He spun one of the screens toward me.A folder labeled “JF -- Notes” sat open.Inside, scanned pages in Jason’s handwriting filled the screen.Dates at the top.Lists underneath.Abbreviations.Little symbols.Arrows.
My chest tightened.“What do you need?”
“He used some marks I can’t quite nail down,” Spade said.“See this?”
He zoomed in on the corner of a page.A small X sat next to a few names.Some had a circle around the X.Some did not.
“He always did that in his notebooks,” I said.“He never sat down and told me what everything meant, but based on things I heard when he was on the phone, I think the X meant he didn’t trust someone.”
“What about the circle?”Spade asked.
“Extra don’t trust,” I said.“Like… danger.Or ‘this guy’s bad news.’But again, I’m guessing.”
“Good to know,” Spade said.“I thought maybe it meant money.Glad I asked.”He flipped to another page.Some names had little triangles next to them.“Those?”
“Police,” I said.I recognized one of the names.“Or anyone he thought might be a cop or connected to them.Triangles were ‘watch your back but keep talking.’Stars meant ‘shut up and run.’I only know that last one because I heard him mumbling to himself one of the times he was scribbling in his notebook.”
Spade’s fingers tapped across the keyboard while I explained.“These initials caught my attention,” he said, highlighting a line on screen: 11/5 -- CD says move drop to South dock.RK pissed.
“CD,” I said.“I think that’s Carlos Diaz.My brother mentioned him a few times.”
“Yeah,” Spade said.“What about ‘South dock’?”
“That’s probably the old warehouse near the river,” I said.“Jason used to take me down there when we were kids.He’d fish off the pier while I read library books.He said it belonged to some ‘friends of the family’ but we never saw anyone.”
Kane rested his hand on the back of my chair.“That near the industrial park?”
“Other side of town.Same idea.”Spade pulled up a map on the second screen and typed.The location popped up with a pin.He zoomed out.More pins marked other spots.All around our area.“Diaz used this warehouse as a transfer point.Or he did when Jason wrote this.We don’t know if he still does.But having a cluster of activity around a place tells you where the bones are buried.”
“Those triangles.”I pointed to several marks along the margins near certain dates.“He saw cops around those hits.Or thought he did.”
“Helpful.”Spade nodded.“He basically handed me a blueprint and a cop radar.”
I swallowed hard.“Jason would play detective when we were kids, setting up crime scenes with my stuffed animals.He turned his games into something real.”
Spade glanced up from the screen.“You holding up?”
“No,” I admitted.“But I can push through.”
He nodded, accepting my answer as correct.
We examined each page methodically.Spade questioned while I decoded my brother’s system.
Small circles indicated cash-only drops.A tiny skull doodled beside names warned “this person terrifies even me.”Checkmarks marked trustworthy contacts.Squiggles next to dates signaled operations gone sideways.
With every explanation, Jason’s world grew clearer on the screen.
It hurt.
It helped.
“They used fronts near your diner,” Spade said, pointing to a name.“You recognize this?”
I leaned closer.“That’s the pawn shop two blocks over.I’ve seen the owner standing outside smoking.He’d talk to whoever came in or out.I had to pass there on the way to work.”
“That lines up,” Spade said.“Diaz likes pawn shops.Laundering.Collateral.I can work with this.”
After an hour, my head felt full and heavy.My back ached from leaning forward.My throat burned from talking.
