Page 16 of Beneath the Surface

“Anyone in mind?”

“Haven’t thought that far ahead yet.” Wheeler’s hand lifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still processing the loss.”

Dax nodded like he believed it, his expression deliberately neutral, his pen hovering over his notebook. “I noticed you’ve done a lot of property transactions in the past few years. Commercial buildings, mostly.”

“That’s our business.” Wheeler’s tone stayed level, but his posture shifted slightly—weight forward, more defensive. His hands dropped from his neck to grip the edge of the desk.

“Some of them sold for well above market value.”

Wheeler’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes went cold. Flat. “Real estate values fluctuate. Location, timing, buyer interest—lots of factors affect price.”

“Sure.” Dax flipped a page in his notebook slowly, deliberately. “But three times market value? That’s unusual.”

“Is this still about Tom’s death? Or are you investigating my business practices?” The friendly tone was gone now, replaced by something sharper. His arms uncrossed, hands moving to his hips in a stance Dax recognized—territorial, confrontational.

“Like I said.” Dax closed his notebook with a quiet snap. “Just tying up loose ends.”

“Well, if you have questions about my finances, I suggest you get a warrant. Otherwise, I think we’re done here.” Wheeler moved to open the office door, his movements deliberate, controlled. “I have a business to run.”

Dax held his ground for a moment, letting the silence stretch between them like a physical thing. Wheeler met his gaze without flinching, one hand still on the door handle. Cool. Confident. The kind of confidence that came from thinking you were untouchable.

Or maybe from knowing you’d covered your tracks.

“Thanks for your time,” Dax finally said, tucking his notebook into his jacket pocket. He walked out, feeling Wheeler’s eyes on his back the whole way, the heat of the man’s stare boring into him like a laser sight.

Derek the salesman was nowhere to be seen. Dax let himself out and crossed the parking lot to his truck, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid with tension he couldn’t quite shake.

His instincts were screaming. Wheeler was dirty. Every word out of his mouth had been calculated, rehearsed. The man was hiding something.

But instincts weren’t evidence. And Dax needed evidence.

He sat in his truck and pulled out his phone, the leather seat creaking beneath him as he settled in. He searched for property records, fingers moving quickly across the screen, his other hand drumming against the steering wheel. The county assessor’s database was public, accessible online. He started searching for properties owned by Wheeler Development LLC.

What he found made his jaw clench, his teeth grinding together.

In the past three years, Wheeler’s company had bought seventeen properties. All commercial. All purchased at significantly inflated prices. And all of them—every single one—had been bought from shell companies with untraceable owners.

Classic money laundering. Buy property from yourself using fake companies, inflate the price, move the money around, and suddenly your dirty cash is clean real estate equity.

David Barrett had figured it out. So had Thomas Crane, apparently. Both had died before they could expose it.

And now Quinn Barrett was asking the same questions.

Dax’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white.Damn it.

He pulled out his phone and dialed the number Quinn had written on the back of one of her documents, his thumb hesitating only a second before pressing call.

She answered on the third ring. “Hello?” Her voice was breathless, like she’d been moving.

“It’s Detective Mercer.”

A pause. He could hear her breathing change, hear the surprise. “I thought you couldn’t help me.”

“I looked at your father’s files.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the exhaustion settling into his bones, the stubble rough against his palm.

“And?”

“And you need to back off. This is dangerous.”