Page 15 of Beneath the Surface

Money laundering often ran through cash-heavy businesses. Car dealerships, restaurants, laundromats. Easy to inflate the books, claim sales that never happened, move dirty money through the system.

Dax had seen it overseas. Local warlords running legit businesses as fronts. The Taliban had been particularly good at it.

He got out of his truck and walked across the lot, gravel crunching under his boots. A salesman immediately materialized—young guy with slicked-back hair and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Welcome to Wheeler Auto! I’m Derek. What can I help you find today? We’ve got some great deals on—”

“I’m looking for James Wheeler,” Dax interrupted.

Derek’s smile faltered slightly. “Mr. Wheeler doesn’t usually meet with walk-ins. If you’d like to schedule an appointment—”

Dax pulled out his badge, flipping it open with practiced ease. “It’s police business.”

“Oh.” Derek’s entire demeanor changed, his posture straightening. “Right. He’s in his office. I’ll, uh, let him know you’re here.”

Dax followed Derek into the main building, the blast of air conditioning hitting him as soon as he stepped through the glass doors. The showroom was what you’d expect—polished floors that reflected the overhead lights, a few cars on display, photosof happy customers on the walls. But Dax’s attention was on the office in the back corner, his instincts already on high alert.

Through the glass walls, he could see a man on the phone. Mid-fifties, expensive suit that probably cost more than Dax made in a month, salt-and-pepper hair styled like he’d walked out of a boardroom. James Wheeler.

He looked up as Derek approached, his expression shifting from annoyance to carefully neutral when he saw Dax behind him. The transition was smooth, practiced.

Wheeler said something into the phone and hung up. Then he stood and opened his office door, his movements unhurried, controlled.

“Detective. What can I do for Blackridge’s finest?”

The tone was friendly. Too friendly. The kind of friendly that came from practice, not genuine warmth. Dax had heard it a thousand times from people who had something to hide.

“I have some questions about Thomas Crane,” Dax said.

“Tom?” Wheeler’s face arranged itself into appropriate sadness, the corners of his mouth turning down just enough. “Terrible tragedy. I still can’t believe it. Please, come in.”

Dax entered the office. It was nicer than he expected—leather chairs that looked butter-soft, mahogany desk with a glossy finish, artwork on the walls that was probably original. Wheeler had money. The question was where it came from.

“You were business partners,” Dax said, not bothering to sit. He preferred the height advantage, preferred keeping this formal.

“For over ten years. Real estate development. We built half the commercial properties in this town.” Wheeler gestured to photos on the wall—various buildings, Wheeler and Crane at ribbon-cuttings, smiling for the camera. Perfect business partners.

“Must have been successful.”

“We did well. Tom was brilliant at finding opportunities. I handled the financial side.” Wheeler’s expression turned somber, his shoulders dropping slightly. “I can’t believe he’s gone. When I heard he’d—that he’d taken his own life...” He shook his head. “I never saw it coming.”

“Did he seem depressed? Anxious?”

“No more than usual. Business has its stresses, you know. But Tom always handled it well.” Wheeler leaned against his desk, crossing his arms casually. “Is there a problem? I thought the medical examiner ruled it suicide.”

“Just tying up loose ends.”

“Of course.” Wheeler’s smile was understanding. Too understanding. “Whatever I can do to help.”

Dax pulled out his notebook, made a show of flipping through pages. He watched Wheeler’s eyes track the movement, saw the slight tension in the man’s jaw. “How’s business these days?”

“The dealership? Great. Honestly, better than I expected when I bought it. Turns out people in Blackridge really like buying cars.” He issued a practiced laugh that didn’t quite sound natural.

“And the real estate development?”

Something flickered across Wheeler’s face. Brief, but Dax caught it. Wariness. The fingers resting on the desk tightened almost imperceptibly, knuckles going white for just a fraction of a second.

“Still going strong. We have a few projects in the pipeline. Though obviously, with Tom gone...” Wheeler trailed off, his gaze dropping to the desk. “I’ll have to figure out how to move forward. Maybe take on a new partner.”