He jerks his chin toward the chair across from him. “I don’t need new staff.”
“Not why I’m here. Willard bothers me.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “He bothers us all.”
I wait. Silence stretches until Mickey sighs, rubbing a hand down his jaw. “Look, son, I don’t know what your game is. And those Craven cousins you hang around? Sayin’ they’re trouble doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m only tellin’ you this because I liked your dad. Trusted him once. He pulled me out of a bad loan when I was drownin’, and I never forgot that. But what I say stays here. You keep my nephew out of it.”
I keep my expression flat. “Go on.”
“He’s a computer geek. Bright kid, though he should spend more time in the fresh air than in that damn room.”
Mickey shakes his head, but there’s a flicker of pride under the grumble. “Anyway, for reasons I still don’t get, he hacked into security coverage for the Lost Anchor. Thought I needed to scout my competition or some crap like that. I told him to knock it off, but he said maybe I should take a look. So I did. And what do I see? Sheriff Willard, in the back room, withtwo guys sportin’ Marine tattoos and nosin’ around crates that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Military-grade stuff, if you catch my drift.”
My pulse spikes.Holy shit. This is it.I keep my face neutral. “When?”
“Six, seven months ago.”
I nod once. “Thanks, Mickey. This is more than helpful.”
His gaze lingers, steady. “Remember what I said about my nephew.”
“Yeah. I will.”
Then he leans back, eyes narrowing. “I saw you at karaoke night.” My shoulders tense before I can stop them.
“Yeah,” he goes on, voice dry as gravel. “You were halfway out the door until Hudson started singin’. Then you stayed. Whole damn song. Hell, half the bar nearly caught fire from the way you two were lookin’ at each other.”
I keep my face blank, but heat creeps up the back of my neck.
Mickey grunts, satisfied. “Don’t bother denyin’ it. I’ve run bars long enough to know when two people are about to set the wallpaper smolderin’. You and Hudson? You were the only ones in that room, and everybody knew it.”
I let out a short breath through my nose, sharp enough to pass for a laugh.
The nondescript SBI field office is lit like it’s allergic to comfort. Keller looks up from the whiteboard. He’s mid-fifties, built like an aging linebacker, pale blue eyes sharp as winter.
“Bailey,” he says, giving me that shrewd look of his. “You look happy. Why?”
“I didn’t know happiness was frowned upon at SBI,” I answer dryly.
Julie Richardson, perched on the edge of a desk, smirks. “Keller prefers us miserable and grumpy. Makes him feel at home.”
“There’s coffee,” Keller says, nodding toward the kitchenette. “Why are you happy?”
I pour a mug. “Got something. A local bar owner’s nephew can place Willard at the Lost Anchor with sealed military supply crates.”
The room stills for half a beat. That’s how I know it’s big.
“That bar’s been coming up in chatter, but no solid leads until now,” Keller says slowly. “If these crates are military surplus, that’s a whole new layer.”
“Exactly,” I say. “What’s next?”
Keller and Julie exchange a look. Something heavy.
“What?” I ask.
Keller leans on the desk. “We’ve been reviewing your father’s file. A few days ago, Julie had a rookie comb through evidence in old cold cases. He found something in the SBI warehouse.”
I freeze. “My dad’s case?”
