Mercer's eyes changed.
Tiny.
But Marcus had spent fifteen years questioning witnesses.
He noticed tiny.
“Who called?”
“Confidential.”
“For a routine suspicious-person complaint?”
“I don't have to tell you.”
“Dispatch logs will.”
Mercer said nothing.
Marcus looked toward the street.
“Which house?”
No answer.
Then Marcus saw movement across the road.
Gray pullover.
The man from the window.
He stood behind a front curtain.
Watching.
Marcus looked toward Mercer.
“What is his name?”
Mercer followed his gaze.
Then stopped himself too late.
That was enough.
Marcus looked back.
“You know him.”
“No.”
“That was not convincing.”
Mercer's posture hardened.
“I'm done here.”
Marcus nodded.
“I imagine you are.”
Mercer turned.
Marcus added:
“Lieutenant.”
Mercer stopped.
“Do not turn off that body camera until your policy permits.”
The officer looked back.
“You threatening me?”
“No.”
Marcus's expression was cold.
“I am preserving evidence.”
Officer Bennett looked directly at Marcus.
That sentence hit him harder than anything else.
Mercer walked toward the cruiser.
Bennett remained.
“Mr. Ellison.”
Marcus waited.
“I'm sorry.”
Marcus studied him.
“For what part?”
Bennett swallowed.
“I should've intervened sooner.”
“Yes.”
No easy absolution.
Bennett accepted it.
He lowered his voice.
“His name is Walter Creighton.”
Marcus's attention sharpened.
“The neighbor?”
Bennett nodded toward the house across the street.
“Lives there.”
“Know him?”
“Not personally.”
Marcus waited.
Bennett looked toward Mercer's back.
“He's called before.”
“How many times?”
“Don't know exactly.”
“Regarding what?”
“People.”
“What people?”
Bennett hesitated.
Marcus said quietly:
“The camera is recording you too.”
Bennett almost smiled.
“Yes, sir.”
He looked across the street.
“Delivery drivers. Landscapers. Contractor once.”
Marcus frowned.
“All Black?”
Bennett said nothing.
That was an answer.
Marcus looked toward Walter Creighton's house.
Then Bennett said:
“There's something else.”
“What?”
“Lieutenant Mercer knows him.”
Marcus's eyes narrowed.
“How?”
“I've seen them together at a department fundraiser.”
That was interesting.
But not yet extraordinary.
Then Bennett added:
“Creighton owns trucking companies.”
Marcus went completely still.
“What companies?”
“I don't remember. Logistics something.”
Marcus picked up the deed folder.
“Officer Bennett.”
“Yes?”
“Go back to your vehicle.”
Bennett frowned.
“Sir?”
“Do not discuss this conversation with anyone except counsel or an authorized investigator.”
The younger officer's face changed.
Marcus continued.
“And whatever happens next, preserve your body-camera footage exactly as recorded.”
Bennett understood.
He nodded once.
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus watched the officers leave.
Only after both cruisers turned the corner did he retrieve the coffee mug.
It had gone cold.
He stared at it.
Then across the street.
Walter Creighton's curtains were closed.
Marcus walked inside.
Locked the door.
Then called the FBI.
Special Agent Lena Foster answered on the third ring.
“Please tell me you're not calling about work.”
Marcus looked through the front window.
“I think work called me.”
Silence.
“What happened?”
“Run Walter Creighton.”
“Who?”
“My neighbor.”
Lena laughed.
“Marcus.”
“I'm serious.”
“What did your neighbor do?”
“Called police because I was drinking coffee on my porch.”
The laughter stopped.
“What?”
“Officer told me Creighton owns trucking companies.”
Long silence.
Lena's voice changed.
“Spell it.”
Marcus did.
Keyboard sounds.
Twenty seconds.
Then:
“Oh.”
Marcus closed his eyes.
“What?”
“Walter James Creighton.”
“Yes.”
“Creighton Regional Logistics.”
Marcus's stomach tightened.
He knew the name.
Not because Creighton was charged.
Because the company appeared in subpoena returns.
A subcontractor.
Three warehouses.
One had serviced routes used by two indicted moving companies.
“Connection?”
Lena continued typing.
“Creighton Regional owns a twenty-two percent interest in Southern Transit Holdings.”
Marcus sat down.
Southern Transit Holdings.
Shell company number nine.
They had spent months trying to identify its beneficial investors.
“Are you certain?”
“Corporate filing changed six years ago. Hidden behind family trust.”
Marcus stared through the window.
“And Walter lives across the street from me.”
“Apparently.”
“Coincidence?”
Lena did not answer immediately.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Did he know who bought your house?”
Marcus thought about the closing.
Property records.
Publicly searchable.
His full name.
The television conference.
The timing.
He looked across the street.
“No.”
“What?”
“I don't think it's coincidence.”
Lena's voice hardened.
“Don't go over there.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“You sound like you're planning to.”
“I am sitting in my kitchen.”
“Stay sitting.”
Marcus almost smiled.
“You're not my supervisor.”
“No. But I carry handcuffs.”
“Noted.”
“We're coming.”
“Lena.”
“What?”
“Quietly.”
“Obviously.”
Marcus hung up.
Three minutes later, someone knocked on his door.
He froze.
Not FBI.
Too fast.
The knock came again.
Marcus looked through the side window.
Walter Creighton stood on the porch.
Gray pullover.
Khaki trousers.
Sixties.
Silver hair.
Expensive watch.
He held one hand up as if demonstrating harmlessness.
Marcus opened the door only halfway.
“Mr. Ellison.”
Marcus waited.
Walter smiled.
“I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“You called the police.”
The smile tightened.
“I saw someone I didn't recognize.”
“On property that wasn't yours.”
“We've had burglaries.”
Marcus knew that was probably false.
He said nothing.
Walter continued.
“I didn't know you'd moved in.”
“You could've walked over.”
Walter laughed lightly.
“These days?”
Marcus stared.
Walter realized that answer had not helped.