Page 12 of Beneath the Surface

The words hit her like cold water. “Closed? It’s been three days!”

“The medical examiner’s ruling was clear.” Carson’s voice softened, but his expression remained firm. Immovable. “I’m sorry, Ms. Barrett, but there’s no active investigation.”

Quinn’s breath caught in her chest. Her vision tunneled slightly, the edges of the room blurring. The folder on the table—her father’s work, months of his life—suddenly looked pathetic. Useless. Her hands started to shake, so she shoved them into her lap where he couldn’t see.

They weren’t even going to look. Her father had collected all this evidence, risked everything. Thomas Crane had died tryingto expose the truth. And the police were just going to close the case and move on like it meant nothing.

Why had she ever thought she could force them to see what she did?

“So that’s it?” Her voice came out rough, barely controlled. “James Wheeler just gets away with murder?”

“We don’t have evidence of murder.” Carson spread his hands, the gesture meant to be conciliatory but instead coming off as patronizing. “We have a suicide and an old car accident. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but—”

“What I want to hear?” Quinn’s voice rose despite her best efforts to stay calm. “I want justice for my father! I want someone to care that two people are dead because they tried to do the right thing!”

Carson stood. “I understand you’re emotional. But making unfounded accusations against a respected businessman isn’t going to help anyone. I suggest you go home and let us do our jobs.”

Quinn wanted to scream. Wanted to throw her carefully organized documents in his face. Wanted to demand they do something, anything, instead of just dismissing her.

But she could see in Carson’s expression that it wouldn’t matter. He’d already made up his mind.

She gathered her papers with shaking hands. “You’re making a mistake.”

“I’m following the evidence. Or lack thereof.”

Quinn headed for the door, her throat tight with anger and disappointment. So much for hoping the police would help.

She was almost out of the building when she saw him.

Detective Mercer stood near the coffee machine in the back corner of the bullpen, one hand wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug. He looked even more intimidating in daylight than he had at the crime scene—tall enough that he had to look downat most people, with shoulders that strained against his rolled-up shirtsleeves. Same intense stare. Same don’t-mess-with-me energy that made the air around him feel heavier somehow. He was talking to another officer, but his eyes tracked to Quinn as she walked past, that sharp gaze cutting through the noise of the precinct as if he’d known she was there before she’d even spotted him.

Their gazes met.

Quinn’s feet slowed. Her heart kicked against her ribs—part adrenaline, part desperation. She made a decision. Probably a stupid one, but she was done being polite and dismissed.

She walked right up to him, her canvas bag bouncing against her hip with each step.

“Detective Mercer. I need to talk to you.”

The other officer—a younger guy who looked barely old enough to shave, with a rookie’s deer-in-headlights expression—glanced between them nervously. His hand tightened on the file folder he was holding.

Mercer’s expression was flat, unreadable. “About?”

“Thomas Crane’s murder. And my father’s murder. And the fact that James Wheeler is going to get away with both if someone doesn’t do something.”

A beat of silence. The coffee machine hissed behind Mercer, steam curling into the stale air.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” Mercer told the other officer, his voice low and final. The rookie left quickly, practically speed-walking away, clearly happy to escape the tension crackling between them.

Once they were alone, Mercer crossed his arms over his chest, the movement slow and deliberate. His jaw was tight, a muscle working beneath the stubble. “I thought Detective Black told you the case was closed.”

“He did.” Quinn lifted her chin, refusing to back down even though he had at least six inches and probably eighty pounds on her. “But you were at that scene. You know it wasn’t suicide.”

“What I know and what I can prove are different things.” His voice was rough, like gravel, but something flickered behind his eyes—frustration, maybe. Or recognition.

“Then let me help you prove it.” Quinn pulled out her folder again. “My father was investigating James Wheeler for money laundering and fraud. Thomas Crane was going to testify about it. They both died under suspicious circumstances. That’s not a coincidence.”

Mercer took the folder, flipping through it quickly. His expression gave nothing away. When he looked up, Quinn couldn’t tell if he was intrigued or annoyed.