The next morning, they pulled into a town that looked like it was dying. Reed drove past the empty storefronts on Main Street. A diner that had seen better decades. A hardware store clinging to existence. A church with a sign out front for services nobody attended.
“Turn here,” Siren said, pointing to a residential street.
He made the turn, passing small houses with small yards. Fifteen-year-old cars were parked in the driveways. The address Dom had given them was halfway down the block. It was a one-story house with vinyl siding and a chain link fence. Reed parked the van across the street.
Siren scanned the street as they crossed, looking for surveillance. They walked up the cracked concrete path to the front door, and Siren knocked. A moment later, the door opened on a chain.
The face between the gap was a man in his late thirties with a five o’clock shadow and pale skin.
“Greg Sullivan?” Siren asked. “Dom sent us. About Carl.”
Greg’s eyes darted past them, scanning the street.
“Come inside.”
He closed the door, freed the chain, and then opened it again. They slipped through. He shut the door behind them and locked the deadbolt.
The house was dim. All the curtains were drawn. Greg was a few inches shorter than Reed. He had a beer belly under his ratty sweatpants and wore a faded Cincinnati Bengals T-shirt.
“Where is it?” Siren asked.
“One second,” Greg said.
He disappeared into the back of the house. Reed heard drawers open and close. The creak of floorboards. He returned a moment later with a manila envelope with something bulky inside. Greg held it like it was radioactive.
“Take it. Please. I don’t want it in my house anymore.”
Siren accepted the envelope. “How did you get this?”
“Carl sent it to me two months ago. He called me and asked me to keep it safe. He said if anything happened to him, I should find someone who could use it.”
Greg’s voice cracked. “Three weeks later, he was dead.”
“Has anyone come around asking about him? Watching the house?”
“I don’t know…”
“You did the right thing, contacting Dominic.”
“Can you do something with it?”
“Yes. We’re going to end this.”
They didn’t open the envelope at Greg’s house. They returned to the van and left town as quickly as possible. They drove for two hours before they stopped in an empty county park. Siren said she was sure they hadn’t been followed.
She opened the envelope. Photos spilled across the dinette table. There was also a USB drive and a handwritten note. Siren read the note while Reed started looking at the photos.
The first image showed Draven handing an envelope to another man in an expensive gray suit. His face was turned slightly toward the camera. He squinted at the image, trying to remember why the second man looked so familiar.
“That’s Kevin Peters!” he said with astonishment.
Siren looked up. “Who?”
“Kevin Peters.” He pointed at the photo. “He rents a cabin at the lodge a few times a year. I met him at the brewery.” Reed searched his memory. “In fact, he was at the brewery the night Carl was murdered.”
Siren’s eyes widened, and she snapped an image of the photo with her phone. “I’m sending this to Dom.”
Reed looked at the second photo in the stack. It was Ashcroft shaking hands with Draven like the two men were closing a deal. Then Reed looked at the next photo. All three men were together, standing on the front porch of Fate Mountain Lodge.
