Nash felt Amy tense beside him.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “Bill’s research?—”
“He was chasing ghosts,” Dr. Martinez interrupted. “The more I learn, the more I’m convinced that because Porter Rockwell had a stagecoach business and transported gold or valuable artifacts, people assumed he hid treasure. But it’s not true.”
Amy stared at him, her expression a mixture of disbelief and anger. “That’s not what Bill believed. His research shows?—”
“I read his research.”
Amy frowned.
“I have all of his research. I read it all. There’s nothing here,” Dr. Martinez insisted, cutting her off. “Nothing but toxic air and false hopes.”
Police cruisers pulled up, their spotlights sweeping the area.
Brooks was already walking toward them, badge in hand, his posture relaxed but authoritative.
Nash noticed something in the professor’s expression—a flicker of calculation behind the fear. His years in law school had taught him to read people, to spot the microexpressions thatbetrayed their true feelings. “If that’s true,” he asked carefully, “then why are you here, Dr. Martinez? Why risk coming into these tunnels if you’re so convinced there’s nothing to find?”
Dr. Martinez hesitated, his gaze darting to his brother and back. “Because … because I did uncover mention of the conquistador gold in a file that I … confiscated from Bill Harris’s notes.”
Amy’s face went completely still, like the calm before a thunderstorm. “I didn’t see that.”
“I took some things from Bill.”
Her face reddened. “You thief.”
Her voice was low, but it carried a force that made Dr. Martinez flinch.
“I had no choice,” he said weakly. “The Ferrantes threatened me, threatened my family! I was scared and didn’t know what to do.” He looked around at the circle of stern faces. “But if you protect my family, I will tell you everything I discovered about the conquistador gold.”
“And why should we believe anything you say?” Nash demanded, feeling his lawyer’s instincts take over. “First you tell us the tunnels are worthless, then you admit to stealing research.”
“Bill had one piece of research that was sent to him by a man that I think you all know,” Dr. Martinez said, his eyes darting from Nash to Trey.
There was instant silence.
“What man?” Brooks asked sharply, rejoining them after briefly speaking with the officers.
Dr. Martinez shook his head. “Not until you agree to protect my family. Not until I have your word.”
Nash watched the exchange, acutely aware of Amy trembling slightly beside him—not from fear, he realized, but from barelycontained fury. He inched closer to her, his arm brushing against hers in silent support.
“Why should we believe anything you say?” Nash repeated. “We should just turn you into the cops.”
The cops were talking with Brooks.
George’s jaw worked for a moment before he spat out, “Listen, I did five years in the state pen for selling drugs. That’s how the Ferrantes got to my brother—through me. I got out a little over a month ago, and they wanted me to let my brother know they would kill his family if he didn’t cooperate.”
“What?” Trey shook his head. “Seriously?”
Amy took a step forward, her expression softer now. “The Ferrantes don’t play fair,” she said quietly. “They find your vulnerabilities, and they exploit them. I’ve … I’ve seen what they can do.”
Chance sighed. “What piece of information do you have for us, Dr. Martinez?”
Dr. Martinez scowled. “It’s from a man named Truman Birch.”
“What is it?” Trent demanded.
