Chapter 3 #2
The conference room he opened was small and windowless. Generic office furniture that looked like it had survived a decade of budget cuts. A whiteboard on one wall still bore the ghost of old marker strokes. The air was stale, recycled.
“Have a seat.” Carson gestured to one of the chairs, then settled into the one directly across from her.
Close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
He folded his hands on the table—large hands, she noticed, with a thin white scar across the knuckles of his right.
Quinn lowered herself into the chair, setting her canvas bag on the floor. Her folder landed on the table with a soft thud, pages threatening to spill out from where she’d overstuffed it.
“What information do you have?” His voice was neutral, patient. As if he had all the time in the world, even though his posture suggested otherwise.
Quinn pulled the folder closer, fingers trembling slightly as she opened it.
Get it together. She cleared her throat.
“Thomas Crane’s death wasn’t suicide. It was murder.
” She met his eyes, forcing steel into her voice she didn’t quite feel.
“And I can prove it’s connected to another murder from ten years ago. ”
Carson’s expression didn’t change. Not a flicker. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the metal creaking under his weight, and studied her with those sharp eyes that seemed to see straight through her bravado to the nerves underneath.
“That’s a serious accusation.” His tone remained even, but something shifted in his gaze—calculation, maybe. Or doubt.
“I know. But my father was investigating a money laundering operation run by James Wheeler. Thomas Crane was involved in that investigation. They both discovered evidence of fraud. And now they’re both dead.
” Quinn laid out the documents on the table.
“Look at these property sales. All massively inflated prices. All bought by Wheeler’s company. It’s textbook money laundering.”
Carson picked up one of the documents, studying it. “Where did you get these?”
“My father kept them. Before he died.”
“Your father being...?”
“David Barrett. He died ten years ago. Car accident.” Quinn met Carson’s eyes. “Except it wasn’t an accident. Just like Thomas Crane’s death wasn’t suicide.”
Carson was quiet for a long moment, his eyes moving methodically across the papers she’d spread between them.
He picked up one page, then another, his expression unreadable.
The scar on his knuckle caught the fluorescent light as he turned a document to read the fine print.
Quinn’s pulse hammered in her ears. Finally, he set the papers down and lifted his gaze to hers.
“Ms. Barrett, I understand you’re upset about your father’s death.” His voice was gentle, almost pitying, and that somehow made it worse. “But these documents don’t prove murder. They show some suspicious financial transactions, sure, but—”
“They show a pattern.” Quinn’s hands flattened against the table, her voice rising despite her attempt to stay calm. “Wheeler was laundering money. My father found out. Crane found out. Wheeler had them both killed.”
“That’s a theory. Not evidence.”
Heat crawled up Quinn’s neck. Her fingernails dug into her palms beneath the table.
“Then investigate it! Get Wheeler’s financial records.
Interview people who worked with Crane. Look into my father’s accident report.
” She heard the desperation creeping into her voice, hated it, couldn’t stop it.
“The evidence is there if someone would just look for it!”
“We did look.” Carson’s tone remained maddeningly even, professional. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, hands clasped. “The medical examiner ruled Crane’s death a suicide. There was no sign of forced entry, no evidence of a struggle—”
“Because it was staged to look like suicide!” Quinn leaned forward too, closing the distance between them.
Close enough to see the flecks of gray in his eyes, the way his jaw set just a fraction tighter.
“Please. Detective Mercer was at that scene. He seemed like he had doubts too. Can I just talk to him?”
Something flickered across Carson’s face—irritation, maybe, or discomfort. His shoulders straightened, putting distance back between them even though neither of them moved. “Detective Mercer has been reassigned. The Crane case is closed.”
The words hit her like cold water. “Closed? It’s been three days!”
“The medical examiner’s ruling was clear.” Carson’s voice softened, but his expression remained firm. Immovable. “I’m sorry, Ms. Barrett, but there’s no active investigation.”
Quinn’s breath caught in her chest. Her vision tunneled slightly, the edges of the room blurring. The folder on the table—her father’s work, months of his life—suddenly looked pathetic. Useless. Her hands started to shake, so she shoved them into her lap where he couldn’t see.
They weren’t even going to look. Her father had collected all this evidence, risked everything. Thomas Crane had died trying to expose the truth. And the police were just going to close the case and move on like it meant nothing.
Why had she ever thought she could force them to see what she did?
“So that’s it?” Her voice came out rough, barely controlled. “James Wheeler just gets away with murder?”
“We don’t have evidence of murder.” Carson spread his hands, the gesture meant to be conciliatory but instead coming off as patronizing. “We have a suicide and an old car accident. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but—”
“What I want to hear?” Quinn’s voice rose despite her best efforts to stay calm. “I want justice for my father! I want someone to care that two people are dead because they tried to do the right thing!”
Carson stood. “I understand you’re emotional. But making unfounded accusations against a respected businessman isn’t going to help anyone. I suggest you go home and let us do our jobs.”
Quinn wanted to scream. Wanted to throw her carefully organized documents in his face. Wanted to demand they do something, anything, instead of just dismissing her.
But she could see in Carson’s expression that it wouldn’t matter. He’d already made up his mind.
She gathered her papers with shaking hands. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I’m following the evidence. Or lack thereof.”
Quinn headed for the door, her throat tight with anger and disappointment. So much for hoping the police would help.
She was almost out of the building when she saw him.
Detective Mercer stood near the coffee machine in the back corner of the bullpen, one hand wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug.
He looked even more intimidating in daylight than he had at the crime scene—tall enough that he had to look down at most people, with shoulders that strained against his rolled-up shirtsleeves.
Same intense stare. Same don’t-mess-with-me energy that made the air around him feel heavier somehow.
He was talking to another officer, but his eyes tracked to Quinn as she walked past, that sharp gaze cutting through the noise of the precinct as if he’d known she was there before she’d even spotted him.
Their gazes met.
Quinn’s feet slowed. Her heart kicked against her ribs—part adrenaline, part desperation. She made a decision. Probably a stupid one, but she was done being polite and dismissed.
She walked right up to him, her canvas bag bouncing against her hip with each step.
“Detective Mercer. I need to talk to you.”
The other officer—a younger guy who looked barely old enough to shave, with a rookie’s deer-in-headlights expression—glanced between them nervously. His hand tightened on the file folder he was holding.
Mercer’s expression was flat, unreadable. “About?”
“Thomas Crane’s murder. And my father’s murder. And the fact that James Wheeler is going to get away with both if someone doesn’t do something.”
A beat of silence. The coffee machine hissed behind Mercer, steam curling into the stale air.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” Mercer told the other officer, his voice low and final. The rookie left quickly, practically speed-walking away, clearly happy to escape the tension crackling between them.
Once they were alone, Mercer crossed his arms over his chest, the movement slow and deliberate. His jaw was tight, a muscle working beneath the stubble. “I thought Detective Black told you the case was closed.”
“He did.” Quinn lifted her chin, refusing to back down even though he had at least six inches and probably eighty pounds on her. “But you were at that scene. You know it wasn’t suicide.”
“What I know and what I can prove are different things.” His voice was rough, like gravel, but something flickered behind his eyes—frustration, maybe. Or recognition.
“Then let me help you prove it.” Quinn pulled out her folder again. “My father was investigating James Wheeler for money laundering and fraud. Thomas Crane was going to testify about it. They both died under suspicious circumstances. That’s not a coincidence.”