Deep in the shadows, Ryan looked at her watch and sighed. Leave it to a weasel like Drew to keep her waiting. She should be back in her warm, dry apartment, having a glass of wine and trying to psych herself up for Betty’s birthday tomorrow.

Clubbing definitely wasn’t her scene. Just thinking about spending the evening listening to loud music, drinking, and fending off guys only interested in hooking up gave her the hives. But she would do it. She would go and pretend to have a good time for Betty’s sake, because Betty was her best friend and that was what friends did.

Instead of drinking wine and lamenting the rules of best friendship, however, she was standing in the drizzling rain and hoping her informant was keeping to his regular schedule.

Something had been niggling at the back of her mind since Jose appeared on the precinct steps three days earlier. Namely, his repeated sobs of “I’m sorry!” had been playing on repeat like some annoying song.

What had he been sorry for? And what, or more importantly who, had he been apologizing to?

She had pulled the reports and spoken to the officers who were handling the case. According to Jose’s statement, he had smoked a little too much of his own product and then had decided to crash on a small commercial fishing vessel. He vaguely remembered stumbling along the deck and falling into the water, subsequently getting himself entangled in the nets.

As Pam would say, that story didn’t hold water.

Jose couldn’t remember the name of the boat, nor exactly how he had come to be on it. Further questioning of local fishermen had failed to determine to whom the netting belonged, and everyone questioned along the docks had denied having seen Jose that night.

Something was definitely fishy.

The prevalent theory was that Jose had stepped on the toes of some other dealer, and what happened to him was a message.

The message part made sense. Dealers were very territorial and didn’t take kindly to someone infringing on theirs.

What didn’t make sense was that Jose had been delivered to the police station. If a rival dealer was behind Jose’s unfortunate netting, why not leave him out at the docks, swinging in the breeze for someone to find? That would serve as a warning, not just to Jose, but to anyone else who might be entertaining the idea of crossing a few of those boundary lines.

Putting him on display somewhere else would also be more in line with the typical modus operandi of those guys.

Drug dealers – even the small fish - had a kind of code. They had their own methods of dealing with things, and those methods usually did not involve drawing the attention of the police.

So Ryan had dug a little deeper, checking the records of drug-related activities over the past three months. The findings had been intriguing.

While the crime rate in the Golden Beach area as a whole had remained relatively consistent, drug busts were down and solicitation arrests were practically nonexistent. That inevitably led her to ask: if her department wasn’t cleaning up the streets, then who was? Did they have a possible vigilante on their hands?

Those were the questions that had her standing in the alleyway, muttering curses under her breath while amplifying her bad hair day. Drew would have answers. He was a weasel, but he was a weasel who knew what was going on.

Finally, a familiar looking figure appeared around the corner. His face was hidden beneath the overlarge hoodie, but Ryan would have recognized that cocky swagger anywhere. She waited until he walked by then fell into step with him.

“Hey, Drew.”

Drew cursed and sidestepped, but Ryan had anticipated the action and snagged his skinny wrist before he could take off.

“Jesus, Winslet. What gives?”

“It’s been a while since we’ve had a chat. What’s the matter, Drew? Aren’t you happy to see me?”

The man rolled his eyes and tugged on his wrist. “Not even a little.”

“Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings.”

He snorted. “What do you want? I’ve got things to do.”

Ryan tugged him back into the shadows where they wouldn’t be seen. She wasn’t any happier about having to reach out than he was, but Drew had proven pretty reliable in the past. In exchange for information, Ryan pretended she didn’t know about his weed shack out in the boonies, and he pretended that he didn’t have one.

Ryan released his wrist and crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Drew avoided her gaze as he lit a cigarette. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Drew. You can start with why Jose showed up on the steps of the precinct with crab claws attached to his manly bits.”

Drew winced and took a drag. “Dumb shit got wasted and went for a swim. What the hell do you care? One more lowlife off the streets, right?”

“See, that’s the thing,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “The streets around Golden Beach are a lot cleaner than they used to be, and I want to know why.”

“For Christ’s sake, you five-oh types are never happy. Isn’t there some saying about not looking a gift horse in the mouth?”

“Sure. And here’s another: it if seems too good to be true, it probably is.”

“You got that stitched on a pillow or something?”

“Drew. Quit stalling. What are you not telling me?”

Drew’s bravado flickered. He glanced around nervously as he took another drag off his cigarette. Flicking ashes to the ground, Drew quietly said, “You need to leave this one alone, Winslet.”

Her instincts flared. Drew had some of the biggest weasel balls around. His uncharacteristic anxiety was confirmation that something was going on. Something big was lurking just beneath the surface and she was more determined than ever to find out what it was.

With only a few feet between her and Drew, she stepped forward, holding up her cell phone screen so he could see the picture she had pulled up. “Recognize this? That’s you transporting what appears to be an illegal substance into that little shack you like to hole up in. This photo right here is enough probable cause for me to get a search warrant. So, unless you want your inventory to disappear and a lot of disappointed customers knocking on your door, I suggest you start talking.”

Momentary fear passed over his features, then he relaxed and smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile, either. A shiver ran up the length of her spine, though she’d be damned if she would show any weakness in front of her informant.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned, Winslet.”

“Consider me warned. Now enough with the ominous crap and just tell me already.”

The man shrugged then took another drag off his cigarette. “They call him the Shark.”

Ryan laughed, certain he was trying to yank her chain. “The Shark? Seriously? Who’s his rival, the Atomic Squid? Come on, Drew. That sounds like something out of a bad B movie.”

“You want this info or not? Because I’m about five seconds from walking.”

She waved her hand impatiently. “Keep going.”

Drew exhaled. “Fine. It’s your funeral.” After tapping the ashes off his cigarette again, he went on. “Like I said, word on the street is, they call him the Shark. Everyone who’s mentioned him says he’s a dangerous bastard, but he’s not your average player. This guy’s super slick.”

“How is he different?” Ryan asked, pictures of Jose with those crabs crawling all over him coming to mind.

Drew shrugged and looked around again. When he continued, his voice was lower, quieter. “Take my word for it. He just is. And he’s putting a lot of locals out of business, if you catch my drift.”

Ryan frowned. Usually, that kind of power shift only occurred with violence and extreme prejudice. Yet, from what she had been able to glean, there had been none of that. Everything had been done quietly and under the radar—crab netting incident notwithstanding—which was probably why no one was complaining. What kind of leverage did a man have to pull off something like that?

“So, what’s happening to these displaced entrepreneurs? Last I heard, that sort of attrition doesn’t qualify them for the unemployment line. Are they setting up somewhere else?”

Drew tensed, and the hand holding his cigarette started to tremble. “Look, Winslet, I don’t like you, but I’m telling you to leave this alone. Grab some donuts and look the other way like everyone else.”

Ryan frowned at his insinuation. “Everyone else? What exactly are you implying, Drew?”

“I’m saying,” he said clearly and with exaggerated patience, “that you need to wake up, Detective. No one gives a shit about people like me. Another small-time dealer, pimp, or hooker goes missing, that’s one less dreg the fine, upstanding citizens have to worry about.”

“But—”

“Let it go. We’re done here. Do what you gotta do, Winslet, but I’m outta here.” With that, Drew tossed his cigarette, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and then disappeared into the mist.

Ryan frowned into the darkness as she walked toward her car. She had more questions now than when she’d started. There were now two things she did know for certain, though. One, something big and fishy was definitely going on in Golden Beach, and two, she was going to find out what it was.