“Milton protected whoever had enough money or power to make the investigation disappear.” Frank’s voice had gone flat. “A week after Tommy tried to push forward with Crenshaw, his house was broken into. Nothing stolen—TV, stereo, his wife’s jewelry all still there. But his home office was ransacked. Every file, every note he’d made about the case, gone. He’d been wise to make copies and send a set to me.”
The afternoon sun slanting through the window seemed too bright suddenly for what we were discussing.
“That’s when I knew this wasn’t just Milton being corrupt,” Frank continued. “Someone was actively cleaning up, making sure no evidence survived.”
“Is that when you quit?” I asked.
“Two months later. Told my wife I couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t be part of a system that cared more about protecting criminals than finding justice.” He stood, moving to the window. “Tommy stayed. Kept hoping someone would eventually listen. But it ate him alive—the guilt, the frustration. He died young, and I know that case is part of what killed him.”
Frank turned back to face us.
“Milton’s in prison now. Some of the people who had power back then are dead or too old to matter. Maybe the truth can finally come out.” He paused. “But I need you to promise something—you don’t mention my name. As far as anyone knows, you found this through your own investigation. I’ve built a good life here. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“We promise,” Dottie said.
“I’ll mail you everything tomorrow—Tommy’s notes, photographs, copies of financial records. Everything he documented that Milton buried.” His jaw tightened. “Once it’s in your hands, I’m done. I’ve carried this long enough.”
We thanked him and made our way back through the store, past Jimmy still helping customers with paint selections. Outside, the afternoon heat wrapped around us like wet wool, making the air thick enough to taste.
“Where’s Hank?” Dottie asked immediately, her head swiveling to scan Bay Street. “He should have come inside by now. It’s been at least twenty minutes.”
I pulled out my phone and called him. It rang once, twice, three times, then went to voicemail.
“He’s not answering,” I said.
“Maybe he couldn’t find parking close enough and decided to wait in the car?” Dottie suggested, but her voice held doubt. “You know how he is about walking too far in this heat with his back.”
We started toward the municipal lot where he’d been headed, our pace quickening with each step. The Tuesday afternoon crowd seemed to part around us as if sensing our urgency—tourists window-shopping, families with strollers, people moving with the leisurely pace of those who had nowhere important to be.
I tried calling again. Straight to voicemail this time, as if the phone had been turned off or died.
“Something’s wrong,” Dottie said, and there was an edge to her voice I’d never heard before—fear, raw and unfiltered.
We were nearly running now, dodging pedestrians and ignoring the annoyed looks from people we brushed past. The parking lot appeared ahead, cars glinting in the sun like rows of metal soldiers standing at attention.
“There,” Dottie said, pointing with a trembling hand. “That’s his car.”
The powder-blue Buick sat at the far end of the lot, positioned perfectly between white lines in a spot that offered good visibility and easy exit—exactly the kind of spot Hank would choose after careful deliberation. But something about its stillness made my breath catch in my throat, made every instinct I had scream that something was terribly, horribly wrong.
We ran the last fifty feet, our footsteps echoing against the pavement. As we got closer, I could see through the driver’s side window, and the world seemed to tilt sideways.
Hank was slumped over the steering wheel, his body twisted at an angle that no conscious person would maintain. His arms hung limp at his sides like broken puppet strings. His fishing vest with its seventeen carefully organized pockets was rumpled, pulled askew. And his head was bent forward at an angle that made my stomach drop to my feet.
“Oh God,” Dottie breathed beside me, and then louder, desperate, “Hank. HANK!”
She lunged for the door handle, wrenching it open with strength born of desperation. The door swung wide and Hank’s arm fell limply to the side, dangling in the space between the car and the pavement.
“Hank!” Dottie’s hands went to his neck, searching for a pulse, as she’d done with hundreds of other patients. But those were other people’s bodies, strangers whose deaths she could catalog clinically. Not this. Not him.
I leaned in, trying to see if his chest was moving, if there was any sign of breathing. His skin had a grayish pallor that made my stomach clench with fear.
“Is he—” I couldn’t finish the question.
Dottie’s fingers pressed against his throat, searching, her face a mask of concentration that couldn’t quite hide the terror underneath. The seconds stretched like hours.
“Call 911,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Now, Mabel. Call them now.”
CHAPTER
