Page 70 of The Evening Wolves

Braxton Campbell was a nice-looking kid, solidly built, with tousled brown hair that was a little too long in back like he’d missed a haircut. A pencil was stuck behind one ear. He wore an insulated winter jacket and work pants with waterproof leather boots, and although the gear all looked quality—and, therefore, expensive—it also looked well worn. In one hand, he held what looked to Emery like a putty knife. The other hand opened and closed restlessly against one leg.

“Hey,” John said, smiling again as he extended a hand. “John-Henry Somerset.”

Braxton fumbled the putty knife to his other hand, dried his fingers, and clasped John’s. He smiled as they shook—that was a natural response, Emery had found, to interacting with John. “Braxton, but I guess you already knew that.”

“Well, more like I was hoping. This is Emery.”

Braxton wanted to shake again, so Emery obliged. The young man’s hand was callused—not soft and smooth like what Emery would expect from someone who did a night shift on dispatch. But then again, he liked to sail, and even though it was winter, his skin held a trace of color that suggested plenty of time outdoors.

“Sorry,” Braxton said, jerking his head behind him. “Do you want to come in? We’re letting the heat out.”

Emery followed John into the unit, and Braxton lowered the door. True to his word, it was warmer inside—a space heater in the corner raised the temperature until it was almost comfortable. It made a soft hissing noise and left a hint of kerosene in the air. The only light came from several bare bulbs hanging overhead, but they brightened the space considerably. Most of the unit was taken up by a sailboat that, while probably on the small end as such things went, nevertheless seemed quite large to Emery. Next to the boat was a bucket of sudsy water and a scrub brush, which Emery guessed was responsible for some of the sounds he’d heard earlier.

“You’re washing your boat?”

Braxton followed Emery’s gaze and laughed. “Well, yeah. I guess it does sound kind of silly when you put it like that. But that’s part of the process, you know? Get all the gunk off it.” He held up the putty knife. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of goop that gets stuck on there. Once I’ve got it clean, I can inspect the hull. This is the best time to find any problems—once it’s in the water, it’s too late.”

His voice trailed off at the end, and his gaze shifted from Emery to John. John broke the moment by saying, “My dad would kill for me to take an interest in sailing. It wasn’t something he cared about while I was growing up, or I’m sure he would have found a way to rope me into it. A lot of people start when they’re young, right?”

“Oh sure, but you can pick it up later if you want. I did. I’d never touched a sail until I was in my twenties, but I had to get out on the water again.” He must have read the question on their faces because he touched his shoulder and said, “I rowed in college until, well.” He shrugged. “Blew it out.”

“Ah,” John said, and it was the kind of sound one athlete makes for another—exactly the right amount of knowing and commiseration and manly buck-up-and-bear-it. It made Emery want to roll his eyes.

Braxton shrugged as he set down the putty knife and grabbed an insulated tumbler. When he opened the top, the fragrance of good coffee wafted out. “After a few surgeries, I kind of accepted it.” He took a sip. “I’m guessing you guys aren’t here to talk about the boat or about my shoulder.”

“No,” Emery said, “we’re not.”

“We’re here because we need your help,” John said.

No one spoke. The kerosene heater hissed in the silence. After several long seconds, Braxton said, “Ok.”

“Did you take a call from Eric Brey when you were working last night?”

Braxton’s face shut down. “Look, man, I don’t know who you are—”

“I know. And I’m not trying to jam you up or get you in trouble or anything like that. It’s just a question. You know those calls are public record. You know I can find out the answer another way if I have to.”

“Then that’s what you should do. Call the station. Ask for the records. Not show up at my storage unit—”

“That’s going to take too long,” Emery said.

“Ree.”

“No, he needs to understand. This is important, and we don’t have time to wait for some bureaucrat to get his thumb out of his ass long enough to look at a Sunshine Law request. Things are happening right now, important things, life-and-death things, and every minute he dicks us around, we’re losing ground. It’s an easy question, and it’s not one that costs you anything, so answer him.”

Braxton’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling and uncurling around the tumbler.

“He meant to say please,” John said. “But he’s right, Braxton. This is important, and we don’t have time to wait for official channels.”

The hardness in Braxton’s face cracked. “Who are you, though?”

“Private investigators,” Emery answered.

“I’m a police officer,” John said.

“John.”

“And I’m suspended, and that means I can’t do what I’m best at, and it’s driving me out of my fucking mind. I think you know what that’s like, Braxton. And I think you’ve got a good sense for people, a good sense for bullshit. You spend your nights listening to people and making decisions about what they tell you. Well, listen to me right now: lives are on the line, and I need you to help me.”

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