Stop cold, p.12
STOP COLD, page 12
Lena dropped the butt and stomped it out, embers dying in the mud. “Just said the bay was gettin’ meaner—didn’t explain.” She turned, then paused, voice dropping. “You’re not like the others, you know.”
Beth tilted her head, rain beading on her jacket. “Others?”
“Cops ‘round here,” Lena said, eyes darting. “Rough—especially on drugs."
That caught Beth's interest. "Anyone in particular?"
Lena frowned, thinking. "One guy hounded Jason hard—arrested him, kept comin’ back, even here. Pissed me off once, askin’ where Jason was, like I’d snitch.”
Beth's pulse sharpened. "This cop has a name?"
“Walsh,” Lena said quickly, like she was spitting out a bad taste. “Brian Walsh—I took note of his name because I was thinking of reporting him. Jason told me there was no point—they wouldn't listen. Protect their own and all that.” She yanked the door open, the hinges squealing. “Now I really gotta go."
“Thank you, Lena,” Beth said, stepping back as the door clanged shut, leaving her in the rain’s patter. She turned around and began making her way back to her vehicle.
Her phone buzzed—Cole. She answered, shielding it from the rain. “Yeah?”
“Clara’s solid,” he said, voice tinny over the line. “Rivera was gutting fish ‘til midnight—alibi’s tight.”
“Not shocked,” Beth said, starting toward the Suburban. “Lena talked—Jason’s girl. Gave me a name: Brian Walsh, a cop who harassed Jason after a bust. Bothered Lena, too.”
"Think he's worth our time?"
"I don't know. If he was keeping tabs on Jason, maybe he knows something useful. Might've seen something."
“Worth a look,” Cole said. “Should we track him down, talk to him?"
Beth considered. "Let's run him through the database first, see what we can come up with. No harm in being prepared."
"Sounds like a plan. Want to meet at the harbor office?"
"I'll be there," Beth said as she climbed into the Suburban.
Beth gunned the engine through the rain-slicked streets of Kent Narrows, wipers slashing at the downpour as the crab shack faded in the rearview. The bay’s growl chased her, thunder cracking sharp over the engine’s hum, the storm’s edge biting closer.
She turned onto a narrow road hugging the waterfront, the harbor office looming ahead—a squat, cinderblock box perched on stilts above the tide line, its flat roof streaked with gull droppings. Sodium lights buzzed over the lot, casting a sickly yellow glow on the gravel, pocked with puddles that rippled under the deluge. Cole’s black sedan already sat there, nose-in by a dumpster overflowing with crab shells and twine.
He must have already been close by.
She parked beside it, tires crunching wet stone, and climbed out, rain pelting her jacket as she jogged to the entrance. The office door—a steel slab dented by years of boots and storms—groaned as she shoved it open and stepped into a blast of stale air thick with mildew and burnt popcorn. Inside, the place sprawled like a forgotten attic: mismatched desks piled with charts, a corkboard sagging under faded notices, and a VHF radio spitting static from a corner shelf. Nets hung on the walls, tangled with dried seaweed, their knots frayed from use. A single bulb dangled overhead, its flicker buzzing like a trapped fly, throwing jagged shadows across the linoleum scarred by chair legs and spilled coffee.
Cole stood by a desk near the back, shrugging off his soaked jacket, water dripping onto a stack of logbooks. He nodded at her, hair plastered to his brow. “Beat you by five. Not like it was a competition." He winked at her.
“Of course not,” Beth said, shaking rain from her sleeves. "Which is why you beat me."
A lone figure hunched at the front desk, studying a crossword under a desk lamp. The name tag pinned to his rumpled flannel shirt read "TOBY." He didn't look up.
“Need your database,” Beth called, striding toward him, boots thudding on the floor. “FBI—Beth Drake. Cole Jackson. Running a name—Brian Walsh, cop.”
Toby’s pencil paused, his jaw tightening as he flicked his eyes up, pale and bloodshot. “System’s down—storm fried the router. Paper’s all I got, and it’s a damn jungle.” His voice was edged with irritation, as if she’d interrupted a winning streak.
“Then dig,” Cole said, crossing his arms as he loomed over the desk. “Walsh arrested a vic—Jason Porter. We need his record, now.”
Toby muttered under his breath, shoving the crossword aside with a rustle, and hauled a file box from under the desk. It hit the surface with a thud, dust puffing out, the label peeling—Harbor Police, Personnel, W-Z. “Knock yourselves out,” he said, leaning back, arms crossed. “I ain’t your maid.”
"We never said Harbor Police," Beth said.
Toby gave her a long look. "You've got to start somewhere, don't you?"
Beth couldn't argue with that logic. She grabbed the box and dragged it to Cole’s desk. Then she flipped the lid open, files spilling out—creased, coffee-stained, some clipped with rusted staples.
“Walsh, Brian,” she muttered, fishing through tabs until she snagged his folder, its edges curled from damp. She spread it open—photo first, a stern face, buzzed gray hair, eyes flat as slate, mid-fifties now, retired last year. “Twenty years on the force,” she read, skimming the bio. “Patrolled the bay, fentanyl busts his specialty.”
"Is the arrest sheet in there, by any chance?" Cole asked, leaning closer.
"Somewhere." Beth kept flipping through the files, searching. Then she noticed a name that gave her pause: Tony Mendez.
"Look at this," she said. "Walsh arrested Mendez three years ago. Possession, intent to distribute."
Cole's face grew thoughtful. "Give me some of those files."
Beth handed him half of the contents and kept the other half for herself. Together, they began sorting through the paperwork. It didn't take long to learn that Walsh had arrested all four of their victims at one time or another.
That couldn't be a coincidence. Could it?
Toby glanced over at them. "Found what you were looking for?"
"And more," Beth said. "Now we just have to track this guy down."
Cole’s face grew taut, a crease forming between his brows. “He’s retired—could be anywhere. Bay’s a big place, especially if he's got a boat.” He tapped a finger on the desk, the rhythm sharp against the VHF’s static hum. “Address first—where’s he holed up?”
Beth yanked her phone from her jacket, the screen smudged with rain as she thumbed it awake. “Database—FBI’s got DMV hooks, property records. Faster than this mess." She nodded at the scattered files.
She punched Walsh’s name into the secure app. The search lagged, perhaps due to the storm, and she cursed under her breath as she paced a tight line by the desk.
Cole pulled his own phone out. “I’ll try Harbor Police—retirement records might list a contact.” He stepped toward the window and peered out as he called.
Beth’s screen finally blinked—Walsh, Brian T., 52, last known address: 17 Bayview Lane, Dundalk. She zoomed the map, the pin dropping on a spit of land jutting into the Patapsco River, a mile from the bay’s mouth.
“Got it—Dundalk, waterfront.” She scrolled further—vehicle reg, a ‘95 Ford pickup, and a vessel, Reel Grit, tagged to Kent Narrows slip twelve. "He's got a boat, too."
Cole lowered his phone. "Then let's roll—before he gets wind that we're coming."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Beth steered the Suburban down Bayview Lane, the rain hammering the windshield, wipers slashing a frantic rhythm. Dundalk sprawled bleak under the storm—clapboard houses hunched along the Patapsco River’s edge, their yards choked with crabgrass and boat hulks rusting on cinderblocks. The river glinted dark beyond, its surface pocked by rain, a crabber’s buoy bobbing lonely near the shore. Streetlights flickered, weak against the downpour, casting a sheen on the asphalt that twisted the road into a black mirror.
Number 17 loomed at the lane’s end—a single-story cottage, its cedar siding peeling, roof sagging under sodden shingles. A ‘95 Ford pickup sat in the drive, rust eating its fenders, next to a tarp-draped skiff—Reel Grit, per the DMV. The porch leaned, one post cracked, a wind chime clanking discordant under the eaves. Lights glowed behind the curtains.
Someone was home.
Beth cut the engine. Without a word, they got out. The air smelled of wet earth and fish rot, sharp and clinging. She climbed the porch steps, wood groaning underfoot, and rapped on the door—three hard knocks, water dripping from her fist. Cole flanked her.
The door swung open, revealing Brian Walsh—mid-fifties, lean, buzzed gray hair damp from the wet, his flannel shirt unbuttoned over a faded tee. His face creased with a grin, eyes crinkling, warm but worn. “Hell of a night to drop by,” he said pleasantly.
Beth flashed her badge, rain streaking her sleeve. “FBI. Beth Drake. This is Cole Jackson. Need a word, Mr. Walsh.”
“Brian’s fine,” he said, waving them in, the grin holding. “Get out of that mess—looks like the bay’s spitting back.”
Inside, the house smelled of woodsmoke and lemon polish, a faint tang of fish lingering beneath. The living room was tight—sagging couch piled with quilts, a driftwood coffee table scarred by mug rings, a woodstove crackling in the corner. Fishing rods leaned against a wall, their lines coiled neat, and a shelf sagged under nautical books, spines cracked from use. A TV flickered muted news, the anchor chain story looping silent.
It appeared Walsh had been tending the fire—logs stacked fresh, a poker resting on the hearth.
“Take a load off,” he said, gesturing to the couch, his limp slight as he moved—a knee injury, maybe, from his cop days. “Been cooped up all day, fiddling with tackle and this damn stove.” He chuckled easily, as if they were neighbors stopping by. “Want a drink? Got water, beer—coffee’s cold, but I can heat it.”
Beth eased onto the couch, springs creaking. “We’re good. We wanted to speak with you about four people you arrested—Tony Mendez, Darren Hicks, Jamal Carter, Jason Porter.”
Cole settled beside her, elbows on his knees. “All dealers, all dead. You were Harbor Police—figure you might remember ‘em.”
Walsh’s grin faded, but he nodded, rubbing his jaw. “Memory’s fuzzy some days—twenty years chasing punks’ll do that—but I’ll help where I can.” He sank into an armchair, the cushion sighing under him, and sighed himself, long and low. “I figured it was only a matter of time ‘til someone connected the dots.”
Beth’s brow creased. “What dots?”
He leaned back, hands clasped over his gut. “Saw ‘em on the news—those four, dead in the bay. Recognized the names from my sheets.” His tone stayed steady, his eyes meeting hers. “But I’m clean—law-abiding, always have been. Didn’t touch ‘em, whatever you’re thinking.”
“Nobody's accusing you,” Beth said. “Just need to know anything you can tell us about those four—habits, enemies. Help us figure out who might be next.”
Walsh nodded, then rose, the chair creaking. “Fair enough. Lemme grab a water—throat’s dry. Sure you don’t want anything?”
“We’re fine,” Cole said, his gaze tracking Walsh as he shuffled toward the kitchen, boots scuffing the hardwood.
“Alright,” Walsh called, raising his voice over the clink of a glass. “Those boys—Mendez, Hicks, Carter, Porter—small fry, all of ‘em. Ran fentanyl, dodged Morales, thought they were slick. Busted ‘em over years—possession, intent, nickel bags mostly. Never stuck—courts let ‘em slip every time.” A faucet hissed.
As Beth listened, her eyes roamed the room before landing on a shelf by the stove—five framed photos, Walsh with a young woman, early twenties, blonde, smiling wide. Fishing on a pier, arms around her at a crab boil, her in a cap and gown. A daughter, maybe—same jawline, same crinkle at the eyes.
Walsh returned, glass in hand, water sloshing as he sank back into the chair. “Pains in my ass, those four—knew the bay’s holes, slipped my nets too often.”
Beth nodded at the photos. “Who’s she?”
His face clouded, the grin gone, eyes dropping to the glass. “Emma. My girl.” He took a slow sip, the rim clinking his teeth, then set it down. “Died last year—fentanyl overdose. Tore me up.”
Beth’s chest tightened. “I’m sorry."
"Yeah, me too. Funny you mention that, with her anniversary and all."
Beth frowned, puzzled. "Anniversary?"
"Yeah, March second, that would have been."
Beth blinked. That was the same date that Tony Mendez, the first victim, had been killed. She searched Walsh's face for any hint of deception, but all she saw was sadness.
What was she missing?
Beth watched Walsh carefully as he stared at the photo of his daughter. Something in his demeanor had shifted—a shadow crossing his features, his shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly.
"Emma loved the water," Walsh said, his voice softer now. "Knew the bay better than most watermen by the time she was sixteen. Used to joke she had crab blood." He cleared his throat. "Never touched drugs growing up. Not once. Then she went to college, fell in with a crowd..." His voice trailed off.
Cole leaned forward. "Mr. Walsh, you mentioned the anniversary of your daughter's death was March second?"
Walsh nodded, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his water glass. "Found her in her apartment. Med school, second year. All that promise." His knuckles whitened around the glass. "Called her that morning. She didn't answer. Drove up to Baltimore, used my spare key." He paused, the words hanging heavy. "Needle still in her arm."
Beth caught Cole's glance and saw that he was thinking the same thing she was. March second—Tony Mendez's death date.
"And the others?" she asked carefully. "The other three dealers who died—you arrested all of them?"
"Multiple times." Walsh's jaw tightened. "Porter was the worst—smug little prick, always had a lawyer ready. Judge Harrison kept letting him walk." He looked up at them, eyes clear despite the emotion in his voice. "Look, I know where you're headed with this. Ex-cop with a grudge, dead dealers—I'd connect those dots too. But I'm not your guy."
Beth nodded, her expression neutral. She didn't want to alarm him, didn't want to let him see her thoughts on her face.
"We'd like to talk more about the others, though, if you don't mind," she said. "But first—mind if I use your restroom?"
"Down the hall, first door on the left," Walsh said, gesturing with his chin. "Light switch sticks sometimes."
Beth rose, stepping carefully around the coffee table. As she moved down the narrow hallway, the floorboards creaked beneath her feet. The bathroom was small, tiled in faded blue ceramic. She flipped the sticky light switch, waited through three flickers before the bulb stabilized.
After running the water for a moment, she opened the medicine cabinet—nothing unusual, just ibuprofen, band-aids, prescription naproxen for knee pain. She closed it quietly, then slipped back into the hallway.
Instead of returning directly to the living room, she paused at a partially open door opposite the bathroom. Through the gap, she glimpsed a workbench illuminated by a single desk lamp. Her training told her to walk away—no warrant, no permission—but something pulled her forward. She pushed the door open another inch.
The workspace was meticulously organized—tools hanging on a pegboard, labeled bins stacked along shelves. The bench itself was covered in fine sawdust, with a vise clamped to one end. What caught her eye, however, was a shelf above the bench, holding three small anchors, each gleaming with fresh polish.
Her pulse quickened. In the corner of the room stood a grinding wheel, and beside it, a bucket of what looked like metal polish. A logbook lay open, its pages filled with neat handwriting—dates, locations, restoration notes. She could make out words: "circa 1790," "recovered north channel," "bronze fluke repair."
The floor creaked behind her.
"Bathroom's the other way," Walsh said, his voice neutral.
Beth turned slowly, keeping her expression composed. "Sorry. The door was open—caught my eye."
Walsh reached past her and pushed the door wider, light spilling across his workshop. "Nothing to hide. Restoration's my retirement hobby—keeps my hands busy." He gestured at the anchors. "Colonial-era small craft anchors, mostly. Pull 'em up crabbing sometimes, fix 'em up when I can. I've been doing it for a number of years, but it used to be just a weekend thing. Now…" He chuckled humorlessly. "Now I've got all the time in the world, for better or worse."
Beth's gaze shifted to a map pinned to the wall—the Chesapeake Bay, marked with colored pins. "Wreck sites?"
"Some. Others are just good spots—where currents and silt preserve metal better." He stepped into the room, picked up one of the smaller anchors. "This one's mid-1700s, probably from a longboat. Found it near Kent Island." He turned it over in his hands, almost tenderly. "History you can hold."
Beth nodded, her mind racing. The anchors used to sink the victims weren't just similar—they were identical in style to these. "You ever sell these? Or donate to museums?"
"Sometimes. Gave a few to the Maritime Museum in St. Michaels." His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Just curious," Beth said, stepping back into the hallway. "Interesting hobby." She could feel her pulse hammering in her ears.
Walsh followed her, closing the workshop door behind him. "Emma used to dive with me for them. Had a knack for spotting metal in murky water." His voice was steady, but Beth caught the faint tremble in his hand as he reached for the light switch.
Back in the living room, Cole was standing, examining the photos on the shelf.
"Pretty girl," he said as they returned. "Looks like you."
"Had her mother's smile," Walsh replied. "And her stubbornness."
"What happened to her?"
A shadow crossed Walsh's face. "Brain aneurysm."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
Beth settled back onto the couch, her mind processing what she'd seen. Walsh had the expertise, the anchors, the connection to the victims, and the motive. But something felt off—his openness about Emma's death date, the unlocked workshop.
