Page 11 of Beneath the Surface

She pulled out her phone, the screen brightness making her squint in the harsh fluorescent light. Her notes stared back at her—pages of connections she’d mapped out over sleepless nights. Wheeler buying properties at inflated prices. Money moving through shell companies that dissolved within months. Her father investigating the same pattern ten years ago. Crane preparing to testify before his “suicide.” Both men dead under circumstances that looked convenient for someone.

Detective Mercer would have to see it. He’d have to—

“Ms. Barrett.”

Quinn’s head snapped up. A tall man stood in the doorway, filling the frame with broad shoulders under a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Handsome—probably mid-thirties—with dark hair that looked like he’d run his hands through it one too many times today. Sharp eyes assessed her with the kind of intensity that made her straighten her spine reflexively.

Not Mercer.

“I’m Detective Carson Black.” He moved into the waiting area with the easy confidence of someone used to being in charge. “I understand you have information about Thomas Crane?”

Quinn stood, her canvas bag sliding down her arm. She caught it before it hit the floor. “Actually, I was hoping to speak with Detective Mercer. He was at the scene yesterday—”

“Detective Mercer is handling another case right now.” Carson’s tone was polite but firm, the kind that didn’t invite argument. His gaze dropped to the bulging folder she clutched against her chest. “I’m the lead detective for Major Crimes. Whatever you need to discuss, you can tell me.”

The dismissal stung more than it should have. Quinn forced her jaw to unclench, and barely managed what she hoped passed for a professional smile. “Of course. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

He led her through a maze of hallways that smelled like burnt coffee and copy machine toner. Detectives hunched over desks piled with paperwork, voices rising and falling in overlapping conversations. Quinn’s heart hammered against her ribs as she followed Carson’s broad back, her sneakers squeaking on the worn linoleum.

The conference room he opened was small and windowless. Generic office furniture that looked like it had survived a decade of budget cuts. A whiteboard on one wall still bore the ghost of old marker strokes. The air was stale, recycled.

“Have a seat.” Carson gestured to one of the chairs, then settled into the one directly across from her. Close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. He folded his hands on the table—large hands, she noticed, with a thin white scar across the knuckles of his right.

Quinn lowered herself into the chair, setting her canvas bag on the floor. Her folder landed on the table with a soft thud, pages threatening to spill out from where she’d overstuffed it.

“What information do you have?” His voice was neutral, patient. As if he had all the time in the world, even though his posture suggested otherwise.

Quinn pulled the folder closer, fingers trembling slightly as she opened it.Get it together.She cleared her throat. “Thomas Crane’s death wasn’t suicide. It was murder.” She met his eyes, forcing steel into her voice she didn’t quite feel. “And I can prove it’s connected to another murder from ten years ago.”

Carson’s expression didn’t change. Not a flicker. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the metal creaking under his weight,and studied her with those sharp eyes that seemed to see straight through her bravado to the nerves underneath.

“That’s a serious accusation.” His tone remained even, but something shifted in his gaze—calculation, maybe. Or doubt.

“I know. But my father was investigating a money laundering operation run by James Wheeler. Thomas Crane was involved in that investigation. They both discovered evidence of fraud. And now they’re both dead.” Quinn laid out the documents on the table. “Look at these property sales. All massively inflated prices. All bought by Wheeler’s company. It’s textbook money laundering.”

Carson picked up one of the documents, studying it. “Where did you get these?”

“My father kept them. Before he died.”

“Your father being...?”

“David Barrett. He died ten years ago. Car accident.” Quinn met Carson’s eyes. “Except it wasn’t an accident. Just like Thomas Crane’s death wasn’t suicide.”

Carson was quiet for a long moment, his eyes moving methodically across the papers she’d spread between them. He picked up one page, then another, his expression unreadable. The scar on his knuckle caught the fluorescent light as he turned a document to read the fine print. Quinn’s pulse hammered in her ears. Finally, he set the papers down and lifted his gaze to hers.

“Ms. Barrett, I understand you’re upset about your father’s death.” His voice was gentle, almost pitying, and that somehow made it worse. “But these documents don’t prove murder. They show some suspicious financial transactions, sure, but—”

“They show a pattern.” Quinn’s hands flattened against the table, her voice rising despite her attempt to stay calm. “Wheeler was laundering money. My father found out. Crane found out. Wheeler had them both killed.”

“That’s a theory. Not evidence.”

Heat crawled up Quinn’s neck. Her fingernails dug into her palms beneath the table. “Then investigate it! Get Wheeler’s financial records. Interview people who worked with Crane. Look into my father’s accident report.” She heard the desperation creeping into her voice, hated it, couldn’t stop it. “The evidence is there if someone would justlookfor it!”

“We did look.” Carson’s tone remained maddeningly even, professional. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, hands clasped. “The medical examiner ruled Crane’s death a suicide. There was no sign of forced entry, no evidence of a struggle—”

“Because it was staged to look like suicide!” Quinn leaned forward too, closing the distance between them. Close enough to see the flecks of gray in his eyes, the way his jaw set just a fraction tighter. “Please. Detective Mercer was at that scene. He seemed like he had doubts too. Can I just talk to him?”

Something flickered across Carson’s face—irritation, maybe, or discomfort. His shoulders straightened, putting distance back between them even though neither of them moved. “Detective Mercer has been reassigned. The Crane case is closed.”