Three men knew the truth. Only one had told it.
The words from Mercer’s photograph returned to him. He had assumed they referred to Mercer, Reed, and Daniel. But perhaps the sentence had another meaning. Perhaps it referred to three men who knew the truth about their father’s death, and only one had confessed.
If so, the identity of the man who had finally spoken might not be the one Marcus expected.
He took out the brass key and held it in his palm.
At five-thirty, he would go to Pier 19.
But he would not go blindly.
He would bring the key, the photographs, and a plan that gave him a chance to survive whatever waited in the dark.
And if the person who had sent the message truly knew where Daniel was, Marcus intended to leave the pier with more than another unanswered question.
Marcus spent the next three hours preparing for a meeting he suspected might never end peacefully.
He began by making three copies of everything they had discovered at the workshop. Elena encrypted the photographs and documents, then sent one copy to an independent attorney she had trusted since leaving the prosecutor’s office. Another was stored on a small drive that Marcus concealed inside the lining of his jacket. The third remained on Elena’s laptop, protected by a password known only to her.
“If something happens to us,” she said, “the files will be released automatically.”
Marcus looked up from the table.
“Released to whom?”
“Several journalists, two attorneys, and an investigator who has no connection to this department. I chose people who don’t like one another. That way, nobody can quietly persuade all of them to bury the story.”
Sloane gave her an approving nod. “You’ve learned how this city works.”
“I learned what happens when people assume the truth will protect itself.”
Her words silenced him. They had all spent years waiting for someone else to do the right thing. Now they were discovering how expensive that delay had become.
At four forty-five, Marcus checked his weapon, placed his badge in his pocket, and prepared to leave. Elena stood near the door, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
“You promised not to walk into this blindly,” she reminded him.
“I’m not.”
“You also promised not to go alone.”
Marcus paused.
“I said I wouldn’t ignore the message. I never promised to obey it.”
Sloane stepped forward and placed a small radio on the table.
“The old harbor has a maintenance office overlooking Pier 19. I know the building. If you approach from the eastern road, you can reach the pier without crossing the main entrance. Elena and I will stay far enough away not to alarm whoever arranged the meeting.”
Marcus took the radio.
“If you see anything suspicious, you leave. You don’t try to rescue me.”
Sloane’s expression hardened.
“I’ve spent seventeen years regretting the last time I left you alone with a dangerous situation. Don’t ask me to repeat it.”
Marcus wanted to argue, but he understood the determination in the older man’s eyes.
“Then we do this carefully.”
At five twenty-three, the three of them arrived near the harbor. The sky was still dark, and a cold wind swept in from the water. Rusted cranes stood against the horizon like enormous skeletons. Beyond the warehouses, the river carried the reflections of distant streetlights in broken lines.
Marcus left the car and walked toward Pier 19.
The brass key rested in his pocket. He had considered leaving it behind, but the message had specifically requested it. If the sender wanted the key, it might be because it opened something important. If it was a trap, the key could still reveal what the other side expected him to possess.
At the entrance to the pier, he stopped.
A single lamp illuminated a wooden bench beside a storage shed. On the bench lay a folded newspaper and a paper cup. No person was visible.
Marcus approached slowly.
The newspaper was yesterday’s edition. Someone had circled a short article about a fire at a former government records facility. The report claimed that investigators had found no evidence of criminal activity.
Beneath the newspaper was a photograph.
Daniel stood beside a waterfront fence, wearing a dark jacket. His hair was almost completely gray, and his face had grown thinner, but Marcus recognized him immediately.
The photograph had been taken recently.
On the back, Daniel had written a message.
If you came here, you have already done what I feared you would do. Do not trust the first person who tells you I am dead.
Marcus read the sentence again.
A footstep sounded behind him.
“Put the photograph down,” a man said.
Marcus turned slowly.
The stranger stood several yards away, wearing a dark coat and a knitted cap. His face was partially concealed by the shadow of a warehouse wall. He held no visible weapon, but his right hand remained inside his coat.
“Who are you?” Marcus asked.