Dan Stone had been working the city since noon.
While Jannie kept the phones humming and the books straight at the office, Stone followed rumours through smoke-filled bars and backroom conversations. Monroe hadn’t been skimming pocket change. He’d been circling money that belonged to someone who didn’t appreciate curiosity. And important men, Stone knew, did not care to be circled.
All Stone had to go on was a scrap of paper — a name, a number, and the uneasy feeling that Monroe had reached too far.
The trail led him to the Hotel Mercer. Its red neon sign flickered against the night sky, buzzing faintly, casting a restless glow across the wet pavement. It looked like a place that kept secrets and charged by the hour for them.
Joey had told him Monroe had been staying there.
Joey also told him he’d given up gambling.
Stone trusted neither story completely.
He stepped up to the front desk.
“Room 304,” he said evenly. “I’ll take the key.”
The clerk hesitated. “Sorry, sir. Police have the room sealed.”
Stone laid a crisp twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
“Andrew here thinks you might take another look.”
The clerk glanced toward the door, then back at the bill. After a moment, he slid the key across the counter.
“Five minutes.”
“That’s generous,” Stone said, pocketing the key.
The elevator groaned its way to the third floor.
Stone stepped out into a narrow corridor lined with tired wallpaper and dim light. He reached the door to 304 and raised the key toward the lock—
“You never did learn to mind your own business, Stone.”
The words came from behind him. Calm. Close.
Something cold and solid pressed into the small of his back.
Stone didn’t stiffen. “Business gets slow if I do that,” he replied.
“Open it.”
Stone turned the key and stepped inside.
The door shut behind them with a soft click.
He moved a few steps into the room. “Monroe wasn’t cooking the books,” he said. “He was onto something.”
“I was told to lean on him,” the man behind him answered. “Nothing more.”
“By who?”
A pause.
“Cavanaugh.”
“Atlantic Imports,” Stone said quietly.
The silence that followed was confirmation enough.
The gun prodded him forward.
“Monroe said the shipment didn’t add up,” the man continued. “Claimed he had proof.”
“What shipment?”
“It ain’t tractors in those crates.”
Stone turned slowly.
The man stepped into view, the lamp catching the long scar that cut down his cheek like a pale lightning bolt. His expression was thin and humorless.
Stone lowered his voice. “Then what is it?”
The scarred man gave a faint smile. “Not your concern.”
The answer was lost in the crack of a rifle shot.
The window shattered inward, spraying glass across the room. The scarred man jerked backward and collapsed.
Stone hit the floor in one smooth motion, rolling, drawing his .38, and firing toward the rooftop across the street where he’d glimpsed movement.
Then there was only silence.
Glass settled. A curtain fluttered in the night air.
Stone crossed to the fallen man. The scarred man’s breath rattled faintly. His hand clutched at Stone’s sleeve. His lips moved, but no sound came.
A moment later, the grip loosened.
Stone closed the man’s eyes.
Sirens began to wail in the distance.
He worked quickly.
The coat pockets yielded cash. An envelope. A matchbook stamped with the name Atlantic Imports.
Stone pocketed both.
Downstairs, he handed the key back across the desk.
“You never saw me.”
Another twenty changed hands.
Outside, patrol cars screeched to a stop beneath the humming neon. Officers hurried inside.
Stone stepped into the shadows and let the night swallow him.
As he walked down the slick sidewalk, collar up against the wind, his thoughts were steady and cold.
Monroe had thought he’d found a crack in the wall. Instead, he’d found a cannon aimed straight at him.
Cavanaugh was only a name. The shipment was what mattered.
And somebody out there was willing to kill to keep it moving.
The night wasn’t over.
It was just getting started.
