Dom Marlowe’s photograph had a problem. Warehouse 17 was in the wrong place. I stared at it again beneath the desk lamp. Warehouse. Smoke. Three figures. And at the edge of the photograph…Warehouse 16. That was the problem.

I knew where Warehouse 16 stood. Everyone in Midnight Harbor did. The warehouse in Dom’s photograph couldn’t have been beside it. Unless someone had moved a building. Possible. But difficult.

The other possibility was easier. Someone had moved a number. Which meant my next stop was City Records. Every great detective story eventually leads to paperwork. Nobody puts that part in the movies.

City Records

Midnight Harbor City Records occupied the basement of a building that looked old enough to contain records of its own construction. I found the archive desk. A woman sat behind it wearing glasses on a chain.

“Can I help you?”

“I need old harbor maps,” I said.

“How old?”

“Thirty to thirty-five years.”

“Which section?”

“Pier 17.”

She looked over her glasses. “Research?”

“Something like that.”

She disappeared. Ten minutes later she returned carrying a rolled map. I spread it across the table.

Warehouses lined the waterfront.

Exactly where you’d expect. I put Dom’s photograph beside it. Wrong. “Older,” I said.

She looked at me.

“Please.”

That helped.

Slightly.

Another Map

The next map was two years older. Same numbers. Same locations.

I wrote down the date. “Newer.”

The archivist sighed. Apparently detectives are unpopular with archivists. I don’t understand why. We both enjoy old documents and asking questions. You’d think we’d get along. She returned with another map.

I unrolled it.

I looked again.

There was no 17.

The space was still there. The building was still there. But it wasn’t Warehouse 17 anymore. I checked the date. Three years before the fire. Dom had been telling the truth. Warehouse 17 had disappeared before it burned.

The Mark

I compared the maps. That’s when I noticed something else. A small handwritten circle sat beside Warehouse 16 on the newer map. It wasn’t printed. Someone had added it later. Inside the circle was a single letter.

M.

I leaned closer. “What’s this?”

The archivist looked. She stopped. Interesting.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“That’s rarely true when someone says it like that.”

She reached toward the map but didn’t touch it. “Where did you get this?”

“You brought it to me.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I mean that mark.”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

She stood. Walked toward a cabinet. Unlocked it. Then stopped. “Wait here.”

“I’m very good at that.”

She disappeared through a door. I looked back at the map.

M.

Marlowe? Too obvious. Maybe. Maybe not.

Midnight Harbor? Possible.

A shipping designation? Company? Person? Location? The problem with one letter is that it can mean almost anything. That’s also what makes it useful to someone who doesn’t want everyone to understand it.

The Ledger

The archivist returned carrying a large book. She set it on the table. “This is the map access ledger.”

“People sign out maps?”

“They used to.” She flipped through the pages. Dates. Names. Departments. Map numbers. Her finger stopped. She looked at the map. Then the ledger.

Then me. “What?”

She didn’t answer.

“What?”

“This map shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

She turned the ledger toward me. The map number was listed. Next to it was a date. Thirty years ago. A few weeks after the Warehouse 17 fire.

Under STATUS, someone had written:

DESTROYED.

I looked at the map sitting between us. “Looks pretty good for destroyed.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

She closed the ledger. “We need to put this back.”

“Not yet.”

“Mr. Nine Lives—” The lights went out. Dark. Complete.

Somewhere across the room, the archivist inhaled sharply. I heard movement. Not hers. Closer. Paper sliding across wood. I reached toward the map. My paw touched the table. Nothing. The map was gone.

Then the lights came back on. The archivist stood exactly where she’d been. The table was empty. Dom’s photograph was still beneath my paw. But the harbor map…

and the mysterious M… had disappeared.

Someone had been standing in that room with us. And I hadn’t heard them come in. That bothered me.

A lot.

CASE STATUS: OPEN

To be continued…