Page 40 of Crosscurrent

Karl’s gaze moved past Gabe to the front window.

That tiny motion tightened something in Gabe’s chest.

Karl had already noticed something. Maybe more than something.

Gabe kept his voice casual. “Did you notice that black SUV near the overflow lot?”

The tank pump hummed. Outside, a truck rolled past slowly on Marina Street, tires crunching over grit.

Karl waited until it passed. “They’ve been rotating vehicles.”

Gabe went still. “How long?”

“Five days that I know of.”

Gabe whistled silently. Longer than any of them had realized. “Same people?”

Karl shrugged. “Far as I can tell. Two men usually get out. Third stays in back.”

“Driver?”

Karl shook his head. “Observer.”

The word dragged something cold through Gabe’s gut.

Karl folded the rag with slow, deliberate care and set it beside the register. “You want my opinion, I’d say they don’t move like tourists. Folks from out of town look around. These men count things.”

Karl continued, voice low enough now that Gabe had to step closer. “They watch delivery times. Boat traffic. Who opens early. Who takes smoke breaks. Who walks alone. Who carries keys.”

“You saw that?”

“I seen enough.” Karl’s face hardened. “One of them stood across from the bakery before dawn yesterday. Not at the window. Across the street. By the post box.”

Gabe’s pulse kicked up. “You mean yesterday?”

The old man nodded. “Yesterday.”

Gabe shoved his hands on his hips. “Did the suspect approach?”

“No.”

“Take pictures?”

Karl’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Didn’t need to. He was memorizing.”

Gabe thought of the man outside Sugar & Salt that morning, hands in pockets, face angled toward the glass.

Counting exits.

Counting people.

Counting vulnerabilities.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

Karl’s mouth flattened. “You’re not chief anymore.”

Fair. Painfully fair.