Page 34 of Beneath the Surface
“There.” She pointed at a signature on a tax document, her voice rising with excitement. “Martin Voss. He’s listed as the registered agent for all three shell companies.”
“Registered agent doesn’t mean owner.” But Dax leaned closer, his interest clearly caught.
“No, but it means he filed the paperwork. He knows who actually owns them.” Quinn pulled up another database, her movements quick and confident. “Martin Voss. Attorney. Practices in Seattle. Specializes in business formation and asset protection.”
“Asset protection,” Dax repeated, his voice dry. “Fancy term for helping people hide money.”
“Exactly.” Quinn sat back, energized despite the late hour, her exhaustion forgotten. The blanket had fallen completely off her shoulders now. “If we can get to Voss, get him to tell us who actually owns these companies—”
“We can connect Wheeler directly to the fraud.” Dax’s expression was thoughtful, his jaw working as he processed this. “Good work, Barrett.”
The praise warmed her more than it should have. Quinn felt heat rise in her cheeks, tried to ignore the flutter in her chest. Now wasn’t the time to develop a crush on the grumpy detective protecting her life.
“So what’s next?” she asked, pulling the blanket back around herself, needing something to do with her hands.
“Next, I contact Voss. See if he’ll talk voluntarily.”
“And if he won’t?”
“Then I get a warrant and make him talk.” Dax closed the laptop with a definitive click. “But that’s my job. Not yours.”
There it was. The reminder that she was supposed to sit still and let him handle everything.
Quinn bristled, her shoulders tensing. “I just gave you a major lead.”
“And I appreciate it. But you’re not a cop. You’re a protected witness. There’s a difference.” His tone was matter-of-fact, infuriatingly calm.
“I’m also a journalist with sources and research skills you don’t have.”
“Barrett—”
“I’m not saying I want to go confront Wheeler myself. I’m saying I can help. I can dig into backgrounds, find connections, interview people.” Quinn leaned forward, the blanket falling away again, her hands gesturing as she spoke. “My father spent months investigating this. He talked to people, gathered information. I should follow up with them. See what they know.”
“Absolutely not.” The words came out flat, final.
“Why not?”
“Because Wheeler just tried to kill you!” Dax’s voice rose slightly, his hand slapping the table. The coffee mug jumped. “Because anyone your father talked to is potentially in danger. Because—” He stopped, visibly reining in his frustration, his jaw clenching. “Because I can’t protect you if you’re running around interviewing witnesses.”
“Then come with me.” Quinn’s chin lifted.
“I have actual police work to do. I can’t babysit you while you play journalist.”
The words stung like a slap. Quinn stood up, the blanket falling to the floor, her own temper flaring hot in her chest. “Play journalist? I’ve won awards for my investigative work. I’veexposed corruption that led to arrests and resignations. I’m good at what I do.”
“I don’t doubt that. But this isn’t Portland city politics. This is a murderer who’s already killed twice and tried to kill you today.” Dax stood too, his chair scraping against the floor.
“I know that!” Her voice echoed in the small cabin.
“Do you? Because you’re still talking about interviewing people like this is a normal story.” Dax stood too, his size suddenly intimidating in the small space. “This isn’t normal. Wheeler doesn’t just sue for libel. He kills. He’s good at it. And everyone associated with this investigation is at risk.”
Quinn’s anger deflated slightly. “I know. I do know that. But I can’t just sit here doing nothing. It’s making me crazy.”
“Then go crazy. But go crazy safely, inside this cabin, where Wheeler can’t get to you.”
They stared at each other. Quinn could see the genuine concern in Dax’s eyes beneath the frustration. He wasn’t trying to sideline her out of sexism or ego. He was genuinely worried about her safety.
It should have been annoying. Instead, it made her throat tight.
