“Your father had two workshops. The one everyone knew about was near the railway yard. He repaired engines there, built furniture when business was slow, and took small jobs from anyone who could pay. But there was another place. Smaller. Hidden on a property your father rented near the lake.”
Marcus remembered the smell of sawdust on his father’s clothes, the roughness of his hands, and the way he would sometimes disappear for an entire afternoon without explaining where he had gone. As a child, Marcus had assumed his father was simply working.
“Why would he need a second workshop?”
“Because he was doing work for people who preferred not to have their names attached to anything.”
“Who?”
Sloane shook his head.
“I don’t know all of them. I knew your father was helping someone restore old documents and furniture. Years later, I learned that some of the documents were connected to property transfers, police contracts, and public funds. At the time, I thought it was just another arrangement between men who trusted one another.”
“And Daniel found out?”
“I believe Daniel found more than that.”
Elena turned toward them.
“If the photograph was taken at the second workshop, then it may be connected to the evidence Daniel hid.”
“Or it may be a trap,” Marcus said.
“Those possibilities aren’t mutually exclusive,” Sloane replied.
The light changed. Marcus drove on.
They had agreed not to contact the police department until they understood who could be trusted. Mercer had promised to arrange a meeting with a federal investigator, but Marcus had learned to treat promises from powerful men as carefully as he treated threats.
He had also noticed something disturbing about the chief’s behavior. Mercer had admitted enough to make himself vulnerable, but not enough to explain why he had remained silent for so many years. His confession could have been the first step toward redemption.
It could just as easily have been an elaborate way to direct Marcus into a carefully prepared ambush.
“Did Mercer tell you anything about Reed’s family?” Elena asked.
“Nothing.”
“His military record?”
“Only that he served as a federal liaison during the original investigation.”
“That’s not a complete answer.”
“No,” Marcus said. “It isn’t.”
He reached into his pocket and took out the small brass plate they had found at the depot. The engraved characters caught the passing light.
M-714 / 03-19 / 8821.
He had spent hours trying to understand the numbers. M-714 was almost certainly a storage designation. The date could have referred to March nineteenth, but he did not know which year. The final four digits might have been a lock combination, an account number, or something far more obscure.
His father had taught him that people often hid important things in plain sight because they believed nobody would take the time to understand them.
Daniel had inherited that habit.
“Maybe we’ve been treating this like a code when it’s really an address,” Marcus said.
Sloane leaned forward again. “What makes you think that?”
“The property Mercer gave us. If the building was used to hide something, there may be a storage system attached to it. M-714 could be a room, a locker, or a compartment. March nineteenth could be a date. And 8821 could identify a file.”
Elena took the brass plate from him.
“Or it could be three separate references that only make sense together.”
“Exactly.”
She studied the engraving, then turned the plate over. The reverse side was scratched, but beneath the marks she could make out a faint circular impression.
“This wasn’t attached to a door,” she said. “It was probably fixed to something smaller.”
“A box?” Sloane suggested.
“Possibly.”
Marcus thought about the toolbox in the photograph.
His father’s toolbox had been stolen from his home. Someone had deliberately placed a photograph of it in the abandoned depot, knowing that Marcus would recognize it. The thief wanted him to follow the trail.
But whoever had taken the toolbox had also left behind the photograph of Daniel and the old workshop.
Perhaps the person responsible was trying to frighten him.
Perhaps they were trying to tell him where to go.
Or perhaps the distinction no longer mattered.
They reached the lakeside road shortly after sunset. The property lay beyond a rusted gate set between two rows of tall pine trees. A faded sign warned that the land was privately owned, although the lettering had almost disappeared beneath years of rain.
Marcus slowed the car.
Beyond the gate, a gravel driveway curved through the trees toward a low building with dark windows. Farther down the slope, the lake reflected the last pale strip of daylight.
There were no visible lights, no parked vehicles, and no sign that anyone had visited the property recently.
Sloane looked at the gate.
“This is the place.”
Marcus stopped the car several yards away.
“How can you be sure?”