“I have no idea. Candy doesn’t usually follow dangerous stories, so this is confusing.” Dana rubbed her hands down her jeans. “I met with Albert once, and he was sketchy. I knew he had more information.” Her voice hardened. “I conducted a deep dive, discovered his affiliation with Captive, and was going to expose him unless he told me everything he knew.”

None of that sounded good. “Any chance your friend is still alive?”

Dana pressed her lips together. “I’ve been interviewed by the police detectives a couple of times, trying to give them a lead or two for Candy, but I just didn’t know anything. They shared some of the facts of the case the way they would for any friend of a missing person. The blood in her apartment was identified as belonging to her, and there was enough that the doctors said no way could somebody survive losing that much.”

“I’m sorry,” Wolfe said. Not just for the deceased journalist, but for the fact that Dana wouldn’t stop until she found out who had taken her friend, regardless of the danger.

“Me too,” Dana murmured. She patted the now closed binder on the table. “I also stopped by the newspaper where Candy worked; her assistant had already made me a copy of her notebook before handing the original over to the police. We’re old friends, too.” She flipped open copied pages that had been placed in a binder. “It’s all in code, and I haven’t been able to figure out how to break it, yet. Her assistant has no clue, either. Candy was secretive that way.”

Maybe Brigid could help when she returned. Wolfe made a mental note to give her a call. “I don’t suppose you’d agree to just go home to your parents’ house in Tennessee for a couple of weeks and let me handle this?” he asked.

Her snort was kind of cute and not a surprise.

His phone buzzed, and he looked down to read a text from Brigid. Finally. “I have a line on the guys who shot at us from the black truck.”

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

The house was on the outskirts of D.C., in an area of town that Wolfe had never been. Lawns were small and burned, porches sagged, and paint peeled. A drug deal went down at the far corner, and feral cats fought near an overturned garbage can across the pothole-riddled concrete.

Clouds hung low and dark as if the sun didn’t dare to enter the neighborhood.

He drove by the address Brigid had given him, peering for a good alleyway to hide his truck. “I’m not comfortable leaving my truck around here.” The tires and wheels would be gone in seconds.