Sharp had the padlock off in two minutes.

“Wait.” Lance pulled gloves from his pocket and put them on.

They each grabbed a handle. The doors were rusted around the edges but opened easily. Wooden stairs descended into darkness. Sharp took a flashlight from his jacket pocket and shone it into the opening. All they could see was a few square feet of hard-packed earth and footprints.

“Someone’s been down there recently.” Sharp descended the steps with no hesitation. He shone the flashlight straight down and examined the footprints in the dust. “Looks like the same pair of boots made all these tracks.”

Lance followed him, switching on his own flashlight. Partitions divided the basement into what appeared to be storage areas. Shelves covered with dusty boxes lined the first area. Block print labeled the boxes as CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS and ERIK’S LITTLE LEAGUE TROPHIES.

Lance lifted a few lids. The labels seemed to be accurate.

They moved to the next section, a huge shelved closet where labels on the shelves indicated the family had stored a large quantity of nonperishable food. A box of MREs and a few mason jars of home-canned tomatoes and peaches remained.

The last area held four old steamer trunks.

“What do you think is in here?” Sharp stood in front of a trunk and examined a keyed padlock that secured the lid.

Dirt and cobwebs coated the trunks, and the concrete around the trunks was covered in a thin layer of dirt that was clear of footprints.

“It doesn’t look as if anyone has accessed them lately, but there’s only one way to find out. We’ve already committed a B and E. We might as well finish the job.” Lance went to the second trunk. He kept his own set of lockpicking tools in his wallet.

“Good point.”

The trunk was old and the lock simple. Lance had it open in less than thirty seconds.

Sharp raised the lid of his trunk and whistled softly. “Holy shit.”

Lance looked over. Sharp’s trunk was full of rifles.

Sharp whistled. “These are AR-15s.”

Lance raised the lid of his trunk. It was full of boxes of bullets. “There’s enough ammunition in here to supply a small militia.”

The third trunk held more weapons, while the fourth was full of body armor and gas masks.

Sharp waved a hand over the trunks. “What the hell is Olander doing with all this?”

“I don’t know.” Lance closed the lid and relocked it. “But Olivia isn’t down here.”

With a short nod, Sharp returned his crate to its original locked state. “The pistol grips on those rifles are not legal.”

In New York State, a permit was not required to own a long gun, but certain features on semiautomatic rifles were illegal.

“Neither are these high-capacity magazines,” Lance said. The sheer volume of weaponry was also highly suspect. “We should tell Stella.”

“How do we explain finding them?”

“Good point,” Lance said. “We’ll have to find a way around that. She’ll need to coordinate with the ATF.”

The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives would be interested in the possible illegal trafficking of firearms.

“You’re right,” Sharp admitted with a sigh.

Lance led the way out of the basement, blinking at the daylight. The overcast day felt bright compared to the darkness underground. They locked the bulkhead doors and returned to the Prius.

“Maybe my mom will turn up some dirt on Mr. Olander.” Lance slid into the passenger seat. He took his phone out of his pocket and checked his messages. He’d missed a text from Morgan. He’d been so focused on the search, he hadn’t felt his phone vibrate.

“He’s neck-deep in something.” Sharp started the engine.

Lance read Morgan’s message. His belly tightened. “Mr. Olander is at the office.”

“Shit.” Sharp turned the vehicle around. “I don’t like her being alone with him.”

Neither did Lance. He called Stella and put the call on speakerphone. “Hey, I need to tell you something as a confidential informant.”

Her sigh was audible over the connection.

“Would you rather me call from a pay phone?” he asked. Could he even find one that worked?

“Just tell me.” Weariness edged her voice.

“There are trunks full of guns and ammunition in the Olanders’ basement,” Lance said.

“And how do you know this?” she asked.

“An anonymous source told us,” Lance suggested.

Stella snorted. “Never mind. I don’t want to know the details. I assume you found no evidence of Olivia there?”

“None,” Lance answered.

“OK,” Stella said. “I’ll call the ATF office in Albany.”

“I have a contact there,” Sharp said. He had contacts everywhere in local law enforcement. “Do you want me to call him?”

“Who’s your contact?” Stella asked.

“Ryan Abrams,” Sharp answered.

“I’ve heard of him,” Stella said. “But we’ve never met.”

Ryan was a fifteen-year ATF veteran. He and Sharp had worked two cases together involving illegal gun sales while Sharp was with the SFPD.

“OK,” Stella agreed. “You call. Try to stay out of trouble.” Her tone suggested she didn’t have much faith that they would.

“We’ll try.” Lance glanced at Sharp, who was gripping the wheel with white knuckles. If Olivia wasn’t found soon, keeping Sharp out of danger was going to get harder.

The connection broke off, and Lance lowered his phone. “Maybe the ATF will send an agent.”

“They’ll need more than an anonymous claim that some guns were seen at a private residence to establish enough probable cause to obtain a search warrant,” Sharp said. “Other than the guns, we haven’t turned up any dirt on the Olanders.”

“I can’t think of any legitimate reason for a dairy farmer to have trunks full of guns and ammo.”

“Could he be an illegal arms dealer?” Sharp suggested as he drove away from the house.

“I don’t know. The guns seem to have been there awhile. I wouldn’t think a dealer would want to hang on to them for long periods of time.”

Sharp turned onto the main road. “Maybe he’s a collector.”

Lance jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the rear window. “That is not a collection. That is an arsenal.”

Chapter Fifteen

Morgan reminded herself that she was armed, and even if she wasn’t, she came from a family of cops. She’d been taught to defend herself at a young age. She didn’t believe in taking careless risks, but she certainly didn’t need to take this man’s abuse.

She summoned her cross-examination face and assessed Mr. Olander.

His face was flushed, and a vein on his temple throbbed. But there was no sign of wildness in his eyes. Instead, they were focused and sharp.

Calculated.

He was a bully, plain and simple.

Morgan no longer saw any sign of the devastated father and husband who had talked his way into her office. Mr. Olander was a skilled manipulator. He’d used her empathy for him against her. She would not allow that to happen again.