Chapter 3 - Unraveling the Lock
I needed to move the duffel bag, but first, I needed to know how Eleanor had accessed my apartment.
I stood up, walked to the front door, and examined the deadbolt and the doorknob lock. No scratches. No signs of forced entry. Kevin Ramsey, the landlord, prided himself on the building's security, boasting about the heavy-duty deadbolts he installed after buying the property.
When I moved in two years ago after the divorce was finalized, Kevin handed me two physical brass keys. I kept one on my keychain and hung the spare on a small hook inside the kitchen pantry cabinet.
My breath caught. I spun around and jogged down the narrow hallway into the kitchen.
The pantry door creaked open. I reached behind the canned goods and spices to the small brass hook near the back wall.
Empty.
The spare key was gone.
The pieces of the puzzle began snapping together with sickening precision. Yesterday morning, while I was at my job teaching high school chemistry across town, Lauren had texted me: “Hey Mike, can Soph stay an extra night? We have a family dinner thing near your side of town tomorrow evening, and it would save us the morning commute.”
It was a trap. A carefully choreographed alibi. While I was teaching stoichiometry to ungrateful teenagers, Lauren and Eleanor had executed their plan. Lauren kept me occupied with polite text messages about school schedules, while Eleanor drove to my duplex. Using the spare key stolen or copied during a previous visit—perhaps weeks ago when she dropped Sophia off and asked to use the restroom—she let herself in, lugged the heavy black duffel bag of meth into my bedroom, shoved it under my bed, locked up behind herself, and left.
They thought it was foolproof. They thought Michael Harper, the tired, defeated ex-husband, would be caught completely unawares, hauled off to prison in handcuffs, and forgotten by society.
I walked back into the bedroom, staring down at the black duffel bag. Leaving it here was suicide. Moving it out into the open was risky. But keeping it in my possession while I investigated was my only leverage. If I could lift prints off the plastic wrapping—or better yet, find out who supplied Eleanor with this specific batch of narcotics—I could turn the tables on them.
My background in chemistry wasn't just useful for identifying the substance; it taught me method, observation, and caution. I pulled a pair of heavy-duty latex cleaning gloves from the utility closet under the sink and slipped them on. Carefully, meticulously, I zipped the duffel bag closed, ensuring no stray powder leaked onto my floors.
I hoisted the heavy bag and carried it out to the trunk of my sedan parked in the gravel driveway. I opened the trunk, lifted the false floor where the spare tire rested, and wedged the duffel bag deep into the recess, covering it with an old winter blanket and a couple of spare toolboxes.
Nobody was going to look there unless they had a search warrant. And if they had a search warrant for my car, I was already done for anyway.
Standing in the chilly night air under the flickering amber glow of the streetlamp, I pulled out my phone. This time, I didn't dial 911. Instead, I dialed a number I hadn't called in over three years.
Marcus Vance.
Marcus and I had gone through basic training together in the Army before a knee injury cut my military career short and sent me back to civilian life to finish my degree. Marcus had stayed in, transitioned into military intelligence, and later left the service to set up a high-end private investigative firm specializing in corporate security and complex legal vetting in downtown Columbus.
It rang three times before a deep, gravelly voice answered. "Vance."
"Marcus. It's Mike Harper."
There was a brief pause on the other end, the sound of rustling papers stopping instantly. "Harper? Damn, man. It's been a minute. Last I heard, you were wrestling with family court judges in the suburbs. Everything alright?"
"No," I said, my voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. "Marcus, I need your help. I'm being set up for a federal drug trafficking charge, and the people pulling the strings are connected to some very wealthy, powerful folks in this city. I need an investigator who asks no questions, works fast, and knows how to dig up dirt on people who think they're untouchable."
Marcus didn't hesitate for a single second. Friendship forged in the crucible of military service didn't fade with time. "Where are you?"
May you like
"My place. Duplex on Maple Street."
"Sit tight, lock your doors, and don't talk to anyone," Marcus said, his tone shifting instantly into tactical mode. "I'm twenty minutes out. Put the coffee on, Mike. We're going to war."
