The name arrived like a rumor down a corridor of closed doors—Carson Mirell.
A hedge fund sweetheart with just enough charm to seem clean and just enough muck in his trail to reek. Langston's old business partner, the last anyone had seen him, at a charity event two nights prior to the killing, drinking thousand-dollar whiskey and smiling like the world was in his debt.
I'd encountered his kind before. Groomed. Rehearsed. Perfected.
But what caught my stomach wasn't the resume—it was the motive.
Langston and Mirell were in the midst of a private feud. Sour real estate deals, a contentious offshore account nobody officially knew about, and a very public lawsuit that had abruptly vanished from the docket three weeks prior. On paper, the trail was thin.
Too thin.
Which generally meant someone had taken considerable effort to sweep it under the rug.
The powers-that-be were in a hurry for a name, and they needed it in a hurry. Carson Mirell? He was a little too ideal.
And that was what really bothered me.
Lillian Poe waited until we were back at the morgue before she got the body rolled halfway out of the drawer.
"You ever see a murder set up like an opera, for chrissake?" I said.
She didn't smile. "Lots of blood. Not a drop of it spilled outside a three-foot radius. That's not rage. That's choreography."
She gave me the pathology report, her fingers lingering on the last page. "You asked me what didn't fit? Here."
I read: bruising patterns not consistent with blunt force alone—symmetrical blows, controlled. And then a note: ligature marks on the ankles. Light. Older.
"Restraints?" I asked.
"Could have been. But this is the important part." She indicated a series of contusions along the ribs. "They were inflicted after death. Someone struck him after he was already dead."
"To conceal something?"
"To sell a yarn."
I massaged my jaw. "What kind of murderer covers his trail and leaves an unfortunate note in blood?"
"The kind who wants to be heard," she replied. "Or the kind who works for someone who does."
I hadn't taken five strides beyond the precinct doors when Sylvie Mercer stepped in front of me like a thunderhead in heels.
"Carson Mirell," she growled, voice low.
"Morning to you, too."
"You're staking him out. So am I."
I walked on. She followed me.
"What's your angle?" I inquired.
"Two shell corporations linked to Mirell purchased more than thirty waterfront acres that month Langston was out of the public view. That suit they brought against each other? Fictitious. Made up. I've watched the contract withdrawls."
"Excavating like that'll earn you a bullet rather than a Pulitzer."
Her gaze sparkled with indignation. "You think it frightens me?"
I brought myself up short. "No," I replied. "It's what frightens me."
I didn't want her going in blind into a blaze. But she wasn't seeking permission—and I wasn't foolish enough to believe she'd listen if I told her to.
The interrogation room was a box. No windows. One camera. One suspect. Mirell sat across from me as if he were waiting for a business meeting to begin—jacket off, cuffs rolled, breath mint already on the tongue.
He met my gaze with the icy detachment of a man who trusted in high-priced attorneys and solid alibis.
"I hear you and Langston were close," I began.
He smiled tightly. "Until we weren't. Business is fast-paced."
"Not fast enough to get you out of town two days after he was killed."
"Circumstance."
"Not one I'm fond of."
I leaned forward, saw his pulse beat just below his collar. Subtle. But there.
"Where were you the night he died?"
"Home. I had visitors."
"Let me guess—someone paid not to remember?"
He flared. Good. I wanted him off script.
"I don't know what kind of production you're putting on here, Detective, but I had no reason to kill Langston. We resolved our differences."
"Did you resolve the money too? Cayman offshore account. Payments ceased three weeks ago—just about the time your phony lawsuit vanished."
He didn't respond. He didn't have to. I watched the shadow slip behind his eyes. There was history there. Dirty and hidden.
But it wasn't sufficient.
Each time I pushed, he deflected—never lied directly, but dodged. The man was a dancer.
By the time I left the room, I didn't have a confession, but I had something better—doubt.
Mirell wasn't the type to swing a bat and spread a message in blood. He hired other men to dirty their hands.
Which meant he wasn't the monster behind the door. But only the one who handed over the key.
I discovered Jax Holloway perched on a crate at the back of a boarded-up bar in the Narrows, puffing on something that reeked of bad choices and regret.
"Thought you told me this guy was involved," I said.
"He is. But not the way you think." He gave me a flash drive. "Security footage from Langston's building. Mirell was there the day before the murder."
"That's not the night he died."
"I know. But he wasn't alone."
I stared at him. "Who?"
"Woman. Mid-thirties. Black coat. Arrived with Mirell, left alone an hour later. Facial recog picked her up once, then the feed glitched."
"Glitched?"
He nodded. "Clean cut. Someone scrubbed the file. Real pro job."
"And you managed to get it anyway?"
"I have friends in low places."
I stuck the drive in my pocket. "That all?"
Jax turned to me, actual fear in his eyes now. "This is more than a hit. It's a message. Someone's playing cleanup, Kane—and they're not finished."
I sat and watched the tape again in my apartment, the screen fluttering as the woman walked into the building. No name. No file. Just a black coat, even stance, and eyes that never once glanced toward the camera.
Langston was dead. Mirell was lying. And someone else—someone cleverer—was covering their tracks like they'd never happened.
Mirell wasn't the puppet master.
He was the puppet.
And now I had a new suspect.
A ghost in a black coat.
And the sensation in my chest? That wasn't adrenaline anymore.
It was dread.