PART 2
The vehicle that screamed into the lot was an unmarked black Tahoe. It stopped sideways behind us, and Captain Elias Rourke jumped out with two plainclothes detectives. For half a second, relief flashed across Puet’s face. Mine didn’t. Rourke wasn’t on the welcome list for my arrival. He wasn’t supposed to know I was in Crestston Bay. Crowe’s hand was still on his weapon. “Take it off the grip,” I ordered. He drew anyway—only three inches, but three inches was enough. I trapped his wrist, drove his forearm against the Ford’s roof, and stripped the pistol from his hand before Gant could decide whose side he was on. Crowe grunted and slammed his shoulder into me. I held the muzzle toward the pavement and kicked his feet apart. “Back up!” I shouted. “All of you!”
Rourke came fast, weapon drawn. “Drop Crowe’s gun!” “Captain, identify your target.” “I said drop it!” I placed Crowe’s pistol on the hood and stepped away. Rourke immediately pointed at Puet. “Cuff Osie.” Nobody moved. I stared at him. “You know my name.” That landed harder than a punch. Rourke’s eyes flickered. He recovered quickly. “City Hall called. We were told a man claiming to be the incoming superintendent might be impersonating an official.” “Interesting,” I said. “Because City Hall doesn’t know I’m here.” Silence spread across the lot. Crowe rubbed his wrist and smiled. That smile told me Rourke hadn’t arrived to rescue anyone.
Puet approached with cuffs, his face gray. “Sir…” “Do your job, Officer,” Rourke said. I let Puet take my left wrist, then leaned close enough to whisper, “Choose carefully.” His hand trembled. Before he could close the second cuff, Nevis stepped forward. “Captain, this is wrong.” Gant spun on him. “Shut up.” Nevis swallowed. “No. I’m done shutting up.” Crowe lunged and punched him across the mouth. Nevis crashed into the Ford. I moved instinctively, catching Crowe around the shoulders as Gant grabbed me from behind. For several seconds the lot exploded into elbows, boots, shouted orders, and metal cuffs striking pavement. Puet pulled Gant off me. Rourke fired one round into the air. Everyone froze.
Then Rourke said the sentence that changed the entire investigation. “Get Osie in the Tahoe. Crowe, take his phone. Nevis, you’re coming too.” I looked at the captain. “Why Nevis?” Rourke’s expression went flat. Nevis answered for him. “Because I copied the books.” Crowe went white. Nevis reached inside his vest slowly and pulled out a tiny flash drive taped behind his body-camera mount. “Three years of payoffs, fake arrests, seized cash that never reached evidence, complaint files they ordered me to destroy.” He looked at me. “I kept copies.”
Rourke moved first.
He slammed Nevis against the car and snatched for the drive. I caught his forearm, but Gant hit me in the ribs and Crowe drove me to one knee. Puet shouted, “Stop!” Rourke ripped the flash drive free and crushed it beneath his heel. “There,” he said, breathing hard. “Now there’s nothing.” Nevis wiped blood from his lip and gave a strange, shaky laugh. “That wasn’t the only copy.”
Rourke stared at him.
I did too.
Nevis looked straight at me. “Superintendent, check your coat pocket.”
My blood turned cold. During the struggle, someone had slipped something inside my jacket. I reached carefully and felt a second drive—and a folded sheet of paper. I pulled out the paper first.
At the top was a list of names tied to the corruption fund.
The first name belonged to the city official who had personally hired me.
PART 3
The name on the paper was Mayor Evelyn Ward.
For one second, every sound in the parking lot seemed to disappear. Ward had recruited me personally, looked me in the eye at City Hall, and said Crestston Bay needed someone “impossible to buy.” Now her name sat beside dollar amounts and coded references to seized narcotics, towing contracts, and protection payments. Rourke saw recognition on my face and smiled. “Now you understand,” he said. “You were never brought here to clean anything. You were brought here to make the department look clean.” Crowe recovered his pistol from the hood. “And if the new superintendent got caught assaulting four cops before his first day?” He shrugged. “Tragic career.”
“Except you made one mistake,” I said. “Which one?” Rourke asked. “You believed I came alone.” I tapped the second button on my shirt. It was a transmitter tied to the federal public-integrity team already monitoring the Seventh Precinct under a court-authorized investigation. I had known there was an active case; I had not known Nevis was the confidential source who had spent months copying Rourke’s records. The diner conversation, the threats, Crowe’s draw, Rourke’s orders—every word had been transmitted and preserved. Rourke’s face cracked. “You’re bluffing.” From the street came three sharp sirens.
