Chapter 12
"Chief, I need your professional opinion on something."
Gabe looked up from his budget reports to find Ellie Torres standing in his doorway holding what appeared to be a dead possum.
"Is that—"
"Harold Bianchi's possum. Found it in his chicken coop this morning. He's claiming foul play." Torres held the stiff animal at arm's length. "Specifically, he thinks the Sampsons poisoned it because they're 'anti-wildlife.'"
"The Sampsons are on the board of the Audubon Society. They’re bird-watchers."
"I mentioned that. He said possums eat bird eggs, so obviously they're suspects."
Gabe rubbed his temples. "Is there any evidence of poisoning?"
"The possum appears to have died of old age. But Harold insists on a full investigation."
This was his life now, from FBI counterintelligence to small-town possum detective.
"Tell Harold we'll look into it," Gabe said. "Which means you'll spend five minutes Googling 'possum natural causes' and write up a report saying it died of natural causes."
Ellie grinned. "I like how you think, Chief." She paused. "Where should I put the body?"
"Not in my office."
"Fair enough."
She left, taking the possum with her.
Gabe turned back to his window, rubbing his temples. Movement on Main Street caught his eye—Wade's truck pulling up in front of the bakery. The passenger door opened and Cara climbed out, clearly exhausted. She said something to Wade, then headed for the bakery's side entrance.
Portland. Reagan mentioned Cara was going up there this morning, something about meeting with a supplier. But Wade had gone with her, which meant it wasn't about suppliers at all.
Then Gabe saw her.
Blaire Mitchell sat in a silver Mercedes across the street, phone raised, clearly photographing Cara's return. She lowered the phone, smiled to herself, and started typing.
Gabe's phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
*Saw your sweetie heading out of town this morning. Road trip with the old dude. She's not running, is she? —B*
Ice settled in Gabe's gut. She was right there. Watching. Making sure he knew she was watching.
The message was a power play. But more than that—it was a threat. She wanted him to know she could get to Cara anytime she wanted.
He didn't respond. Wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
But his jaw tightened as he deleted the message.
The door opened again. Pearl Henderson this time, wearing a purple tracksuit and carrying a three-ring binder.
"Gabriel. We need to discuss the Spring festival planning committee."
"Pearl, it's January."
"Which means we're already behind schedule." She sat down uninvited. "I'm proposing a joint task force. With you as the liaison."
He looked at her color-coded calendar. At the budget reports waiting on his desk. At the aspirin bottle he’d already emptied twice this week.
"I'll attend one planning meeting."
"Perfect!" Pearl stood. "First meeting is next Tuesday. I'll bring cookies." She paused at the door. "That Cara Sweet is a lovely girl. You two seem quite friendly."
Before he could respond, she was gone.
His phone rang. David's number.
"Please tell me you're calling with good news," Gabe answered.
"Not sure about good. Disturbing is more like it." David's voice carried energy. "I've been digging into what Hale said. Before he died."
Gabe's attention sharpened. Randy Hale's last word: Neptune.
"And?"
"Neptune Brotherhood." David said it quietly. "That's what he meant. Not a boat. An organization."
"What kind of organization?"
"That's the problem. I literally cannot get anyone to talk about it." A pause. "I've got sources who've leaked classified documents, who've testified against corrupt politicians. All of them shut down the second I mention the Neptune Brotherhood."
Gabe felt something cold settle in his gut. "What does that mean?"
"Either this thing has serious reach, or it's a ghost. Maybe both.
" David's frustration bled through. "I'm getting the sense it's not a real organization.
More like... a suggestion of one. A name that gets dropped when people need to sound connected.
But nobody's willing to discuss it on or off record.
The fear is real even if the organization might not be. "
"Federal reach?"
"I’d bet on it. Or at least people believe it does, which amounts to the same thing." Papers rustled. "I'll keep digging, but this one's buried deep."
Silence. Then David's tone shifted. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine."
"Liar. I heard about the dead possum."
"How did you—"
"Ellie texted me. She thinks it's hilarious." David's laugh was warm. “How’s Cara?”
He ignored that. "Hey, while I've got you—can you look something up? Blaire Mitchell. Instagram influencer, people finder."
“Fine. But we’re circling back to your love life later.”
Gabe ignored that, too.
Keys clicked. David went silent.
"Gabe? Why are you asking about Blaire Mitchell?"
"I think she might be blackmailing someone in Haven Cove. I need to understand her business model."
"That makes sense." More clicking. Then David whistled. "This woman is a shark. She finds lost people, reunites families, then puts all the drama on Instagram. Forty-seven thousand followers. That’s not nothing. Aside from whatever fees she charges families, I’ll bet she’s raking in a good chunk of change on speaking engagements and product promotion. Serious influencer money."
"Is she legit?"
"The Instagram stuff? Yeah, as far as I can tell. The reunions check out. Her methods are aggressive but legal."
"But?"
"How do you know there's a but?"
"You've got that tone."
David laughed. "Here's what's interesting—her whole brand is documenting reunions. Tearful families, dramatic reveals, everyone on camera. I can’t figure out how blackmail would fit… Unless…"
Gabe’s stomach sank. “She’s also finding people who don’t want to be found. She’s doing that, too. Aggressively.”
His brother whistled. “Could be innocent—privacy concerns, whatever.
But combined with what you're telling me about potential blackmail?
" David's voice turned analytical. "That's quite a business model. Sounds like she’s using the Instagram success as cover while running a parallel operation with the people who'll pay to stay off camera. "
"Can you dig deeper? Any complaints, accusations of extortion?"
"I can try. But Gabe? If she's doing this, she's smart enough to make sure victims are too scared to talk. Be careful."
He laughed. “Pot? Kettle? Black? I’m just saying."
“Ha. Ha." David hung up.
Gabe stared at his desk. Neptune Brotherhood. A ghost organization with real fear attached. Blaire Mitchell. An influencer with a hidden business model. And Cara Sweet. A woman with secrets and a blackmailer who'd found something worth exploiting.
Tomorrow, he'd have coffee with Cara.
And he'd decide whether to protect her or interrogate her.
Or figure out if there was a way to do both.