Chapter 4
Dax sat in his truck outside the police station, engine ticking as it cooled, and stared at the folder Quinn Barrett had shoved at him before she’d stormed off. The manila edges were worn soft from handling, corners bent from being stuffed into that canvas bag she’d carried.
He should take it inside. Hand it to Carson. Let someone else deal with this mess.
Instead, he opened it.
The documents were organized—color-coded tabs, neat labels, dates in chronological order.
Quinn might be reckless and stubborn as hell, but she was thorough.
He’d give her that much. His fingertips brushed across the pages, some of them photocopies that had started to fade, others printed fresh with highlighted sections.
Dax flipped through the papers, his trained eye catching details most people would miss. Property sales with inflated values. Money moving through shell companies that dissolved within months. Bank statements showing transfers that made no sense unless someone was trying to hide something.
David Barrett had been building a solid case. If he’d lived long enough to finish it, Wheeler would have gone to prison.
But he hadn’t lived. And neither had Thomas Crane.
Dax pulled out his phone, the screen brightness harsh in the dim cab of his truck. He scrolled to Carson’s number and hit call.
“Please tell me you sent that journalist home,” Carson answered on the second ring, his tone weary.
“I did.” Dax rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the stubble rasp against his palm. “But I need you to pull a file for me. David Barrett, died ten years ago. Car accident on Route 7.”
Carson was quiet for a moment. Dax could hear papers shuffling in the background, the murmur of voices in the bullpen. “You’re not letting this go, are you?”
“Would you?”
“Probably not.” A sigh crackled through the speaker. “Give me an hour. I’ll have everything we’ve got sent to your desk.”
“Thanks.”
Dax ended the call and stared out the windshield at the station, his thumb still resting on the phone screen.
Through the glass doors he could see movement—detectives coming and going, the rhythm of a department that never really stopped.
He should go inside. Start working through official channels. Do this by the book.
But the book said Thomas Crane’s death was suicide. The book said to close the case and move on. The book was wrong.
He started the truck, the engine rumbling to life beneath him, and pulled out of the parking lot.
His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary.
If he was going to investigate this properly, he needed to do it quietly.
Captain Holloway had already made it clear he wanted the Crane case closed.
If Dax went public with a murder theory based on a journalist’s conspiracy files, he’d be laughed out of the department.
No, he needed proof first. Hard evidence. Something undeniable.
Twenty minutes later, Dax pulled into the parking lot of Wheeler Auto Sales. It was on the east side of Blackridge, near the industrial district. Large lot filled with used cars. Flags snapping in the breeze. Giant inflatable tube man waving at passing traffic.
Tacky. But apparently profitable.
According to Quinn’s documents, Wheeler had bought this dealership three years ago. Since then, it had been consistently profitable—suspiciously so for a used car lot in a town of fifteen thousand people.
Money laundering often ran through cash-heavy businesses. Car dealerships, restaurants, laundromats. Easy to inflate the books, claim sales that never happened, move dirty money through the system.
Dax had seen it overseas. Local warlords running legit businesses as fronts. The Taliban had been particularly good at it.
He got out of his truck and walked across the lot, gravel crunching under his boots. A salesman immediately materialized—young guy with slicked-back hair and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Welcome to Wheeler Auto! I’m Derek. What can I help you find today? We’ve got some great deals on—”
“I’m looking for James Wheeler,” Dax interrupted.
Derek’s smile faltered slightly. “Mr. Wheeler doesn’t usually meet with walk-ins. If you’d like to schedule an appointment—”
Dax pulled out his badge, flipping it open with practiced ease. “It’s police business.”
“Oh.” Derek’s entire demeanor changed, his posture straightening. “Right. He’s in his office. I’ll, uh, let him know you’re here.”
Dax followed Derek into the main building, the blast of air conditioning hitting him as soon as he stepped through the glass doors.
The showroom was what you’d expect—polished floors that reflected the overhead lights, a few cars on display, photos of happy customers on the walls.
But Dax’s attention was on the office in the back corner, his instincts already on high alert.
Through the glass walls, he could see a man on the phone. Mid-fifties, expensive suit that probably cost more than Dax made in a month, salt-and-pepper hair styled like he’d walked out of a boardroom. James Wheeler.
He looked up as Derek approached, his expression shifting from annoyance to carefully neutral when he saw Dax behind him. The transition was smooth, practiced.
Wheeler said something into the phone and hung up. Then he stood and opened his office door, his movements unhurried, controlled.
“Detective. What can I do for Blackridge’s finest?”
The tone was friendly. Too friendly. The kind of friendly that came from practice, not genuine warmth. Dax had heard it a thousand times from people who had something to hide.
“I have some questions about Thomas Crane,” Dax said.
“Tom?” Wheeler’s face arranged itself into appropriate sadness, the corners of his mouth turning down just enough. “Terrible tragedy. I still can’t believe it. Please, come in.”
Dax entered the office. It was nicer than he expected—leather chairs that looked butter-soft, mahogany desk with a glossy finish, artwork on the walls that was probably original. Wheeler had money. The question was where it came from.
“You were business partners,” Dax said, not bothering to sit. He preferred the height advantage, preferred keeping this formal.
“For over ten years. Real estate development. We built half the commercial properties in this town.” Wheeler gestured to photos on the wall—various buildings, Wheeler and Crane at ribbon-cuttings, smiling for the camera. Perfect business partners.
“Must have been successful.”
“We did well. Tom was brilliant at finding opportunities. I handled the financial side.” Wheeler’s expression turned somber, his shoulders dropping slightly. “I can’t believe he’s gone. When I heard he’d—that he’d taken his own life...” He shook his head. “I never saw it coming.”
“Did he seem depressed? Anxious?”
“No more than usual. Business has its stresses, you know. But Tom always handled it well.” Wheeler leaned against his desk, crossing his arms casually. “Is there a problem? I thought the medical examiner ruled it suicide.”
“Just tying up loose ends.”
“Of course.” Wheeler’s smile was understanding. Too understanding. “Whatever I can do to help.”
Dax pulled out his notebook, made a show of flipping through pages. He watched Wheeler’s eyes track the movement, saw the slight tension in the man’s jaw. “How’s business these days?”
“The dealership? Great. Honestly, better than I expected when I bought it. Turns out people in Blackridge really like buying cars.” He issued a practiced laugh that didn’t quite sound natural.
“And the real estate development?”
Something flickered across Wheeler’s face. Brief, but Dax caught it. Wariness. The fingers resting on the desk tightened almost imperceptibly, knuckles going white for just a fraction of a second.
“Still going strong. We have a few projects in the pipeline. Though obviously, with Tom gone...” Wheeler trailed off, his gaze dropping to the desk. “I’ll have to figure out how to move forward. Maybe take on a new partner.”
“Anyone in mind?”
“Haven’t thought that far ahead yet.” Wheeler’s hand lifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still processing the loss.”
Dax nodded like he believed it, his expression deliberately neutral, his pen hovering over his notebook. “I noticed you’ve done a lot of property transactions in the past few years. Commercial buildings, mostly.”
“That’s our business.” Wheeler’s tone stayed level, but his posture shifted slightly—weight forward, more defensive. His hands dropped from his neck to grip the edge of the desk.
“Some of them sold for well above market value.”
Wheeler’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes went cold. Flat. “Real estate values fluctuate. Location, timing, buyer interest—lots of factors affect price.”
“Sure.” Dax flipped a page in his notebook slowly, deliberately. “But three times market value? That’s unusual.”
“Is this still about Tom’s death? Or are you investigating my business practices?” The friendly tone was gone now, replaced by something sharper. His arms uncrossed, hands moving to his hips in a stance Dax recognized—territorial, confrontational.
“Like I said.” Dax closed his notebook with a quiet snap. “Just tying up loose ends.”
“Well, if you have questions about my finances, I suggest you get a warrant. Otherwise, I think we’re done here.” Wheeler moved to open the office door, his movements deliberate, controlled. “I have a business to run.”
Dax held his ground for a moment, letting the silence stretch between them like a physical thing. Wheeler met his gaze without flinching, one hand still on the door handle. Cool. Confident. The kind of confidence that came from thinking you were untouchable.
Or maybe from knowing you’d covered your tracks.
“Thanks for your time,” Dax finally said, tucking his notebook into his jacket pocket. He walked out, feeling Wheeler’s eyes on his back the whole way, the heat of the man’s stare boring into him like a laser sight.