The wind off Lake Erie tastes of salt and industrial grease. It bites through Tamsin’s wool coat, finding the thin cotton of her scrubs. At three in the morning, the pier is a graveyard of rusted shipping containers and frozen slush. Detective Calderon stands with her hands deep in her pockets, her breath a ghost in the sodium light. Below them, the black water of the terminal slaps rhythmically against the pylons.
A heavy body bag sits at their feet, slick with freezing rain. Roman Lytkin watches from ten paces back. He is a shadow against the crane, his presence a silent weight that Tamsin feels in the small of her back. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. This is his pier, and the man inside the plastic is a trespasser on Bratva ground. Tamsin kneels, her fingers numb as she reaches for the heavy-duty pull.
She expects a floater, a nameless victim of a debt gone sour. Instead, the plastic parts to reveal a face she hasn't seen in eleven years. The skin is grey, but the sharp line of the jaw is unmistakable. It is ASAC Joaquin Reyes. The zipper on the black body bag catches halfway down, snagging on a familiar gold tie clip.
