The marina smelled like money and saltwater. Max parked three blocks away and walked, collar up against the wind coming off the Hudson.
Fair Winds sat in slip forty-two—sixty feet of gleaming white fiberglass and teak. Lights off. No security visible. The gangway was down.
Too easy.
Max climbed aboard anyway.
The deck was spotless. No evidence anyone had been here recently. He tried the cabin door. Locked, but the mechanism was cheap. Thirty seconds with his wallet's hidden picks and he was inside.
The cabin was all leather and polished wood. Bar stocked with top-shelf liquor. Flat-screen TV. Navigation equipment that probably cost more than most people's cars.
Max pulled latex gloves from his pocket—he always carried them—and started searching.
Nothing in the galley. Nothing in the head. The sleeping quarters were clean except for expensive sheets and the faint smell of cigar smoke.
He was about to give up when he noticed the safe behind a painting of a sailboat. A painting that was slightly crooked.
The safe was digital. Six-digit code. Max pulled out his phone, opened the photo he'd taken of the Mayor at the gala. Zoomed in on his watch. Paused the video footage someone had posted online, caught the Mayor checking his phone. PIN code visible for half a second.
People were predictable.
Max tried the code. The safe clicked open.
Inside: fifty thousand in cash, a Rolex, some jewelry, and a manila folder.
Max pulled out the folder. Inside were contracts. Property deals. All involving Caldwell Development Corporation and the city. All requiring the Mayor's signature for permits and zoning changes.
All dated within the past six months.
And all of them marked with a red stamp: CONFIDENTIAL - THE COLLECTIVE.
Max's blood went cold.
The Collective. He'd heard whispers. Old money families. Politicians. Business titans. People who actually ran New York from the shadows.
His father's name had come up in those whispers.
"Don't move."
Max didn't turn around. "Detective Chen. How did you find me?"
"I followed you from your house." Her voice came from the cabin entrance. "What are you doing on the Mayor's yacht?"
"Research."
"That's called breaking and entering."
"Only if someone presses charges. Given what's in this safe, I doubt the Mayor wants police attention." Max carefully placed the folder on the table, raised his hands. "You should see this."
"I should arrest you."
"You could. Or you could look at evidence that explains why your victim died tonight."
Silence. Then footsteps. Chen moved into the cabin, gun still drawn but lowered slightly. She glanced at the open safe, the folder.
"Talk. Fast."
"Harrison Caldwell was involved in property deals with the Mayor. Deals that required bending rules. Someone wanted him dead before these contracts became public." Max gestured at the folder. "The question is who benefits from his death and the deals staying hidden."
Chen picked up the folder with one hand, keeping her gun ready with the other. She flipped through pages, her expression darkening.
"This is…"
"Corruption. Fraud. Possibly racketeering." Max lowered his hands. "And that stamp—The Collective—that's something bigger. Something worth killing over."
"How did you know this was here?"
"A tip."
"From who?"
Max hesitated. "Someone reliable."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Chen closed the folder. "We need to bring this to the precinct. Get a warrant, do this properly."
"And alert everyone involved that we found it? The Mayor has connections. This disappears within an hour of you filing paperwork."
"So what do you suggest? We steal evidence?"
"We photograph it. Return it. Build a case properly while they think they're safe." Max pulled out his phone. "Unless you'd rather play by rules written by people in that folder."
Chen stared at him. "I hate that you're making sense."
"It happens occasionally."
She holstered her gun. "Fine. Photograph everything. But we do this my way from here on out. No more breaking into boats."
"I make no promises."
"Blackwell—"
"Start with page three. That's where it gets interesting."
They worked in silence for ten minutes. Max photographed every page while Chen kept watch. The deals were worse than he'd thought. Housing projects canceled. Parks sold to developers. Historical buildings demolished. All for profit. All stamped with The Collective's mark.
"My father was part of this," Max said quietly.
Chen looked up. "What?"
"The Collective. I've heard the name before. Connected to my family." He photographed another page. "Whatever Caldwell was involved in, my father likely was too."
"That doesn't mean—"
"It means my entire life might be built on this kind of corruption." Max's hands were steady, but his voice wasn't. "Everything I thought I knew about my family, about what I inherited—it could all be blood money."
Chen moved closer. "Max. We don't know that."
"Don't we?" He met her eyes. "Be honest, Detective. When you look at me, what do you see? Spoiled rich kid playing detective? Someone who never earned anything? Someone who got everything handed to him?"
"I see someone who's better at this than he wants to admit."
Max blinked. "What?"
"You were right about the bracelet. I checked. Mrs. Caldwell was standing exactly where you said she was. Three feet from where witnesses claimed." Chen crossed her arms. "The Mayor lied. Multiple witnesses lied. They created a coordinated false alibi."
"Then why—"
"Because something bigger is happening here. And whoever killed Caldwell wanted you specifically to look stupid." Chen pulled out her own phone, showed him a text. "I got this an hour ago."
The message read: "Detective Chen—check Caldwell's head of security. Apartment 4B, 247 Morrison Street. Don't bring Blackwell. He'll just mess it up again. - A Friend"
Max felt ice in his stomach. "The head of security."
"Gary Morrison. I sent officers to do a welfare check." Chen's face was grim. "They found him dead. Apparent suicide. Gun in his hand, note on the table."
"It wasn't suicide."
"The note confessed to killing Caldwell. Said he did it for money. That Vanessa Caldwell paid him."
Max shook his head. "It's a frame. Someone's cleaning up witnesses. Morrison knew something—"
His phone buzzed. Another text from M.
"Found the yacht? Good. Now get out. You have company in 90 seconds. - M"
Max grabbed Chen's arm. "We need to leave. Now."
"What? Why—"
Voices outside. Footsteps on the dock. At least three people.
"Told you," Max whispered.
Chen killed the lights. They moved to the cabin's rear exit. Max eased the door open. The gangway was blocked—two men in suits were boarding.
"Back window," Chen whispered.
They climbed out onto the rear deck. The water looked very cold and very far down.
"You're joking," Max said.
"Can you swim?"
"In a three-piece Tom Ford suit?"
"Would you prefer explaining to those men why we're on the Mayor's yacht?"
Max looked at the approaching figures, then at the water.
"I really hate being wrong twice in one night."
He jumped.
The Hudson was exactly as cold as it looked. Max surfaced, gasping, to find Chen already swimming toward the next dock over. He followed, trying to keep his head above water and his phone dry.
They climbed out two slips down, soaking wet and freezing.
"Your car?" Chen asked through chattering teeth.
"Three blocks."
They ran.
Max's Bentley was where he'd left it. He had spare keys in a magnetic case under the wheel well—expensive cars attracted thieves. They collapsed inside, shivering.
"Heat," Chen managed. "Max. Heat."
He started the engine, cranked the temperature to maximum. They sat there, dripping on leather seats worth thousands of dollars, breathing hard.
"Who were those people?" Chen asked.
"Security. Private. The kind who don't ask questions."
"The Mayor's people?"
"Or The Collective's. Same thing, possibly." Max pulled out his phone. Miraculously still working. The texts from M were still there. "Someone's helping us. Someone who knows what we're going to find before we find it."
"Your mysterious source."
"Yes."
"Who is it?"
Max typed: "Thank you for the warning. We need to meet."
The response came immediately: "Not yet. First, prove you're worth my time. The sommelier at tonight's gala—Pierre Duvall. He saw who switched the glasses. Find him before the killers do. Tick tock. - M"
Max showed Chen the message.
"Pierre Duvall," she said. "I have his address from the witness list."
"Then let's hope we're not too late."
Chen grabbed the door handle, then paused. "Max. When we get there. Don't go in first this time."
"Excuse me?"
"You almost got us caught on that yacht. Let me do my job. Please."
Max wanted to argue. Wanted to explain that he knew what he was doing, that his methods worked, that he—
He was soaking wet because he'd walked into a trap.
"Fine," he said. "Your lead."
Chen looked surprised. "Really?"
"Don't make me regret it."
She almost smiled. "Drive, Blackwell. Before we freeze to death in your expensive car."
Max drove. His phone buzzed one more time.
"Oh, and Maximilian? You look terrible in wet clothes. Next time, use the front entrance and walk away like you own the place. Confidence sells more lies than any disguise. - M"
Max glanced at the yacht. In the window of the cabin they'd just escaped, a figure stood silhouetted against the interior lights. Tall. Slim. Watching.
The figure raised one hand in a small wave.
Then the lights went out.
"Hell," Max whispered.
"What?"
"Nothing. Drive faster."