Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“Perp’s poetry,” I say grimly. “He’s been sending us color metaphors since the first letter.” I pause. “What about Vale?”
“Meeting with his attorneys as we speak,” Hartley says dryly. “But wheels are moving. Your boss’s friend at Justice has more juice than the espresso downstairs.”
“He’s not my boss,” I say automatically, then concede with a tilt of my head. “He’s my cousin who keeps my leash long enough to run.”
Hartley almost smiles. “You’re going to love what my CSU found taped under the Riverfront unit’s table.”
“Tell me.”
“GPS jammer, yes. Flash-bang casings, yes. Also a little nest for a phone with a SIM that pings a prepaid at—wait for it—a co-working space in the Fox Hollow. The same neighborhood your shell company’s ATMs saw Alder’s cash-outs.”
“Rae’s already on Fox Hollow,” I say. “We’ll cross numbers.”
He pats the chart he’s not supposed to have, because he’s a detective and rules are flexible when heartbeats are on the line. “She’s tough,” he says, eyes softening. “When she talks, I’m going to need you to give her space.”
“She already took it,” I say, and the words taste like penance.
After he leaves, I stand because I’ve sat too long and the energy has nowhere to go. I pace the length of the hallway and back, hands folded behind me tight enough that the tendon in my left wrist clicks. On my third pass, a blur of green silk and perfume hits the T-intersection, heels skidding.
“Where is she?” Vanessa demands, hair wild, sunglasses fogging. Her gaze bounces off my chest and shoulders like she’s trying to climb me with eyes. “They wouldn’t tell me her room!”
“Keep it down,” I say, holding up a palm. “She’s resting. Hartley will let you in once she says yes.”
She plants fists on hips. “I’m on her yes list.”
“And I’m on the list that keeps the world small right now,” I say. “You’ll make it bigger.”
Vanessa deflates an inch. “Is she… is she hurt?”
I shake my head. “Mostly scrapes. Scared.” I weigh what else to say, decide honesty will help us both. “Gregory talked.”
Her jaw drops. “He— No. He wouldn’t.”
“He did,” I say, not softly. “And I’m not the one you need to yell that at.”
She looks at me like maybe I’m a door she could both kick and lean on. Then she sighs, pulls her sunglasses off, and the streaks of mascara under her eyes aren’t staged. “Tell my girl I’m here,” she says, voice gentled. “Tell her I’m not going anywhere.”
“Will do,” I say. She squeezes my forearm in a gesture that says thanks and sorry and don’t you dare screw this up, then stalks down the hall to find coffee she can weaponize.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Riggs: Hatch Auto & Marine is a warren. Owner (Hatcher) says he hasn’t seen Rourke in three days, but a Riverfront-style jammer was serviced here last week. Rae pulled shop cams: guy in ball cap, beard, scar on left ear. Hatcher calls him “Bane.” Could be our man.
I text back: If Hatcher’s a vet with a code, we can push him without breaking him. Offer him an IOU he actually values: getting Rourke off his stoop.
Riggs: Already working him. Rae’s scraping “Bane” through data brokers.
Rae pings the thread with a still from the shop cam: a man in a ball cap caught mid-turn, leaving a sliver of his face and the edge of a distinctive ear notch. “Pulled from a 2018 bar fight, dishonorable discharge records under ‘Evan Rourke’ show a similar injury,” she writes. “Also: cellphone tower pings from a prepaid that hit Fox Hollow co-working two nights in a row after midnight, then Lighthouse Point in the morning. Breadcrumbs. I’m on him.”
Across the hall, the fluorescents thrift and flare: forty-seven seconds. The metronome of the fourth light. Still there. So am I.
I pull my notebook—the paper one, not the encrypted app—and write names and verbs because I have learned over and over that sometimes you have to put ink next to a plan if you want it to become something you can hold.
Marcus Vale — Atlantic Heights townhouse + SoMa office. Surveil. Serve warrants. Freeze Alder & personal accounts. Seize devices before they’re wiped. Get travel logs: jet tail numbers; watch for flight to no-extradition.
Kestrel Risk — Magnolia Ridge P.O. Box + call center. Subpoena client list; seize CRM; flip low-level staff; show them kidnapping enhancement sentencing guidelines.
Rourke / “Bane” — Hatch Auto & Marine + Fox Hollow co-working. Canvas camera rings. Make it too hot to move. Box him. Choose the arrest space to protect collateral (no civilians, clear backstop).
Inside assist — text spoof + contact knowledge. Gregory’s assistant? PR firm? Caterer assignment editor? Cross-ref who had Cam’s inner circle numbers.
Cam — privacy protocol. Alias on chart. Two Orange at both ends of corridor. Decoy discharge route if press gets frisky.