CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Ella"s eyeballs felt like they"d been sandblasted and dipped in battery acid. Hours of staring at screens had left her vision fuzzy, her head pounding like a jackhammer operated by a vengeful ex. She blinked hard, trying to focus on the monitor that seemed hellbent on melting her retinas.

Across the room, Luca stood before their makeshift war board. It was a nightmare of photos and red string, like a spider on meth had tried its hand at modern art. He muttered to himself, connecting invisible dots that existed only in the fever dream of a desperate Fed.

‘Any luck over there, Picasso?' Ella called out, rubbing her temples.

Luca grunted, not bothering to turn around. ‘If by luck you mean I"ve discovered new and exciting ways to go cross-eyed, then yeah. I"m swimming in it. You?'

‘Nothing.' Ella spat. ‘Really struggling to find Greg Dawson's address. He's not on the main databases.'

‘The perks of being in power.'

She dove back in. Fingers flying over keys like she was defusing a bomb. DMV records? Nothing but a trail of unpaid parking tickets and a license expired quicker than milk left on a radiator. Tax records? It might as well have been written in hieroglyphics. Voter registration? Greg Dawson was a ghost, ironically.

Ella was about ready to introduce her forehead to the nearest wall when something caught her eye. A glimmer in the digital haystack.

And there it was, buried under a mountain of bureaucratic privileges – an unpaid parking violation.

174 Macbeth Avenue.

She committed it to memory, but even as triumph flared in her chest, reality doused it faster than a fire hose at a book burning.

Holbrook"s words echoed. A broken record of bad news. Dawson was in hiding. That address might lead to nothing but cobwebs.

The door banged open, startling both agents like rookies at their first crime scene. Sheriff Tucker lumbered in, filling the doorframe like a bear squeezed into a polyester suit.

‘Got some news for ya, Agents,' he announced. Mustache twitching like an electrocuted caterpillar.

Ella swiveled. Hope and dread wrestling in her gut. "Let"s hear it, Sheriff. Good news, I hope. My quota of disappointment"s already topped out."

Tucker"s face was a blank slate. Poker player with a royal flush. ‘Holbrook"s alibi checks out. Guy"s been parked on that street all day, annoying the piss out of anyone who"d listen.'

Ella"s shoulders slumped. Another lead evaporated. Desert mirage. ‘Well, that's peachy. Thanks, Sheriff. At least we can scratch one name off our list.'

‘Sheriff, you know a Greg Dawson?' Luca tore himself away from the Rorschach nightmare of their evidence board.

Tucker"s eyebrows shot up, achieving orbit. ‘Dawson? "Course I know him. Or knew him. Guy hasn"t shown his face "round here in about a year.'

‘Yeah. We heard he vanished.'

Tucker"s face darkened like a thundercloud rolling in. ‘Dawson lied through his teeth. Made all kinds of promises about that damn dam. Jobs, prosperity, water for all. Turns out the only thing flowing was the crap from his mouth.'

Ella"s heart sank. Titanic after its ice cube mishap. If Dawson had truly vanished, they were back to square one. But something didn"t add up. If he was their killer, he had to be nearby. Can"t drown folks from a beach in Cancun.

Luca asked, ‘Any idea where Dawson might"ve gone to ground? Got any bolt-holes in town?'

Tucker scratched his chin. Sandpaper on wood. ‘Well, there were always rumors about that bar he owned. Moonshine or some such. Word was, he used it to funnel cash under the table. Some kinda shell company nonsense.'

‘Shell company?' Ella"s ears perked up. She knew a scent when she caught one.

‘Way I heard it, Dawson set up the bar under his cousin"s name. Used it to launder campaign contributions, maybe grease a few palms. You know how politics is, especially in places like this.

Ella moved to her laptop so fast the keyboard might have started smoking. ‘Moonshine, you say? That's the name of the bar?'

‘Yeah. Dingy little place over on Pinewood.'

She threw the details into the search box. Info on the bar popped up faster than a jack-in-the-box on speed.

BUSINESS NAME: MOONSHINE PUBLIC HOUSE.

OWNER: MALCOLM DAWSON

STATUS: NO LONGER IN OPERATION.

‘Looks like it closed down.' Ella dug in a little deeper. ‘A few months back by the looks of things.'

‘No kidding,' said Tucker. ‘Guess that shows how often I get out that way. It"s on the edge of town, don"t pass by it much.'

A closed-down bar. Disgraced politician. Creative bookkeeping. Thin, but it was all they had. Ella made a decision faster than a gunslinger at high noon.

‘Hawkins,' she barked, standing so fast her chair nearly toppled. ‘Take a drive by Dawson"s registered address. On the off chance our boy"s holed up there feeling homesick.'

Luca nodded and grabbed his jacket. ‘All over it. What about you?'

Ella snatched up her gun and checked the clip. It was all in the muscle memory. ‘I"m gonna check out this bar. If Dawson"s in town, that"s as good a place as any to start looking.'

‘You need backup?' asked the Sheriff.

‘Stay here,' Ella said. ‘Fast track the autopsy and forensic reports for Ayers. See if there's anything we can grab onto.'

‘Will do. Just be careful out there. Folks "round here, they got long memories and short tempers when it comes to Dawson. You start kicking over rocks, no telling what might crawl out.'

‘Trust us,' Ella said and made for the door. As she strode out, she couldn"t shake the feeling that she was walking into something bigger than a simple murder case. Something that smelt of old secrets and fresh blood.

One way or another, she was going to find Greg Dawson. And when she did, things were gonna get real interesting, real fast.