“Did you ever get anything from Dre’s phone?” I asked.
“The phone’s last ping was from a cell tower near the docks right before it was shut off,” Doug said. “They probably destroyed it. But his personal cell was clean. Usual texts and calls, mostly from the girlfriend, Vic, and his mom. He most likely had a burner assigned like the others for fight nights.”
Lightning split the sky outside—a jagged vein of white that turned the river to mercury and threw the room into sharp relief, every face lit for an instant like a photograph taken by God. The thunder followed so close it was nearly simultaneous, a crack that shook the old windows in their frames and vibrated through the floor and up through the soles of my feet.
And in the beat of silence that followed, Jack’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
I watched the shift move through him the way weather moves through a landscape. His jaw set first. Then his shoulders drew back, just slightly, the way they did when he stepped into a room where the threat hadn’t declared itself yet. His eyes went flat and focused, the dark warmth draining out of them until what remained was fury and cold.
He looked at me. I saw the decision form before he touched the screen.
He answered on speaker.
“Hello?”
“Sheriff Lawson.” The voice filled the room like smoke—smooth, unhurried, accented with something Mediterranean that had been polished down to almost nothing. A warmth on the vowels that made everything sound like a secret being shared. “I hope I’m not interrupting your evening. This is simply a courtesy. Businessman to public servant. I understand you’ve been trying to reach me.”
The hair on my arms lifted.
“Mr. Stavros,” Jack said. Level. Conversational. “I appreciate you calling. Though I’m curious how you got this number.”
“I make it a point to know the people who serve my community. We’ve never had the pleasure, and I thought it was past time.”
“I’ve been trying to arrange that pleasure. My office has reached out several times.”
“A meeting.” He rolled the word around. “I’m afraid my schedule is quite demanding. But I’m happy to give you a few minutes now. Ask your questions.”
“I’d prefer in person. I’m investigating two homicides and an attempted murder of a law enforcement officer. That’s the kind of conversation that deserves a chair and a table.”
“Over the phone will have to do. I’m a busy man, Sheriff.”
“Then let’s not waste your time.” Jack leaned back, and his voice shifted into the register I’d heard a hundred times in interview rooms—easy, almost friendly, the tone of a man who already knew the answers and was just curious how you’d handle the questions. “Are you familiar with a young man named Andre Washington?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“How about Terrance James? Goes by T-Bone.”
“No.”
“That’s interesting. Because Mr. Washington was found murdered earlier this week, and Mr. James was found murdered today, and both of them had connections to properties in the dock district that trace back to a company called Dockside Ventures.” Jack paused. “You’re familiar with Dockside Ventures?”
The briefest hesitation. A half beat of dead air that Stavros filled with a light, dismissive laugh. “Sheriff, I have business interests throughout the county and across the world. I couldn’t name every holding company associated with every property. That’s what attorneys and accountants are for.”
“Sure. But a man like you probably keeps close tabs on what happens on his properties.”
Another pause. Shorter this time. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m asking questions.” Jack’s tone stayed easy, almost pleasant. “Mr. Washington had thirty thousand dollars in cash hidden in his apartment and an illegal betting ledger that goes back two years. Dates, names, dollar amounts. The kind of records a careful man keeps when he wants insurance against the people above him.” He let that settle. “Any idea where a twenty-four-year-old construction worker gets that kind of money?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never heard of the man.”
“Where were you Friday night, Mr. Stavros? Between seven and midnight.”
A beat of silence—brief and controlled. “At home. With my wife. We had dinner and watched a movie. I believe it was Italian.”
“And this morning between nine and eleven?”
