Hank squeezed Bree’s hand and felt her squeeze back, their steps falling into an easy rhythm as they walked toward whatever came next, side by side.
Chapter 21
Bree traced the rim of her coffee cup, watching the steam curl and vanish in the bright light of Harbor Station.
Morning rush had tapered off; a few tables were still occupied by fishermen in faded ball caps and a pair of tourists poring over a paper map like it was a treasure. The big front windows framed the harbor, boats bobbing gently. Behind the counter, the barista worked the espresso machine like an instrument she knew by heart.
Diaz sat across from Bree and Hank, sleeves pushed up, badge clipped to her belt, a notebook open beside her untouched muffin.
“So,” Diaz said, tapping her pen against the margin. “We got confirmation from the state last night. Your sedan friend’s shell company is on their list. They’re running it under organized crime, interstate trafficking, all the fun labels.”
Bree’s fingers tightened around the cup. “Trafficking in what exactly?” she asked.
“Parts, money, people,” Diaz said. “These guys don’t specialize. The plate that pinged here matched sightings near two other tracks. The pattern’s strong enough that the feds are sniffing around. Which means they’ll move slower, but they’ll move big when they do.”
Hank’s jaw flexed. “What does that change for us?”
“On paper?” Diaz said. “Nothing. You still go to work, you still buy your building, you still take your girl out on dates instead of camping in stairwells. Practically? You keep doing what you’re doing. You’re careful. You notice things. You call me when something tastes off.”
Bree swallowed. “Are we targets?” she asked. “I mean, specifically.”
Diaz held her gaze for a long beat. “You’re visible,” she said. “You embarrassed someone who doesn’t like being embarrassed. That makes you interesting. But you’re also useful. The more you see, the more you can feed us. And you’re not alone out there. That’s important.”
Useful. The word settled oddly in Bree’s chest; not heavy, exactly, but solid.
“What about the locals?” Hank asked. “People around the track, the businesses on Bay Street. Should we be warning anybody?”
“I’m working with the mayor on that,” Diaz said. “We’re drafting a bulletin that doesn’t cause a full-scale panic. ‘Hey, watch out for guys selling miracle horsepower out of the back of vans’ kind of thing. We’ll roll it out through the Chamber, the track, social media.”
Bree nodded slowly. “Is it ridiculous that I’m more nervous about meeting with the mayor this afternoon than I am about your federal friends?” she asked.
“Zoning boards have crushed more dreams than the FBI,” Diaz said dryly. “Your priorities are fine.”
Hank huffed out a laugh. “We should get going soon,” he said. “Jason’s meeting us at the warehouse to go over the latest quote before the mayor brings her binder of rules.”
Diaz slid something across the table: a business card with her name, the station number, and a handwritten cell number on the back. “You already have this, but I’m giving it to you again,” she said. “Repetition helps.”
Bree tucked it into her sketchbook. “Thanks,” she said. “For everything. I know we’re not your only problem.”
“You’re the ones trying to fix something instead of breaking it,” Diaz said. “That puts you on my priority list.” She pushed her notebook aside. “Okay, enough doom. Tell me your good news. Last time we spoke, you’d just told the mayor you were serious about the warehouse.”
Hank’s mouth curved. “We signed the purchase agreement yesterday,” he said. “Bank’s processing the loan. Assuming today’s meeting doesn’t turn into a bonfire, it’s happening.”
Diaz’s smile was brief but real. “Congratulations,” she said. “Copper Moon could use a few more people crazy enough to plant roots.”
Bree felt a little flutter at that; at the way Diaz said plant roots as if it were a commendation.
“We’ll keep you posted,” Hank said, standing. “And we’ll be here tomorrow. Same time. You’ll want a refill on that muffin intel.”
Diaz raised her coffee in a half-toast. “Count on it,” she said.
The warehouse didn’t care about shell companies or federal cases.
It sat at the end of Bay Street, its brick face catching the midmorning sun, windows like tired eyes. The big bay door was rolled up, the inside cool and shadowed. Jason’s truck was already parked out front; so was the mayor’s hybrid, the chirp of its lock sounding as Bree and Hank walked up.
“Let’s hope this isn’t a portent,” Bree muttered.
Hank’s hand brushed her lower back. “We’ve handled worse than a meeting,” he said. “If they tell us the place is secretly full of asbestos, I’ll just add hazmat suits to the budget.”
