Page 9 of Beneath the Surface

Chapter 3

Quinn spread her father’s files across the kitchen table and stared at them like they might suddenly rearrange themselves into a clear answer.

They didn’t.

She’d been up since five in the morning, going through every document, every receipt, every handwritten note. Her father had been meticulous—probably the accountant in him—but his organizational system made sense only to him. Numbers and dates and abbreviations that meant nothing to Quinn without context.

But she was a journalist. Piecing together puzzles was literally her job.

She just wished this particular puzzle didn’t involve her dead father.

Quinn took a sip of coffee—her third cup—and rubbed her tired eyes. In the distance, she could hear the hospice nurse moving around her grandmother’s room. Gran had been sleeping peacefully all night. Small blessing.

Focus. She needed to focus.

She pulled out a fresh legal pad and started making a timeline. Her father had started investigating something two months before his death. The earliest document was dated September fifteenth, ten years ago. A property deed for a commercial building on the east side of Blackridge.

The building had sold for $2.3 million. Market value at the time: $800,000.

Someone had paid nearly three times what the property was worth.

Quinn circled the number. That was her first red flag.

She flipped through more documents. Found another property sale. Same pattern—massively inflated price. Then another. And another.

Over the course of two months, her father had documented fifteen property sales. All of them sold for two to three times their actual value. All of them involving the same buyer: Wheeler Development LLC.

James Wheeler.

The name appeared over and over in her father’s notes. Wheeler was buying properties at inflated prices, then immediately reselling them to shell companies. The money would move through multiple accounts—so many transfers that tracking it became nearly impossible.

Classic money laundering.

Quinn’s pulse quickened. This was big. Really big. Her father had uncovered a major fraud operation.

And then he’d died.

She pushed that thought away. Couldn’t think about that yet. She had to stay focused on the facts.

Quinn pulled out her laptop and started searching for information on James Wheeler. Found his company website easily enough—glossy photos of commercial developments, testimonials from satisfied investors, Wheeler himself dressed in an expensive suit, smiling.

He looked so normal. Successful businessman. Pillar of the community. The website listed him as a member of the Blackridge Chamber of Commerce, sponsor of local Little League teams, donor to various charities.

Quinn’s stomach turned. Of course criminals didn’t look like criminals. They looked like everyone else.

She dug deeper. Found Wheeler’s business partner: a man named Thomas Crane.

Her breath caught.

Thomas Crane. The man who’d died three days ago. The “suicide” she’d been photographing yesterday when that grumpy detective had kicked her out.

This wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

Quinn’s hands shook as she pulled out more of her father’s documents. There—a sticky note in her father’s handwriting:TC has evidence. Meeting Tuesday.

TC. Thomas Crane.

Her father had been working with Crane. They’d both been investigating Wheeler’s fraud. And now they were both dead.