Page 5 of Beneath the Surface

But Dax had never been good at tidy.

“I’m checking anyway,” he said.

Pete looked nervous. “Mercer, if the Captain said—”

“Then the Captain can tell me himself.” Dax’s tone made it clear the conversation was over.

Pete retreated. Smart kid.

Dax turned his attention back to the office. Crane had been a real estate developer—successful, by all accounts. This office reflected that: expensive furniture, framed awards on the walls, photographs of completed projects.

But the desk was messy. Papers scattered everywhere. File drawers hanging open. Either Crane had been searching for something before he died, or someone else had been searching after.

Dax pulled on latex gloves and carefully sorted through the papers on the desk. Property deeds. Contract negotiations. Bank statements. Nothing immediately suspicious, but something nagged at him. Some pattern he couldn’t quite see yet.

His phone buzzed. A text from Carson Black, the department’s lead detective:Heard you’re still at the Crane scene. Captain’s not happy.

Dax ignored it, putting his phone back in his pocket. Carson would understand. They’d worked together enough times. Carson knew Dax didn’t let cases go just because someone wanted him to.

He opened the desk drawers one by one. Standard office supplies. Business cards. A flask of whiskey—good stuff. In the bottom drawer, he found a locked metal box.

Now that was interesting.

Dax examined the lock. Simple combination type. He could probably crack it, but that would require authorization he didn’t have. Not yet. He pulled out his phone again and took pictures of everything—the box, the desk, the scattered papers, the whole office from multiple angles.

Evidence. Even if no one wanted it.

His phone rang. Carson.

“Yeah,” Dax answered, short and to the point. He didn’t bother hiding his annoyance.

“Captain wants you back at the station. Says you’re wasting time.”

“It’s not suicide.”

“Got proof?”

“Working on it.”

Carson sighed. “Look, I get it. But you can’t go rogue on every case. You already have a reputation for being difficult.”

Difficult. That was one word for it. Asshole was another. Dax had heard them all. He’d stopped caring somewhere around his third deployment, when the Taliban had blown up his convoy and killed three of his best friends while he survived with just scars and nightmares.

Difficult was the least of what he was.

“I’ll be back when I’m done,” Dax said and hung up.

He continued his methodical examination of the office. Crime scene techs had already processed it—badly, in his opinion—but Dax had been in enough war zones to know how to read a space. How to see what wasn’t there as much as what was.

And what wasn’t there was a suicide note.

People who planned to kill themselves usually left notes. Not always, but often. Crane had a wife, grown children, employees, friends. If he’d been in enough pain to take his own life, he would have wanted to explain. To apologize. To say goodbye.

But there was nothing.

Dax was photographing the ceiling beam when he heard it. A soft click from outside. Like a camera shutter.

His body tensed automatically—combat instincts that never quite went away. He moved to the window and looked out.