Page 42 of Beneath the Surface

He turned back. She’d called him by his first name. Not Mercer. Not Detective. Just Dax. The sound of it in her voice did something to his chest.

“Yeah?”

“Be careful. Wheeler knows you’re investigating now. He could come after you too.” She took a step closer, her eyes searching his face.

The concern in her voice did something strange to his chest. Made that tight feeling return, stronger this time.

“I can take care of myself,” he said.

“I know. But still. Be careful.” Her hand twitched like she wanted to reach for him but stopped herself.

Dax nodded and left before he could do something stupid, like promise he’d come back, or close the distance between them, or do any number of things that would cross lines he couldn’t uncross. You didn’t make promises like that in his line of work. Too many things could go wrong.

The drive into Blackridge took thirty minutes on the back roads. Dax used the time to prepare for the meeting with Captain Holloway, his hands tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white. The captain was a good man—fair, dedicated, tried to do right by his officers. But he also had a department to run and a budget to manage. Investigating closed cases and calling in FBI favors without authorization wouldn’t sit well.

Dax pulled into the station parking lot at eight fifty-five, gravel crunching under his tires. Early enough to seem respectful, late enough to not look too eager. He killed theengine and sat for a moment, rolling his shoulders, preparing himself.

Carson was waiting by the coffee machine when Dax walked in, a styrofoam cup in his hand. “He’s in a mood,” Carson said by way of greeting, his voice low.

“Great.” Dax poured himself a cup, the coffee bitter and burnt—station coffee was always terrible.

“I tried to prep him. Told him about the bomb, the threats, the evidence you’ve gathered. But Mercer—” Carson lowered his voice further, glancing toward the captain’s office. “He’s getting pressure from above. City council. Mayor. People who don’t want this investigated.”

Dax’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding. “Let me guess. Wheeler has connections.”

“Wheeler donated fifty thousand to the mayor’s reelection campaign last year. Sits on the city council’s economic development committee. Is personal friends with half the town’s business owners.” Carson looked grim, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “You’re not just investigating a murderer. You’re investigating someone with serious political power.”

“Even better.” Dax took a long drink of the terrible coffee, welcoming the bitter burn down his throat.

“I’m serious, Mercer. If you push this, you could lose more than your badge. Wheeler has the kind of influence that can destroy careers. Blacklist you. Make sure you never work in law enforcement again.”

“Then I guess I better make the case airtight before he has the chance.”

Carson sighed. “You’re not going to back down, are you?”

Dax pinned him with a severe look. “Would you?”

“Probably not.” Carson clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck in there. You’re going to need it.”

Captain Darius Holloway’s office was at the end of the hall. The door was open. Holloway sat behind his desk, reading something on his computer screen, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He was in his late fifties, salt-and-pepper hair cut military short, his deep-brown skin showing the kind of weathered creases that came from decades of police work. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, carved deeper by stress and long hours.

He looked up when Dax knocked, his expression unreadable. He removed his glasses slowly, deliberately.

“Detective Mercer. Come in. Close the door.”

Never a good sign when the captain wanted the door closed.

Dax sat in the chair across from Holloway’s desk, the old leather creaking beneath him, and waited. His hands rested on his thighs, deliberately relaxed.

“I’ve been hearing interesting things about you,” Holloway said, setting his glasses down with a soft click. “Want to tell me your side?”

Dax laid it all out, unapologetically. “I’m investigating the Thomas Crane case and its connection to David Barrett’s death ten years ago. Both were murders staged to look like accidents. James Wheeler is the primary suspect.”

“The case I specifically told you to drop.” Holloway’s voice was level, controlled.

“The case that involves attempted murder of a civilian with evidence that implicates Wheeler in multiple felonies.”

Holloway leaned back in his chair, the springs protesting. “You went over my head. Called in FBI resources. Took a civilian into protective custody without authorization. Do you know how many protocols you’ve violated?”