The rain had turned the city into a slick, shimmering beast, its streets reflecting neon lights like a broken kaleidoscope. Daniel Carter hunched under the awning of a shuttered pawn shop, his coat soaked through, his notebook pressed against his chest to keep it dry. The docks loomed a block away, a sprawl of cranes and warehouses shrouded in mist. Warehouse 17 was his target, the cryptic email from his anonymous source burning in his mind: Check the docks. Warehouse 17. Midnight tomorrow. Look for the red ledger. It was just past 2 a.m. now, and Daniel wasn't waiting for midnight. Patience had never been his strong suit, not when a story like the Whitmore case was pulling at him like a riptide.
His boots splashed through puddles as he moved closer, sticking to the shadows. The docks wer
