“My office at the marina. I had calls all morning. My assistant can confirm.” Another pause. “Is there a particular reason you’re asking me to account for every hour of my week?”
“Two dead men and a cop in the hospital. I’m asking everyone.”
“Sheriff, I’m happy to cooperate with your investigation within reason, but I’m beginning to feel as though you’re less interested in questions than in accusations.”
“Just trying to build a picture. You’re a prominent businessman. I’m sure you want these murders solved as much as I do.”
“Of course.” And there it was—the first crack in the silk, a flash of uncertainty underneath. “I’m a firm supporter of our local law enforcement. I’ve built everything I have in this county through hard work and legitimate enterprise. I employ hundreds of people. I contribute to this community. I own half the commercial real estate between here and Dahlgren.” His voice dropped, not in volume but in temperature. “I own this city, Sheriff. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Funny,” Jack said. “As one businessman to another—I’m sure you’re very familiar with my family—I’ve barely heard the mention of your name.”
The silence that followed lasted three full seconds, and in those three seconds I watched Doug’s eyes go wide and Margot’s screen flicker with what I could have sworn was delight.
“Well,” Stavros said, and the warmth was back, but it was the warmth of something reheated. “I can see you’re a man who enjoys a conversation. I do as well. Perhaps we’ll continue this another time, when you have something more substantial than cash in a dead man’s apartment and questions about holding companies.”
“Count on it,” Jack said. “And Mr. Stavros—I’d encourage you to stay available. Things are going to move quickly.”
“Things always do in a small town.” A beat. “Give my regards to your lovely wife, Sheriff. I hear she runs that funeral home on Catherine of Aragon. Charming building.”
The line went dead. The silence that followed was the kind that needed a moment before anyone was ready to touch it. Jack set the phone on the desk with a precision that told me every muscle in his hand was fighting the urge to put it through the wall. His face was stone. His eyes burned.
Stavros didn’t call to talk. He called to measure the distance between us.
“He named the funeral home,” I said. “He knows it’s where they left T-Bone this morning.”
Jack’s jaw worked once. “That wasn’t small talk. That was a man telling me he knows exactly where you are and he’s already proven he can get there.”
“Sounds like he’s scared to me,” Doug said.
We both looked at him.
“A guy like that doesn’t call you at home unless something’s changed his math,” Doug said. “If he felt safe, he’s got a million lawyers to handle all his problems. He called because he needed to hear your voice. Needed to measure how much you actually have.”
“Which means he’s going to start cleaning up,” Jack said. “If he thinks we’re close, he’ll strip everything out of those tunnels—the rings, the equipment, anything that ties the operation back to him—before we can get down there.
He reached for his laptop. “Margot, I want you to tap into the city system—stoplights, traffic cameras—I want eyes on all three dock district properties tonight. Anything moves in or out, I want to know.”
“10-4, sugar,” Margot said. “I have access to two traffic cameras and a private security feed at the marina, as well as an ATM at a convenient store.”
“Good. Because we’re hitting the tunnels tomorrow night.”
Doug went up first, carrying Margot with him. A minute later the muffled thump of his music started up on the floor above us, the usual electronic chaos that meant he was still wired and wouldn’t sleep for hours.
The house settled into the storm. The rain was steady against the windows and the wind pushed through the eaves.
The office was dark except for one lamp. The screen was off. The case waited in digital silence for morning.
Jack was on the couch with his head back and his eyes closed, but I knew he wasn’t sleeping by the way his thumb moved against his knee—slow, rhythmic, the unconscious motion of a mind that was still running the numbers behind closed lids.
I sat beside him and he shifted to make room without opening his eyes. My head found the hollow of his shoulder. His arm came around me. The leather was warm from his body, and the rain ran down the windows in rivulets that caught the lamplight and turned it to gold.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He was quiet for several moments and then said, “He said my name like he had a right to it.”
“He doesn’t.”
“When he mentioned you—” His arm tightened. “I wanted to kill him. Not arrest. Not build a case. End him. And maybe that scared me a little because that’s not me. I’m by the book. I’ve always been by the book. But I find the longer I do this the more the by the book goes by the wayside.”
