Page 17 of Beneath the Surface

Quinn’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “So you do think Wheeler’s involved.”

“I think you’re a civilian playing detective, and you’re going to get hurt.”

“I’m an investigative journalist. This is literally what I do.”

“Not with murderers, it’s not.” His voice came out harder than he intended, his free hand gripping the steering wheel until his fingers ached.

“My father was murdered investigating this. Thomas Crane was murdered. You think I’m just going to walk away because it’s dangerous?” Her voice rose, echoing through the phone. “I’m not afraid of some businessman who thinks he’s above the law.”

Dax’s patience snapped, his free hand slamming against the steering wheel hard enough to send a sharp pain up his wrist. “You should be. Wheeler’s not just some businessman. He’s smart, he’s careful, and he’s already killed twice that we know of. Maybe more.”

“Then help me prove it!”

“I am helping you. By telling you to stay away.”

“That’s not help, that’s—”

“That’s me trying to keep you alive.” Dax forced his voice to stay level, his grip on the phone tight enough that the case creaked. “Look, I get it. You want justice for your father. But you can’t investigate this alone. You don’t have training, you don’t have backup, and you sure as hell don’t have the resources to protect yourself if Wheeler decides you’re a threat.”

“So what do you suggest? I just forget about it? Let my father’s murder go unsolved?”

“I suggest you let the police handle it.”

“The police already closed the case!”

“I didn’t.” He let the words hang there, simple and final.

That stopped her. Dax could hear her breathing on the other end of the line, could almost see her processing what he’d just said.

“What?” she finally said, her voice smaller now.

“I said I didn’t close it. I’m looking into the connection between Crane’s death and your father’s. Quietly. Without broadcasting it to everyone in Blackridge.” He paused, his gaze drifting back to Wheeler’s dealership in his rearview mirror. “But I can’t do that if you’re running around asking questions and putting yourself in danger.”

“You’re actually investigating?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say that before?”

“Because I needed to verify your theory first. Make sure I wasn’t wasting time on a journalist’s conspiracy fantasy.”

“And?” The hope in her voice was almost painful to hear.

Dax looked back at the dealership through his rearview mirror, at Wheeler’s office window where the man probably still stood, confident and untouchable. His hand tightened on the phone. “And your theory checks out. Your father was right about the money laundering. Wheeler’s dirty.”

Quinn’s voice went soft, barely above a whisper. He could hear the tremor in it, the emotion she was trying to hold back. “My father was right.”

“Yeah. He was.” Dax felt an unwelcome stab of sympathy, his jaw tightening against it. His thumb rubbed absently against the phone case. “Which means he was dangerous to Wheeler. Justlike Crane was dangerous. Just like you’re dangerous if you keep investigating.”

“I can take care of myself.” But her voice wavered, uncertain.

“Can you disarm a car bomb? Because your father’s brakes were probably cut.” Dax’s voice hardened, his grip on the phone tightening. “Can you tell if your food’s been poisoned? Because that’s another favorite method. Can you—”

“I get it!” Quinn’s voice shook slightly, breaking on the words. “I get that it’s dangerous. But I can’t just do nothing.”

“You’re not doing nothing. You’re letting a trained detective handle it.” He pressed his fingers against his temple, feeling a headache building behind his eyes.

“How do I know you’ll actually investigate? How do I know you won’t just drop it like everyone else?”