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"What's your point, Gabe?"
"No point. Just reminiscing." Gabriel smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Unless, of course, there's something else you think we should know about. Something not in these official records."
The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches. Sheila found herself unconsciously shifting her weight, ready to move if needed. But Ray wasn't looking at her anymore. His attention was entirely on Gabriel, and in his eyes, Sheila saw calculation—a man weighing his options, measuring risks and consequences.
Finally, Ray spoke again, keeping his voice low. "Not here. Meet me out back in ten minutes. And leave the badges in the car."
Sheila and Gabriel exchanged glances. This was the moment where their investigation could break either way—Ray could give them what they needed, or this could be a setup. Sheila studied her father's face, looking for any sign of what he was thinking.
"Ten minutes," Gabriel agreed.
Outside, the sun had dipped lower, casting the back alley in deep shadows. Sheila leaned against their vehicle while Gabriel paced slowly, his limp more pronounced after hours of walking.
"Want to tell me what happened in '98?" she asked.
Gabriel paused his pacing. "Someone was stealing equipment from Fort Douglas—night vision, tactical gear, even some weapons. ATF suspected an inside job, but they couldn't prove anything."
"And Ray was involved?"
"Let's just say there was a lot of circumstantial evidence pointing his way." Gabriel looked toward the store's back door. "But sometimes it's better to have leverage than a conviction."
"So you what—helped bury it?"
"I helped ensure the equipment found its way back to the base. No questions asked." He met her eyes. "Sometimes the by-the-book approach isn't the best way to handle things."
There it was again—that gulf between them, filled with her father's compromises and justifications. How many other times had he bent the rules, made deals, kept secrets?
And had those decisions contributed to her mother's death?
Before she could pursue that line of thought, the store's back door opened. Ray emerged, carrying a laptop. He glanced around the alley before approaching them.
"This doesn't leave here," he said quietly. "I've got a business to protect."
"As long as what you tell us is useful," Sheila said, earning a sharp look from her father.
Ray's jaw worked for a moment. "I keep... alternate records. Cash transactions, special orders. Things that don't go in the official books."
"Illegal sales," Sheila said flatly.
"Gray market," Ray corrected. "Nothing that would hurt anyone. Just collectors, enthusiasts, people who prefer privacy."
He opened the laptop, pulling up a spreadsheet. "About four months ago, guy comes in asking about high-end night vision. Military grade, latest generation. Said he needed it for spelunking. Actually makes sense—lot of serious cavers use night vision these days. Better depth perception than regular flashlights."
Sheila thought about the killer moving through the mine tunnels with such confidence. "Did you get a name?"
"Paul Wilson." Ray's mouth twisted. "Obviously fake. Paid cash, had all the right paperwork, but something felt off about him."
"What do you mean?" Sheila pressed.
Ray shifted uncomfortably. "Way he moved, the way he carried himself. Military training, maybe special forces. And he knew too much about the equipment—asked about specific models, technical specifications. Not your typical civilian buyer."
"Description?" Gabriel asked.
"Tall, lean. Gray in his beard. Older guy, maybe fifty-five, sixty. Carried himself like someone used to being in charge." Ray scrolled through his spreadsheet. "Bought a pair of PVS-15s. Top of the line, about twelve grand worth."
"You remember anything else about him?" Sheila asked. "Any distinguishing features?"
Ray frowned, thinking. "He wore a cross. Silver, simple design. Caught my eye because it looked old, like a family heirloom maybe."