Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Quinn
A familiar, soft tone pulls me out of sleep.
"Alexa, off," I say to the Echo on my nightstand, turning off the alarm.
It takes me a couple of minutes to pull myself fully from sleep. My phone sits beside it. I pick it up to see it's 6:47 AM. There is a text notification from Keller that was sent forty minutes ago. I click through to read it.
Table ran late. Didn't want to wake you. Hope you got some rest.
Three sentences, the kind of text a man sends when he's tired but thinking of you anyway.
I read it again anyway.
The memory of his mouth on me surfaces before I can stop it. The caring patience of it, the way he looked at me before he touched me, as if waiting for permission.
Oh, god, and the way he held me afterward like there was nowhere else he needed to be.
I press my lips together and force the thought away. Tears well in my eyes. I'm in a terrible position, and neither option is easy.
The ceiling above me is blank and indifferent. Morning light creeps across the wall. A car passes outside. Somewhere down the block, someone slams a door. The city moves forward without hesitation.
But the draft is still sitting there.
I sit up in my bed, arranging the pillows behind me, and pull my knees to my chest, resting my forehead against them.
After a few minutes of wallowing in my impossible predicament, I decide to get up and into the shower. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, feet on the cool floor.
My reflection stares back from the mirror across the room. Hair tangled, expression unreadable. I'm a woman who made a choice and now has to live with the consequences.
I settle into my chair and pull up the Eleanor Stone Historic Preservation Trust file for the third time in less than twenty-four hours. The numbers haven't changed. I keep hoping I missed something, some explanation that makes the anomaly disappear.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the screen.
Then, I pull up the timeline I built yesterday and study it again. I click over to my email and see the draft email to Maris taunting me, daring me. I open it and read through the language again.
Dear Maris Intelligence Group,
I minimize the email and push back from my desk. Martin needs to see this before I take any external action. He's the gatekeeper. He decides what escalates and what closes.
Maybe he will not see anything, and then he makes the decision, not me, and we can both wipe our hands of this.
The walk down the hall feels longer than usual. My heels click against the tile, each step carrying me closer to a conversation I'm not sure I'm ready to have.
His door is open. He sits behind his desk, reviewing something on his screen.
I knock twice on the doorframe and then lean in.
"Got a minute?"
Martin looks up from his screen, expression neutral. "Mercer. Come in."
I step inside and close the door behind me. The click is loud, intensifying the thudding pulse in my ears. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. "What do you have?"
I sit and fold my hands in my lap. I didn't bring any notes because I now know this material well enough to present it clean to a stadium full of people.
"I found an anomaly in digging, and I'm not sure if I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill.
Wanted you to give me your opinion before opening flood gates.
There's a dormant trust account with a single transaction two weeks before Robert Stone's death, made by Robert Stone.
Could be a coincidence. It's not a Stone Intermodal account. "
Martin's pen stops moving. He sets it down parallel to his notepad. "Walk me through it."
"The Eleanor Stone Historic Preservation Trust was established in 2003.
From what I can tell, it was for his wife, and it was very active until her death in 2009.
There was some spending directly after, but then it stopped and there's been no activity for close to seventeen years.
Then on September 29, a ten-thousand-dollar wire to Maris Intelligence Group went out of the account. "
"What's Maris?"
"Maritime risk consulting. Shipping security. Cargo exposure analysis."
Martin's eyes stay steady on mine. "What would a maritime consultant do for a preservation trust?"
"Nothing." I keep my voice level. "Unless the trust funded something unrelated to its stated purpose."
Silence stretches between us.
"Why does that matter?"
I take a breath. "If Robert Stone retained outside risk consultants privately, through a dormant family trust instead of corporate channels, he may have been investigating something he didn't want visible on company records."
"Investigating what?"
This is the part that kept me awake last night. The part that makes my stomach tight.
"I don't know yet. But the sequence is suggestive. Maris retained September 29. If they delivered a report before his death, and if that report flagged shipping exposure tied to Gulf Meridian during the October window." I pause. "It could be linked to the three reroutes made by David Parsale."
Martin's thumb and index finger twitch back and forth rapidly, like he's grasping at something tiny.
"You're suggesting he found something. And then he died. And then evidence moved."
"I'm suggesting the pattern meets the threshold for testing."
His gaze holds mine for a long moment. "Have you contacted Maris?"
"No." My throat is suddenly as dry as sandpaper. I struggle to swallow. "Reaching out moves this from pattern review into evidence collection. I wanted your assessment first."
Martin leans back in his chair. His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in the room.
"That's the job. If it leads nowhere, then it leads nowhere."
The words land like a boulder on my chest.
"If a plausible operational link exists between that trust wire and executive routing behavior during the October 10 through 13 window, you have to explore it."
"I'm not saying escalation at this point." His voice stays measured. "Just reach out to Maris quietly, ask for information on the consult, and then see where you land."
I stand, realizing that what he's suggesting is exactly what I would have said if I weren't as close as I am. "Understood."
The walk back to my desk takes thirty seconds. It feels longer.
I open my email. The draft sits there, cursor blinking at the end of the last sentence.
Could you please confirm the scope of work associated with this engagement?
My finger hovers over the mouse for a few seconds, and then I click send.
The afternoon drags. I check my email every fifteen minutes, then every ten, then every five. Nothing from Maris.
I force myself to focus on other files. Routine compliance reviews and documentation requests. The mundane machinery of federal oversight that usually steadies me.
Today it's a grating noise, like fingers on a chalkboard.
At 4:47 PM, my inbox refreshes.
And there sits a new message from Maris Intelligence Group.
Fuck.
My pulse kicks up as I click it open.
Dear Agent Mercer,
Thank you for your inquiry regarding our engagement with the Eleanor Stone Historic Preservation Trust.
We can confirm that Mr. Robert Stone personally retained our services on September 29 for confidential exposure analysis.
The scope of work addressed increased pressure for expedited Gulf landing clearance tied to Gulf Meridian Imports, a third-party logistics partner operating within Stone Intermodal's network.
Our preliminary report was delivered directly to Mr. Stone on October 10.
The analysis identified routing patterns consistent with known synthetic opioid concealment corridors operating through secondary Gulf ports.
We recommended consideration of federal liaison involvement if exposure indicators continued.
Please note that our findings were preliminary and not conclusive. We did not make accusations regarding any specific party or organization. Our role was limited to risk identification and strategic advisory.
If you require additional documentation, please submit a formal records request through the appropriate channels.
Regards,
B. Newman
Director of Client Services
Maris Intelligence Group
I read it several more times, not because I don't understand what it says, but because I'm not ready to do anything after this.
The words blur and sharpen, and my hands go cold against the keyboard.
Routing patterns consistent with known synthetic opioid concealment corridors.
Robert Stone hired outside investigators to look at his own company. He paid them through a dormant family trust so no one would notice. And they found something.
They found exactly what I suspected.
I pull up my timeline document and start entering dates. The sequence lines up with terrible precision.
Two days after Robert received a report about potential drug trafficking through his company, he was killed. And within hours of his body being discovered, someone moved to suppress evidence.
He knew. He was trying to stop it. And someone killed him for it.
The realization settles in my chest. I save the file and stand. Martin needs to see this. Now.
Martin's door is still open. He looks up when I appear in the frame. I don't bother knocking this time because my hands are shaking so much I might break a knuckle.
"I have confirmation from Maris."
His pen stops. He sets it down.
"Close the door."
"Robert Stone retained Maris Intelligence Group on September 29 for confidential exposure analysis."
I stay standing. My voice comes out steadily, which surprises me. "He paid through a dormant family trust to keep it off corporate records. They delivered their preliminary report on October 10."
Martin's expression doesn't change. He waits for me to finish.
"The report identified routing patterns consistent with synthetic opioid concealment corridors tied to Gulf Meridian Imports, the third-party logistics partner who was responsible for the fentanyl shipment that was ultimately intercepted."
Silence. His thumb and index finger do that same rapid twitch thing back and forth.
I reiterate the sequence of events, the reroutes, and all of the "coincidences," and then stop, letting the sequence sit in the air between us.
"Threshold is met for formal inquiry into executive compliance conduct during the October 10 through 13 window. I want you to write up the report and submit it."
Martin leans back in his chair. His eyes hold mine for a long moment. I'm speechless, but I know it's what I have to do.
"Yes, sir."
MEMORANDUM
TO: SSA Martin Dupré, Financial Crimes / Public Corruption
FROM: Agent Quinn Mercer
RE: Recommendation for Formal Investigation – Stone Intermodal Executive Compliance Conduct, October 10–13 Window
The words flow more easily than I expected.
Facts are arranged in sequence with evidence cited and the threshold analysis documented.
Keller should want this. Someone possibly murdered his father, someone other than a random mugger in the Warehouse District.
If it were me, I'd welcome an investigation.
That's what I keep telling myself.
Based on corroborated external verification from Maris Intelligence Group, this memorandum recommends initiation of a formal federal inquiry into executive override authority, compliance metadata, and communications related to the October 10–13 operational window.
I finish the draft and read it through.
Keller's face surfaces in my mind again. I click send, anyway. I have to, because it's my job.
The secure system confirms transmission, and a small notification appears in the corner of my screen.
Memorandum received. Distribution logged.
I stare at the confirmation for a long moment. The review is no longer quiet.