The Intelligence Unit Series

Shawn tried to swallow the curse in his throat, but the damn thing broke free anyway. He replayed Sinclair's words in his head, starting with the request-slash-command to call everyone back to the Thirty-Third, then rolling over the quick review of what he'd told them once they'd reassembled.

Dead body in North Point. ID was Alfie's. The photo patrol had sent over confirmed it. Apparent overdose.

This was going to be a long night.

"Can you drive?" he asked Frankie, who had fallen into step beside him as soon as they'd headed for the door to the Intelligence office. "I need to call Annette and make sure she can keep Isla tonight."

"Of course," Frankie said. She'd been unusually hard to read ever since Sinclair had come into the office with the news of a DOA, although that probably just meant that she was rattled and trying to cover it up. To be fair, her brave face was probably convincing everyone else in the unit, and Shawn had no doubt that she could still work the case. But damn it, between her past and what had happened to her friend, Val, an OD hit so close to home. Objective or not, it still had to smart.

Sliding into the passenger seat of their unmarked Dodge Charger, Shawn tackled the closest alligator to the boat; namely, that he had to make sure Isla was taken care of. He pulled Annette's number out of his contacts and hit send. Thankfully, she answered quickly, and double thankfully, she readily agreed to keep Isla for a last-minute sleepover.

"Thanks, Annette. Really. I just don't know how long this is going to take, and considering the circumstances, it'll probably be a while. I'll come by tomorrow to take her to breakfast, though. Give you a little time to yourself before I have to head back to work." "It's no trouble, Shawn," she said, and he found himself thinking-not for the first time-that she really ought to be sainted. "It sounds like you've got your hands full with something important. Not that I want to know what," she added. "But don't worry. Isla and I will have fun."

"Any chance she's close by?" he asked. "I'd like to talk to her for a second."

Isla had grown more comfortable talking to him, Annette, Frankie, and Dr. Easton this week; at least, by way of three- and four-word sentences here and there. Shawn didn't want to miss out on talking with her at least a little bit tonight, and anyway, reassuring Isla that a last-minute change in plans didn't mean he wasn't coming back for her couldn't be a bad idea.

"Hey, Isla," he said a minute later. "Are you there, kid?"

"Yes," she said, and instantly, he smiled.

"I just wanted to let you know that I got stuck at work, so you're going to stay at Annette's tonight, okay?"

"You're coming back tomorrow?" she asked cautiously.

"Yep, absolutely," he promised. "I'll be by in the morning, after you get up and get dressed. I'll take you out for pancakes, okay?"

Isla paused. "Can Mr. Prickles come?"

Shawn huffed out a laugh. "Of course. Everybody knows that porcupines love blueberry pancakes. I'll see you in the morning, kid. Be good for Annette."

He ended the call, then turned his attention back to the case. Dispatch didn't have anything other than what they already knew, which meant they were in a holding pattern until they got to the scene. Speculating without facts was dangerous-it was shocking how, subconsciously, those first seeds of a theory could take root, and Shawn had seen it happen too many times to want to risk it, especially in this case. But Frankie was far too quiet, and about this, he didn't think twice.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked.

She exhaled a shaky breath, her expression flickering with sadness. "I'll be okay," she promised. "It just might take me a minute. I mean, I know Alfie wasn't the world's most sterling guy, but that conversation he and I had last night reminded me that he's just an addict, you know? Or, I guess, he was." She shook her head. "He got himself to a crossroads and just went the wrong direction."

"It looks that way," Shawn said, and Frankie threw him a curve ball.

"Do you think it was an accident?"

"What?" Beck had been pissed last night, sure, but... "You think Beck had something to do with Alfie's overdose?"

"I don't know? Maybe? It's pretty far-fetched, but he's capable of worse. Alfie seemed to really piss him off last night."

Okay, she wasn't wrong. Still. "He stands to lose his cover now that Alfie's dead, though," Shawn pointed out. Beck had angled everything under a veil of reasonable doubt, with Alfie at the center of it. Frankie nodded. "True. Still, something about this feels awfully coincidental."

"Let's see what the scene looks like," Shawn said. "With Alfie's involvement in our case, Sinclair will have the whole thing processed by a crime scene unit, just to be sure we don't miss anything. But for now..." "Occam's razor, I know," Frankie said, the sadness in her voice unmistakable. "The simplest answer is usually the best answer. Chances are, this isn't a crime scene at all."

The rest of the ride into North Point was as quiet as it was uneventful. The scene was already occupied by a patrol car and an ambulance, both with lights blazing. Thankfully, whoever was on patrol had already taped off a pretty wide area for the crime scene unit, and Sinclair's voice came over the secure line on the radio. "Maxwell and Rossi, hold your position until the scene is clear."

"Copy that," Shawn responded. Working undercover meant taking necessary precautions to make sure covers remained intact, even though with their remote location opposite the pier, there probably weren't any looky-loos (or, okay, anyone at all) to contend with. There definitely wasn't any press out here in the middle of nowhere, and the nearby warehouses were all abandoned. Plus, only four people knew Shawn and Frankie as their cover identities, and now one of those people was dead. It wasn't a cheerful thought.

The all-clear arrived a few minutes later, and Shawn double-checked to make sure his badge was visible around his neck since the crime scene unit had just rolled up. "You ready?" he asked Frankie as she put her own badge at her hip and nodded.

"As I'm ever going to be."

They got out of the car, both surveying the scene from the outskirts in. Although there was a cluster of four-story warehouses at the end of the block, they were all dark and-if their state of disrepair was any indication-long-since abandoned. As Shawn had suspected, there weren't any bystanders to keep at bay all the way out here. The whole area was desolate, dead empty of anyone not actively working the crime scene response. The road where Frankie had parked hit an abrupt dead end where it met a narrow field that eventually led to the water, with the pier a few blocks north, on the opposite side of the water. The pier itself was covered in shadow, outlined only by the post lights and the flashing red beacons marking the end of the structure. A well-worn path cut from the crumbling asphalt down through a scraggly overgrowth of mostly dead weeds, leading to an embankment that was now brightly lit by a pair of spotlights. Alfie's lifeless body lay slumped on the ground between them.

"Damn it," Shawn muttered, a pang of unease taking root in his gut. This case could not go tits up now. They were too close to taking Beck down. "Okay, let's see what we've got."

He and Frankie made their way to the spot where Sinclair stood with the rest of the unit, about twenty paces from the crime scene. Officers Lucinda Dade and Xander Matthews were there, too, and that was one silver lining, at least. Dade and Matthews were as solid and smart as patrol cops got, despite the fact that she had twenty years of experience to his two, and they were pretty much polar opposites in every way otherwise.

"Dade, Matthews," Shawn said, lifting his chin in greeting at the pair. "This is Detective Rossi, from Atlanta Vice. She's working a UC case with us. The DOA here was one of our secondary targets."

"Good to meet you," Frankie said to both officers. "I take it you two made the find?"

"Yes, ma'am," Xander said, splitting a gaze between her and Shawn. "It was a bit of a weird one. I was just telling Sergeant Sinclair that the call came in over the non-emergency police line." Shawn's brows popped. "A report of a person down as a non-emergency? That's a new one."

"Well, it would be," Dade said, "if that was what the call was for. But dispatch said all the caller claimed to see was 'something suspicious' in one of the fields behind these warehouses." She gestured to the abandoned buildings, now heavily cloaked in shadow and dusk. "To be honest, we thought it'd be a wild goose chase. Someone down here, squatting in the building or getting high, at worst."

"You get a lot of calls for that around here?" Frankie asked.

"Calls? Not really," Xander said. "But patrol does sweep this area from time to time, and these warehouses have been abandoned for six, maybe eight months now. They're boarded up, but..."

"People find a way in," Shawn finished. Unfortunately, it wasn't terribly uncommon for this part of North Point. Squatters hunkered down during the day to avoid being seen, but you could almost always count on at least a few in abandoned buildings like these, especially in colder weather. "So, what did you find when you got here?"

Dade said, "At first, nothing unusual. But then, we got down to the embankment, and saw the DOA. Matthews checked for signs of life and didn't find any. The guy's wallet was visible in his back pocket, so we pulled it for an ID. After we called it in and found out he was part of your case, we secured the scene."

They walked through a few more particulars, although they were mostly standard issue questions with answers Shawn had expected. No witnesses, nothing else out of the ordinary, no footprints around the body or visible signs of foul play. Sinclair thanked both Matthews and Dade, who promised they'd do a fast turnaround on their report and call if they came up with anything further.

"Okay," Sinclair said, surveying the scene. "Hollister, you and Hale do another check of the block and the surrounding area leading to the embankment from all sides. Make sure there's nothing that got missed. Isabella, you and Garza call Capelli and bring him up to speed. Let's see if we can piece together a timeline for Alfie's whereabouts from the time he left our meeting spot last night until now. Cell phone records, credit card use, I want everything. Maxwell, Rossi"-he looked at them both, then at the spot where the CSU was beginning to process the scene-"this is your case. You're on lead with the crime scene unit."

"Yes, sir," Frankie said. Turning toward Shawn, she headed for the embankment, her strides careful and even. Now that night had fully fallen, the air around them was frigid, and Shawn fought a shiver as he and Frankie took the dozen or so steps to the brightly lit stretch of grass where Alfie lay.

"Here you go," the crime scene tech closest to them said, offering up two pairs of nitrile gloves. "We've already had the photographer take a few shots, so you can move him a little if you need to."

"Understood, thanks," Shawn said. Alfie's skin already held the white-blue pallor of a body that hadn't possessed a heartbeat for a while, and Shawn forced himself to push aside the emotion tapping at his chest at not only the sight of Alfie, but the grim expression on Frankie's face as she took in the scene. "What can you tell us?" Frankie asked the woman, whose laminated badge identified her as Rose Kenner.

"No obvious wounds or deformities that would suggest cause of death," Kenner replied, matter of fact. "Body temperature and rigor mortis suggest a time of death as within the last twenty-four hours, although the ME will likely be able to narrow that window once he does a full exam. We found a used hypodermic needle beside the body-the photographer took a few shots of exact placement before I bagged it-and the track marks on the DOA's right arm suggest recent drug use. There are three that are easily visible"-she indicated Alfie's sleeve, which was pushed halfway up his forearm-"but again, the ME will do a more thorough exam."

Shawn crouched down, and sure enough, the tiny needle punctures, all in a row, looked fresh. "Is there any chance he died of exposure?" It was a long shot, he knew, but it had been pretty cold today.

Kenner's brows bent in thought. "On the record, I really couldn't speculate," she said.

"But off the record?" Frankie asked, and Kenner nodded.

"I don't think it's likely. Environmental hypothermia cases are pretty rare when the temperature is above freezing, and last night's low was thirty-five. Plus, he's wearing a coat."

Frankie nodded. "So the cold alone shouldn't have killed him."

"It's not impossible," Kenner said, "but also not probable. Even if there was enough drug or alcohol use to make him black out here, he'd likely have survived the cold with some minimal hypothermia. Maybe some frostbite. But I doubt the cold would have been enough to kill him on its own. My best guess, unofficially, is that the cause of death is an overdose."

Shawn considered the facts, his mind spinning for the connections, all the possibilities. "Have you checked his pockets yet?"

Kenner shook her head. "That is a 'you' job, Detective. I wouldn't want to compromise the integrity of any evidence."

At that, the slightest hint of appreciation flickered through Frankie's eyes, but it was gone the same instant it had appeared. Kneeling down, she patted the outside of Alfie's jacket pockets, then gingerly checked inside of both, producing two baggies, one half-full of pills and the other empty, other than a coating of powder that Shawn would bet was heroin.

"We'll need to get this to the lab," Frankie said, taking the evidence bags Kenner offered to collect the baggies per protocol.

"No cell phone?" Shawn asked, although he really knew better than to hope.

Frankie shook her head, and Kenner said, "Sorry to say we haven't found one in the preliminary search. But, of course, if that changes, I'll let you know."

"Thanks," Shawn said. In truth, finding Alfie's cell phone probably wouldn't give them anything terribly useful. The track marks were a pretty clear indicator that the guy had fallen off the wagon too hard. They'd have to wait for the autopsy to know anything conclusive, and in the meantime, they had to figure out how to keep the deal with Beck from caving in.

"What are you thinking?" he asked Frankie as they stepped back to let the crime scene techs continue their work.

Her exhale rode out on a humorless laugh. "I'm thinking that this sucks."

"It does," Shawn agreed. He gave her a minute to keep processing, her eyes moving over the scene and her brows tucked in thought.

"And I'm also thinking that we're not going to get very far without the autopsy results."

Again, Shawn nodded. "Sinclair can rush them so we can rule out foul play."

Frankie's chin hiked. "Or rule it in."

"You really think Beck's behind this?" Shawn asked. Not that he'd put it past the guy, because if anyone was capable of killing his own cousin-or enabling Alfie to do it himself-it was Beck. Still, he probably wouldn't do it without a damn good reason, especially since they were so close to getting this deal done.

"I don't know," Frankie said. "But I do know that we can't give him the benefit of the doubt. If he had something to do with this"-she looked at Alfie's lifeless body, her expression grim-"then chances are, he's as dangerous as ever."

Dread filled Shawn's gut like wet cement, and he finished the thought written all over her face.

"And that means that if we don't play this exactly right and take him down once and for all, we could be next."