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If Bess was surprised to hear from me again so soon, she didn’t let on.

“Do you have more questions about Oliver?” she said.

“I do.

I’m wondering if you know anything about an old duffel bag he had? It might have been something he tried to hide.”

“You mean like a go bag?”

“No, more of a storage bag for a hobby he had.”

“Hobby?”

Bess sounded dubious.

“The only hobby Oliver had was kayaking, if you can call that a hobby.”

“He doesn’t have a duffel stashed away in a closet or under a bed? Or maybe he was using something else, like a box of some sort?”

There was a long pause and then Bess said, “Where is this coming from, Ms. Carver?”

“It’s Carter, and please, call me Morgan.

Sorry to sound so mysterious.

I just finished talking to a friend of Oliver’s, his old college roommate, Jim Cochran?”

“Did he loan Oliver a duffel bag?”

“No, he said Oliver had a secret hobby and that there was a duffel he used to keep under his bed that was filled with some of the items related to this hobby.

I was just wondering if you knew about anything like that.”

“Secret hobby?”

She laughed and it did give me pause, making me wonder if I was building something out of nothing.

“What kind of secret hobby?”

I figured I might as well tell her.

Beating around the bush wasn’t working.

“Treasure hunting.”

I tossed it out there and waited for her reaction.

“Oh, that,”

she said with relief.

“Yeah, he has some stuff from when he was a kid and used to think he could find buried treasures.

He drew maps and had a small shovel and some books, I think.

And an old metal detector.

He found some arrowheads, coins, and stuff like that but no real treasure that I know of.”

“Is that stuff there at your place?”

“Not anymore.

Oliver has a small unit at a storage facility that he uses to store his kayaks in the winter.

His mother lives here in Green Bay, and when she sold her house and downsized a couple of years ago, she made him come and get some old boxes he’d had stored there for years.

He didn’t want to toss the stuff out, but we didn’t have room for any of it in our apartment, so he put the boxes in the storage unit.

I’m pretty sure the duffel bag is there, too.”

“Do you have the key to the unit?”

“I don’t.

Oliver had it on his key ring with all his other keys and I’m not sure where they ended up.

The cops might have them.

Or they might have given them to his mother.”

“Do you know the name of the storage facility?”

“Um .

.

.

I think it’s called Safe Storage? I’ve only been there once, and I sat in the car while Oliver got something out of the unit.

I know it’s on University Avenue here in Green Bay.”

“Do you know the number of his unit?”

“Sorry, no,”

she said apologetically.

“How did he pay for it? Might there be a bill somewhere that would have the unit number on it?”

“You know .

.

. hold on.”

I heard her walking across her apartment, the floor squeaking beneath her feet, and then the rustling of some papers.

There was a clunking sound—her cell phone getting dropped onto a surface, perhaps—and then the sound of drawers opening and closing and more papers shuffling.

I’d resigned myself to failure when she picked up her phone and said, “Got it.

It’s number fifty-nine.

And I was right about the name of the place.

It’s called Safe Storage.”

I jotted the information down.

“Thank you, Bess.

That’s a huge help.

Sorry to have bothered you again.”

I was about to end the call when she said, “Morgan, what’s this got to do with Oliver’s death?”

“I don’t know, Bess.

Maybe nothing.

I’m just following some random ideas to see if they flesh out into anything.”

Like a lake monster.

“Will you let me know if they do?”

“I will.”

I ended the call and then placed one to Jon Flanders.

I expected to get his voice mail but was surprised when he answered.

“Chief Flanders.”

“Jon, hi.

It’s Morgan.

Any word on Marty?”

“No, I’m afraid not.

I promise, I’ll let you know as soon as there’s any news.”

“Okay.

I had another reason for calling.

I really need to get my hands on Oliver Sykes’s keys.

Do you know if the family has them or if the sheriffs kept them?”

“There was a set of keys he left behind at the house he and his pals rented, meaning the sheriffs probably have them.

Technically they’re evidence, and until the case is solved and closed, they will remain evidence.”

“Any chance you can borrow them for a spell?”

“Why?”

“And can you also take a ride with me to Green Bay?”

“Not unless you tell me why.”

“Oliver Sykes has a storage unit there I want to poke around in.

It’s at a place called Safe Storage on University Avenue in Green Bay.

Unit number fifty-nine.

His girlfriend told me he had some things in it that might be helpful.”

“Like what?”

“Treasure maps?”

I said in a tone of voice that let him know I knew this answer sounded silly.

He sighed.

“Tell me the rest.”

“Can I do it on the ride there?”

“Why can’t you tell me now?”

“I’m trying to save you money.

I told you what my hourly rate is, and I can spend your money telling you everything now over the phone or do it when you’ll be spending it anyway taking me there.

Up to you.”

He sighed again and I sensed a hint of irritation to it.

“I can’t leave here for another hour and with the ferry ride .

.

.

I can be at your store by four.

And we’ll have to stop in Sturgeon Bay to sign out the keys from the evidence locker there.”

This trip would mean leaving Rita alone to manage the store for a few hours, but I knew she could handle it.

“I’ll tell you what,”

I said.

“If you do this with me, I won’t start the clock until we get to the address in Green Bay and I’ll bill only for the time that we’re actually at the storage facility.

Fair enough?”

“You drive a hard bargain, Morgan Carter,”

he teased.

I scoffed at that.

“If you think that’s bad, just try to talk me down in price for some of the more unique items here at the store.”

“Like I’d buy anything from your store,”

he said, scoffing right back at me.

“You hurt my feelings, Chief Flanders.”

“Yeah, well, turnabout is fair play.

See you in a few.”

With that, he ended the call, leaving me to wonder what he’d meant by that comment.

After pondering it for a few minutes, I went out to the main part of the store, delighted to see that Rita had arrived already, though I was also surprised to see that Devon was still working, helping a lady choose some mysteries from the bookshelves.

Devon’s a natural salesman and well-read, and of the handful of books he recommended to the woman, she chose three.

Once the woman carried her books over to Rita, who was manning the cash register, I pulled Devon aside.

“I told you that you can take the rest of the day off.”

“I was going to, but Anne called a little bit ago and said she was going to cover some extra hours for a coworker who just called in sick, so our date has been postponed.

I figured I might as well stay and work.

Hope that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

He looked disappointed, but I had something I thought might cheer him up a little.

“It’s not only okay, it’s a huge help to me.

Can you stay until closing?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

“And as long as you’re here, I have a new project for you.”

That earned me his trademark cockeyed smile.

“You’ve been all over the map with this case, Morgan.

I barely have time to finish one project and you’ve got me working on another one.”

“I know.

I’m sorry.

I’ll pay you a bonus for all your extra work.

It’s just that I keep thinking there has to be a connection between these two men and I can’t find it.”

“Do you want me to abandon the Plymouth search?” he asked.

“No, I’m convinced it means something.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that both Marty and Oliver Sykes wrote it down.

But put it on a back burner and work on this new idea for now.

Oliver Sykes had an interest in treasure hunting.

It might be that it’s just something left over from when he was a kid, but given where we are and where these deaths occurred—”

“You’re interested in any treasure that might have gone down with some of the hundreds of ships in Death’s Door?”

“Yes.

The more obscure, the better.

If Oliver Sykes was truly invested in treasure seeking, he wouldn’t have gone after the common ones that everyone else knows about because those, if they existed, would have been found and well picked over by now.

He’d have gone after something few, if any, people know about, or something that’s been searched for and never found.”

“Finding something like that online could be a challenge,”

Devon said.

“I’ll have to search through message boards and chat rooms.”

Despite the negativity of his words, there was a definite hint of excitement in his voice.

“Do you know if Oliver participated in any of those?”

Devon shook his head.

“No, but it’s the proverbial needle in a haystack.

Now, if I had his personal computer, that would be a different story.”

“I’m going to work on that,”

I said.

“But do what you can in the meantime.”

* * *

? ? ?

When Jon Flanders finally walked into my store, it was nearly four thirty.

I was pacing with impatience, making Newt and my employees anxious.

My gut told me I was on the right track with this treasure idea but when I tried to come up with a summary for Jon of what I’d done and found out so far, it sounded thinner than the air atop Mount Everest.

All my scientific instincts told me there was no lake monster, at least not one that was killing people, yet I had no way to prove it.

It’s next to impossible to prove that something doesn’t exist.

What I had to do instead was to prove that whatever was behind these deaths had nothing to do with any creatures living in the lakes. That meant some basic detective work, though not necessarily in the police sense of the term, but rather what most scientists do when they try to prove or disprove a hypothesis. Unfortunately, some of my detective work required the assistance of the police, and they are notoriously close to the vest when it comes to sharing information and evidence.

Jon had arrived in his personal vehicle rather than a police car, though they looked the same to me except this one lacked the light bar and emblems on the doors.

I fetched the strap from my car and clipped Newt into a seat belt latch in the back and then I sat in the front passenger seat.

Once we were underway, Jon informed me that he had some good news and some bad news.

“And before you ask, the bad news isn’t about Marty.

I don’t have any news on that topic other than the fact that he’s still missing.”

“In that case, I’ll take the bad news first,” I said.

“I can’t get Oliver Sykes’s keys from the evidence locker.”

“Why not?”

“Because they aren’t there.”

“Where are they?”

“I have no idea.”

“Okay.

What’s the good news?”

“I made some calls, pulled a few strings, helped a couple of speeding tickets disappear, and voilà! I got a search warrant for the storage unit.

Not an easy thing to do, mind you, since I have no idea what it is we’re searching for.

All we’ll need are the bolt cutters I have in the back.”

He looked over at me expectantly, clearly pleased with himself.

“Too bad those storage units don’t use regular door locks,”

I said.

“If they did, I could probably pick it.”

Jon shook his head vigorously as if trying to rattle something loose inside his skull.

Then he said, “I don’t want to know how you can do that, nor do I want to hear anything more on the topic.

And I don’t want you to tell me if you have lockpicks on you—”

He paused and narrowed his eyes at me.

I smiled enigmatically, making him shake his head again.

“Just .

.

.

just .

. . don’t,”

he said, showing me a palm.

“Okay,”

I said, shrugging one shoulder.

“What, exactly, are we looking for according to your search warrant?”

“Did Oliver’s girlfriend happen to mention that he’d lost his job several months ago?”

I shot him an annoyed look.

“I hate it when people answer a question with another question.

And yes, she mentioned it.

She said he’d been depressed and that he’d started spending a lot of time online and away from home, supposedly for job-hunting purposes, though she thinks he had a secret lover.

Did you guys find any evidence of that?”

“Of another girlfriend?”

Jon shook his head.

“Not that our guys found.

But he did have a lot of debt.

And he also had a friend with some serious drug connections.

I was able to convince the judge who gave me the warrant that Oliver’s death might have been at the hands of drug dealers he owed money to.”

“I see,”

I said, though to be honest things were a bit murky.

“So .

.

.

what is it we’re looking for, then?”

“Logbooks, balance sheets, anything that might be a record of drugs bought, drugs sold, money owed and to whom.

That will allow us to search through boxes if there are any.”

“What about a duffel bag?”

“Sure.”

He shot me a curious look.

“You want to tell me what it is we’re really looking for?”

“I told you.

Treasure maps.”

I paused and then in a meek voice added, “I think.”

He shot me another look, that one incredulous.

I gave him a cheesy smile, flashing lots of teeth, and he looked away, running a hand through his hair.

“Christ, Morgan.

You’d better have something more than that or I’m turning this car around right now.”

“Technically, I don’t, though I’m hoping we’ll find more than just maps.

A friend of Oliver’s from his college days told me that Oliver had a fixation on buried treasure ever since he was a kid.

He kept an old duffel full of articles, maps, tools, and other paraphernalia related to it hidden under his bed, and when this friend found it by accident and asked him about it, he said he realized how serious Oliver was on the topic by the reaction he got.

He was expecting something dismissive or fun, you know, like a childhood fantasy that held fond memories.

But what he got instead was an intense discussion and a promise not to tell a soul about it.

Oliver’s girlfriend knew about his childhood interest but didn’t think it was something he still did. She said his treasure-hunting stuff was in a duffel bag that he kept in this storage unit.”

“You’re thinking Oliver Sykes might have been onto some kind of sunken treasure in Death’s Door or the waters around it,”

Jon said, his voice flat.

“Yes! Exactly.”

We were currently at a red light and Jon turned his head slowly to stare at me, the lips of his broad mouth pinched into a thin, hard line.

“Please tell me you’re kidding, Morgan.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Sunken treasure? You dragged me down here and made me cash in some valuable favors for some theory about sunken treasure?”

A loud honk came from behind us, letting us know the light had turned green.

Jon tromped on the gas and the car lurched forward, making Newt let out a small whimper in the backseat.

“Hey, easy,”

I said, reaching over the seat and giving Newt a reassuring scratch beneath his chin.

“Don’t hurt my dog.”

The sigh that followed was Jon’s loudest and longest yet. “Sorry,”

he said.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.

It’s just that the horn startled me and I’m feeling quite .

.

.

exasperated right now.”

I stared at him, feeling a little bad that I’d upset him.

But only a little.

Putting on my best smile, I said, “Does this mean now is a bad time to ask you if I can have Oliver’s laptop so Devon can look it over?”

That was the day I learned that Jon knew how to swear in French.