Brian appeared in the doorway, dust on his boots. “Found a leak in the roof near the back corner,” he reported. “And some questionable wiring choices. We’re going to need a real electrician and probably a new panel.”
Colby nodded. “And the city’s going to want to talk zoning. Mixed-use means building codes. Fire escapes. ADA access. The fun stuff.”
Bree looked from one to the other. “Can we even afford this?”
Hank squeezed her hand gently. “We’re not signing anything today. But between prize money, some savings, and the mayor’s enthusiasm for having a Cup winner with a storefront, we’ve got leverage. There are grants available to revitalize this kind of space. We can talk to someone who knows more about paperwork than carburetors.”
“Gabe will know,” Brian said. “He and Lena jumped through a bunch of hoops for The Breakwater. He’s got opinions.”
“Of course he does,” Colby said. “He’s Gabe.”
Bree laughed, the sound bouncing off the bare walls. “Okay. So we call in experts. We make lists. We take our time.”
She turned back to the window, looking out at the hint of water.
“I could paint Copper Moon from here,” she said. “Not just the pretty parts the tourists see. The alleys. The race prep. The back doors of the boardwalk bars where the staff sneak out for air.”
Hank watched her profile, the way her eyes had gone bright. His chest felt too small for the feeling that rose there.
“This is the first place I’ve been in a long time that feels like more than a stopover,” he said. “I like the idea of putting your name on the door upstairs and mine on the one downstairs.”
She looked at him, all the usual doubts and caveats in her gaze, but layered now with something sturdier.
“Then let’s keep walking toward it,” she said. “One permit, one paint swatch, one busted light fixture at a time.”
He grinned. “Deal.”
As they headed back down the stairs, he caught movement through the grimy front windows. A dark sedan eased past, too nice for this section of town. The driver didn’t slow down, but the passenger glanced toward the warehouse.
Suit. Sunglasses. Expression careful and blank.
Hank tracked it out of instinct. The car continued down the block and turned toward the civic center, where the Dragons’ disciplinary hearings were being held.
“Friend of yours,” Brian asked quietly, following his gaze.
“Doubt it,” Hank said. “Probably a lawyer late for yelling practice.”
Colby snorted.
On the sidewalk outside, Sergeant Diaz waited, hands tucked into her jacket pockets. She looked strangely at home against the rough brick.
“Officer,” Hank greeted. “You slumming it?”
She raised a brow. “Says the guy shopping for fixer-uppers in the industrial district.”
Bree joined them, brushing dust off her jeans. Diaz’s gaze sharpened for a moment, as if noting her and filing the information away. Then her posture eased again.
“You kids having fun?” she asked.
“We’re making spreadsheets in our heads,” Bree said. “That’s my idea of a wild afternoon.”
Diaz’s mouth quirked. “You picked an interesting time to consider putting down roots.”
Hank sobered. “What’s the latest?”
“We processed Einstein and his statement,” she said. “He claims a contact approached the team months ago with ‘performance solutions.’ Says the guy’s name is Vic, no last name, no business card. Meetups in parking lots, cash transactions. You know the type.”
Brian’s tone flattened. “Real reputable fellow.”
