The woman, clad in a black pantsuit and crisp white shirt, was about Nate’s age, midforties, sharp features, thin lips. Her blond hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she had the downturned mouth of an angry carp. The man was a tall, broad-chested black guy with a military-style buzz cut. The tailored navy suit he wore looked like it cost more than Nate’s annual salary.

“I’m Detective Sweeney.”

The woman shook first Nate’s then Lieutenant Dyson’s hand. “I’m Special Agent Lisa Hamilton. This is Special Agent Phil Greene. We’re from the Seattle division of the Drug Enforcement Administration. You’ve been in contact with some of our colleagues at the Seattle PD. Sorry it took so long for us to get in touch. There were some… politics that needed to be sorted out.”

“Why don’t we talk in my office?” Dyson led the agents across the room, his lopsided swagger more pronounced than ever. Nate followed.

Dyson closed the door. Agent Hamilton sat in one of the small plastic chairs, but Agent Greene leaned against the door, his arms crossed.

“How can we help you?” Dyson asked.

Hamilton tossed a thick file on Dyson’s desk. “With oxycodone use and mortality rates at an all-time high, we’ve been using local informants to try to find the dealers responsible. Your guy, Santiago Martinez, was one of our confidential informants. He turned state’s witness a few months back to avoid jail time, and we were getting information from him until he dropped out of contact a few days ago.”

Nate flipped through the file. There were police reports, news articles, a few pages detailing Santiago Martinez’s past convictions. Crime scene reports, handwritten notes, printed emails. Evidence.

“A few months back he pleaded guilty in federal court to smuggling fifteen hundred grams of fentanyl and selling to an undercover agent,” Hamilton continued. “He transported the fentanyl from Seattle around western Washington. After we arrested him, he agreed to help us go after a larger supplier in the chain, so we sealed the case.”

Nate glanced at Dyson. “A larger supplier?”

“He told us about this gang he works with out here. Said they got themselves a bunch of fentanyl and oxy. The black-market oxy business is booming, right? And fentanyl is cheap. So this gang, they decided to take advantage and sell both. But they’re smart. They’ve kept it small, so they’ve stayed off the radar. They don’t get involved in land wars or killings or any of that cartel shit.”

“Did he tell you who it was?” Nate asked.

“Nope. He died first,” Hamilton said. Her partner leaned against the wall, hulking and silent. “We figure somebody found out he’d been talking to us.”