Chapter 8 #2
“I’ll try my best.” Her tone was light, teasing.
“That’s not reassuring.”
Quinn grinned, that brightness returning to her face. “I know.”
Dax shook his head, fighting a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. She was impossible. Stubborn and reckless and way too cheerful for someone whose life was in danger.
But damn it, he liked her. More than he should.
He finished his coffee in two long swallows, the last dregs bitter and cold, and headed for the shower. “I’m leaving in an hour. Door stays locked. Windows stay locked. Shotgun’s in the closet if you need it. You remember where?”
“Next to the bathroom. Safety’s on.”
“Good. Don’t shoot me when I come back.”
“No promises if you’re late.”
Dax did smile then. Couldn’t help it. The expression felt rusty on his face.
Forty-five minutes later, he was dressed and ready, his hair still damp from the shower.
Jeans, dark-blue button-down shirt, his detective’s badge clipped to his belt—the metal weight familiar against his hip.
His service weapon holstered at his other hip, the leather holster creaking slightly as he adjusted it.
Quinn had changed into real clothes—jeans and a green sweater that brought out the amber in her eyes. Not that Dax was noticing. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
“Wish me luck,” he said at the door, his hand on the knob.
“Good luck. Try not to get fired.” She stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, but her expression was worried.
“I’ll do my best.” He pulled his keys from his pocket, the metal jangling.
“Dax?”
He turned back. She’d called him by his first name. Not Mercer. Not Detective. Just Dax. The sound of it in her voice did something to his chest.
“Yeah?”
“Be careful. Wheeler knows you’re investigating now. He could come after you too.” She took a step closer, her eyes searching his face.
The concern in her voice did something strange to his chest. Made that tight feeling return, stronger this time.
“I can take care of myself,” he said.
“I know. But still. Be careful.” Her hand twitched like she wanted to reach for him but stopped herself.
Dax nodded and left before he could do something stupid, like promise he’d come back, or close the distance between them, or do any number of things that would cross lines he couldn’t uncross. You didn’t make promises like that in his line of work. Too many things could go wrong.
The drive into Blackridge took thirty minutes on the back roads.
Dax used the time to prepare for the meeting with Captain Holloway, his hands tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white.
The captain was a good man—fair, dedicated, tried to do right by his officers.
But he also had a department to run and a budget to manage.
Investigating closed cases and calling in FBI favors without authorization wouldn’t sit well.
Dax pulled into the station parking lot at eight fifty-five, gravel crunching under his tires. Early enough to seem respectful, late enough to not look too eager. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, rolling his shoulders, preparing himself.
Carson was waiting by the coffee machine when Dax walked in, a styrofoam cup in his hand. “He’s in a mood,” Carson said by way of greeting, his voice low.
“Great.” Dax poured himself a cup, the coffee bitter and burnt—station coffee was always terrible.
“I tried to prep him. Told him about the bomb, the threats, the evidence you’ve gathered. But Mercer—” Carson lowered his voice further, glancing toward the captain’s office. “He’s getting pressure from above. City council. Mayor. People who don’t want this investigated.”
Dax’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding. “Let me guess. Wheeler has connections.”
“Wheeler donated fifty thousand to the mayor’s reelection campaign last year.
Sits on the city council’s economic development committee.
Is personal friends with half the town’s business owners.
” Carson looked grim, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
“You’re not just investigating a murderer.
You’re investigating someone with serious political power. ”
“Even better.” Dax took a long drink of the terrible coffee, welcoming the bitter burn down his throat.
“I’m serious, Mercer. If you push this, you could lose more than your badge. Wheeler has the kind of influence that can destroy careers. Blacklist you. Make sure you never work in law enforcement again.”
“Then I guess I better make the case airtight before he has the chance.”
Carson sighed. “You’re not going to back down, are you?”
Dax pinned him with a severe look. “Would you?”
“Probably not.” Carson clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck in there. You’re going to need it.”
Captain Darius Holloway’s office was at the end of the hall.
The door was open. Holloway sat behind his desk, reading something on his computer screen, his reading glasses perched on his nose.
He was in his late fifties, salt-and-pepper hair cut military short, his deep-brown skin showing the kind of weathered creases that came from decades of police work.
Deep lines bracketed his mouth, carved deeper by stress and long hours.
He looked up when Dax knocked, his expression unreadable. He removed his glasses slowly, deliberately.
“Detective Mercer. Come in. Close the door.”
Never a good sign when the captain wanted the door closed.
Dax sat in the chair across from Holloway’s desk, the old leather creaking beneath him, and waited. His hands rested on his thighs, deliberately relaxed.
“I’ve been hearing interesting things about you,” Holloway said, setting his glasses down with a soft click. “Want to tell me your side?”
Dax laid it all out, unapologetically. “I’m investigating the Thomas Crane case and its connection to David Barrett’s death ten years ago. Both were murders staged to look like accidents. James Wheeler is the primary suspect.”
“The case I specifically told you to drop.” Holloway’s voice was level, controlled.
“The case that involves attempted murder of a civilian with evidence that implicates Wheeler in multiple felonies.”
Holloway leaned back in his chair, the springs protesting. “You went over my head. Called in FBI resources. Took a civilian into protective custody without authorization. Do you know how many protocols you’ve violated?”
“At least six. Probably more if I think about it.” Dax’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice even.
“This isn’t funny, Mercer.”
“I’m not laughing, sir.” Dax leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Wheeler tried to kill Quinn Barrett yesterday. Planted a bomb under her car. If I hadn’t checked it first, she’d be dead. That’s not protocol. That’s not politics. That’s attempted murder.”
“Which you can’t prove Wheeler ordered.” Holloway’s fingers drummed once against the desk.
“Not yet. But I will.”
Holloway was quiet for a moment, studying him with those sharp brown eyes that missed nothing.
“I’ve gotten three phone calls this morning.
One from the mayor. One from a city councilman.
One from James Wheeler’s attorney.” He paused, letting that sink in.
“All of them expressing concern about harassment of a respected businessman based on unfounded accusations.”
“Let me guess. They want me to drop the investigation.” Dax’s hands curled into fists on his thighs.
“They want me to reassign you. Put you on desk duty. Keep you away from Wheeler and his associates.”
Dax felt his temper rise, heat crawling up his neck. “So Wheeler gets to commit murder, and we just look the other way because he donated to some campaigns?”
“That’s not what I said.” Holloway’s voice sharpened.
“It’s what they want you to do.”
“What they want and what I do are two different things.” Holloway’s voice hardened, his posture straightening. “I don’t like being pressured by politicians any more than you do. And I definitely don’t like the idea of a murderer operating in my town.”
Dax sat back slightly, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “So you’re not shutting down the investigation?”
“I’m telling you to do it right. By the book.
No more calling in favors without clearing it with me first. No more protective custody without proper authorization.
You want to investigate Wheeler? Fine. But you follow procedure.
” Holloway fixed him with a hard stare, leaning forward over the desk.
“One more violation and I will pull you off this case. Understood?”
“Understood.” The word came out clipped, but respectful.
“Good. Now tell me everything you’ve got.”
Dax spent the next thirty minutes laying out the case.
The financial records showing money laundering.
The suspicious deaths of David Barrett and Thomas Crane.
Clara Mendez’s disappearance. The threats against Quinn.
The bomb. His voice stayed steady, professional, laying out facts like evidence at trial.
Holloway listened without interrupting, making notes on a legal pad, his pen scratching across paper.
When Dax finished, the captain sat back, tossing his pen onto the desk. “It’s circumstantial. A good defense attorney will tear it apart.”
“I know. That’s why I need time to build a stronger case.”
“How much time?”
“Two weeks. Maybe three. I need to track down Clara Mendez, get financial records subpoenaed, interview more witnesses.”
“Wheeler’s attorney will fight every subpoena.” Holloway rubbed his jaw, his dark hand rasping against the stubble, the sound audible in the quiet office.
“Let him. That just makes him look guilty.”
Holloway tapped his pen against the desk, the rhythm steady as he considered everything.
“I’ll give you two weeks. But Mercer—” His expression turned serious, his eyebrows drawing together.
“You need to be smart about this. Wheeler’s dangerous.
He’s also connected. One wrong move and you’ll give him the ammunition he needs to destroy this investigation and your career. ”
“I’ll be careful.”