The Buick was parked on the street side of the parking lot gate, and a man and a woman were getting out of the car and approaching the keypad and intercom.
“They look like… police?” I’d had more than my share of interactions with law enforcement since June’s murder, and everything about the man and woman next to the Buick screamedpolice.
They turned toward Poe as he pulled up behind the Buick, then approached the driver’s side of the Hummer when Poe rolled down his window.
“Can I help you?” He sounded calm, friendly.
And most importantly, innocent.
“I’m Detective Rodriguez,” the woman said. “This is my partner Detective Grabowski. You Poe Killborn?”
I tried not to show my surprise. I hadn’t recognized Detective Rodriguez at first — I’d only seen images and videos of her online — but I recognized her now: an attractive brunette in her forties with strong features and a stiff spine, a woman who’d stood tall next to men, some of whom probably didn’t love having her on their team.
She was the detective in charge of the investigation into the missing girls around Blackwell Falls, the one who’d led press conferences about the deaths of Piers Cantwell and Arlo Kane.
And she knew Poe’s name.
Fear seeped like an oil slick in my stomach.
“That’s me,” Poe said. “What can I do for you?”
“We were hoping to talk to you and your roommates about an open investigation.” This time the man, Detective Grabowski, spoke, but it was still clear Detective Rodriguez was in charge.
“You have a warrant?” Poe’s tone was easy, casual.
It was just a question.
Detective Rodriguez slowly shook her head. “Just hoping for a little insight, heard you know a lot about the town.”
What didthatmean? How much did she know about the work Bram, Poe, and Remy did in Blackwell Falls?
Poe nodded. “I don’t know if anyone else is home, but I can buzz you in.”
“Great.” The detectives got back into the Buick and Poe hit the button to open the gate.
We pulled into the lot behind them.
“Text Bram and Rem,” Poe said. “Let them know we’re coming.”
I pulled out my phone. “What’s going on?”
He shook his head, his expression tight. “Fuck if I know.”
49
POE
We could have toldthem to fuck off. They didn’t have a warrant and they wouldn’t have had any choice except to leave.
But that seemed like a bad idea. We’d always operated in Blackwell Falls like we had nothing to hide. We’d set up cash businesses — laundromats, car washes, vending machines — to launder our money and protect our businesses. Our CPA, a member of the Blades, was skilled and careful, ensuring that we paid taxes on every penny of reported income.
As for the other stuff — the bloody stuff — we were careful there too. We had a handful of trusted representatives who brought people to the barn when they needed to be reminded who was in charge, and on the rare occasion when it became necessary to do enforcement in town, we did it in places where there weren’t cameras, wore gloves and our masks, just in case.
Turning away the cops when their stated purpose was just to ask a few questions would draw more attention to us. And yeah, it was our constitutional right to deny entry without a warrant, but that didn’t mean shit in the suspicion department. If we told the detectives to fuck off, they’d wonder what we were trying to hide and might dig even deeper into our operations.
“You own the building?” Detective Grabowski asked as we led them up the stairs to the loft.
If they were even mildly competent at their jobs, they already knew the answer to the question, but I answered it anyway. “Yep. We’re interested in preservation, making sure the town isn’t totally overrun by tourists looking for a second home.”
