Quinn tried not to fidget as she waited for what felt like forever. Around her, the station hummed with activity. Phones ringing. People in uniform moving past. The smell of burnt coffee and old paperwork.
She pulled out her phone, the screen brightness making her squint in the harsh fluorescent light.
Her notes stared back at her—pages of connections she’d mapped out over sleepless nights.
Wheeler buying properties at inflated prices.
Money moving through shell companies that dissolved within months.
Her father investigating the same pattern ten years ago.
Crane preparing to testify before his “suicide.” Both men dead under circumstances that looked convenient for someone.
Detective Mercer would have to see it. He’d have to—
“Ms. Barrett.”
Quinn’s head snapped up. A tall man stood in the doorway, filling the frame with broad shoulders under a perfectly tailored charcoal suit.
Handsome—probably mid-thirties—with dark hair that looked like he’d run his hands through it one too many times today.
Sharp eyes assessed her with the kind of intensity that made her straighten her spine reflexively.
Not Mercer.
“I’m Detective Carson Black.” He moved into the waiting area with the easy confidence of someone used to being in charge. “I understand you have information about Thomas Crane?”
Quinn stood, her canvas bag sliding down her arm. She caught it before it hit the floor. “Actually, I was hoping to speak with Detective Mercer. He was at the scene yesterday—”
“Detective Mercer is handling another case right now.” Carson’s tone was polite but firm, the kind that didn’t invite argument. His gaze dropped to the bulging folder she clutched against her chest. “I’m the lead detective for Major Crimes. Whatever you need to discuss, you can tell me.”
The dismissal stung more than it should have. Quinn forced her jaw to unclench, and barely managed what she hoped passed for a professional smile. “Of course. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
He led her through a maze of hallways that smelled like burnt coffee and copy machine toner.
Detectives hunched over desks piled with paperwork, voices rising and falling in overlapping conversations.
Quinn’s heart hammered against her ribs as she followed Carson’s broad back, her sneakers squeaking on the worn linoleum.