Val tried phoning Tasha Koval, but failed to reach her at her VeroniCare office, and calls to her cell skipped straight to voicemail. Only then did she realize how late it was—almost 6:00 p.m.
“Should we try Veronica Carlton?” she asked Jan. “She was breathing fire this morning, and I’m sure she expects an update.”
“And tell her what?” Jan said. “That we still think her employees are in on it? Based on what hard evidence? No. We need something solid before venture down that path. Let’s start fresh on this tomorrow.”
Val wanted to argue, but she had no substantive rebuttal.
Jan left the squad room for the day minutes later, and Val dove back into the case file, looking for something she might have missed. Right when she was about to give up, Gil appeared at her desk.
“I was about to call you.” She stood to greet him. “Ready to go?”
“One more thing to take care of.” Gil draped an arm around her for a hug. He held on a few extra moments and murmured into her ear, “Have you figured out what I can give the incels yet?”
“Oh crap, I forgot all about that. When is your deadline?”
Gil checked his watch. “Two hours.”
She groaned. “Okay, let me check with the boss.”
He grimaced. “Val, I know I said you can run it up the food chain, but we need to keep the number of people small. Like, microscopic.”
“Make up your mind,” she said. “I either do this right and get management buy-in, or we run this rogue and risk our careers over a bunch of lawless Neanderthals. Your choice.”
“Gee, when you put it that way…”
Minutes later, they stood in front of Sergeant Petroni’s desk and explained the situation. “I can’t reveal my asset,” Gil said, “even to Val. I promise, they’re on the inside, and if we give them something real, I’ll be inside, too.”
Petroni winced. “Definitely not protocol. But we’re in a tough spot. Okay, let’s brainstorm. What can we share with them?”
“Nothing about the fight club,” Val said. “That’d shut that whole thing down in a heartbeat.”
“Or the shootings,” Gil said. “That’s too close.”
“We need ideas on what we can do, not what we can’t do,” Petroni said with a growl. “What about the whole Eastern Europe connection you found—that incel group from overseas? Would that compromise your investigation too much?”
Val pondered that for a moment. “Not really. And it might force Tasha Koval’s hand, convince her to come clean.”
“I like it,” Gil said. “It’s linked, yet not too close. And it’s foreign, so they’ll think our focus is overseas rather than local.”
“Plus, it relates more to the VeroniCare break-in than to the shootings,” Val said. “Which, frankly, is going nowhere right now, anyway. It might shake something loose.”
“Good,” Gil said. “Let’s go with it.”
“Hold on.” Petroni raised her hand, a stop signal. “I know you want to keep this loop small. However, if we don’t bring Simpson in, old Tackle Box will have our heads in a noose by morning.”
Val groaned. “He’ll never approve this. The fact that it’s coming from us—i.e., me—is enough for him to shit-can the whole thing.”
“We’re not asking his permission. We’re sharing information.” Petroni dialed her phone, shook her head a moment later. “Voice-mail. Dawes, you’ll have to tell him face-to-face. No way around it.”
“I’ll go with you,” Gil said.
“No, you won’t,” Petroni said. “He doesn’t know it’s you we’re using to infiltrate them and I’d rather keep it that way. Val, you need to go it alone—and you’d better hurry.”
Gil glanced at her and shrugged. “See you soon, love.”
Cursing under her breath, Val trudged down two flights of stairs to the Homicide Unit, half-hoping that Simpson had gone home for the night. But the lights shone through the translucent glass panel on the office door, so someone was working late. She pushed the door open.
A burly, dark-haired male figure spun around to face her, slamming shut a file drawer with his butt. Rico Lopez.
“Rico?” Val furrowed her brow and arched her neck to identify the drawer he’d just closed. “Since when do you work in Homicide?”
Rico folded his arms in forced nonchalance. “I work where I’m told. Anyway, I was just leaving.” He picked up a file from the desk next to him and headed out the door.
Val stepped closer to the filing cabinet and pulled the drawer open, scanning the labels on the files inside. Nothing among the dozens of case files jumped out at her. She pawed through a few, but movement in Simpson’s private office startled her. She eased the drawer shut and knocked on the semi-opaque glass on Simpson’s door. No answer.
“Simpson, it’s Dawes.”
“Go away.”
Shadows moved away from each other behind the cloudy glass. “I wanted to share some information with you—”
“Send me an email or put it in the case file.” Simpson still refused to open his office door.
She tried it. Locked. “It’s sensitive.”
“Then mark it ‘eyes-only’ and restrict access to you and me. Fuck’s sake, Dawes. I’m busy.”
Val heaved a frustrated breath and threw up her hands. “Fine, then. Your loss.”
Simpson didn’t answer. The shadows moved closer. A male voice, not Simpson’s, murmured something, which drew a response: “Sh!”
Val wondered who else was in there, but unless she wanted to wait outside the door for God-knows-how-long, that would remain a mystery.
Exiting the Homicide office, Val counted her blessings. The less face time she had with that jerk, the better. He couldn’t complain later that she didn’t keep him informed. She tried.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t bite her in the ass later.
Val microwaved some leftovers for a late dinner alone, but after a few bites, she lost interest. She turned on the TV and stared at the screen for several minutes, unable to decide which streaming service to watch. Thursday night shows held no interest. NFL games bored her, and crime dramas made her cringe. She’d missed the dinner-hour news shows, thankfully. The last thing she needed was their hysterical reporting and Simpson’s air-headed commentary on how the shootings that morning were “probably unrelated” to the ones a week before. Instead, she looked through Gil’s modest book library, and found nothing of interest except one she’d already read.
It felt weird to hang out in Gil’s house without Gil. In the few months since she’d all but moved in, she’d always worked longer hours, and on the rare exceptions, she’d made a point of hanging out with her father. However, Dad had an AA meeting tonight, and Beth had plans with her sisters.
Gil’s meeting with his contact in the incel group would end soon. He’d promised to call when he had news…so far, nothing. Every second of waiting seemed like hours, and her imagination ran to the worst possible scenarios: they’d outed him, discovered his recording device, or they’d gotten violent, drawn weapons—
No. Ridiculous. They wouldn’t attack a cop.
She threw a load of delicates into the laundry. Even taking care to put them in a mesh bag, that took all of five minutes. Still an entire evening to burn.
Val contemplated going to the dojo. A quick stretch of her sore muscles convinced her otherwise. Plus, under the circumstances, with Stevie and Tank both under suspicion—creepy dudes, guilty or not of any criminal wrongdoing—that option, too, seemed dreadful. She considered, for the millionth time, changing dojos. Not tonight, though. Maybe after all of this…stuff.
Still, exercise always appealed to her, and running always helped work out the kinks. Val changed into running shorts and a T-shirt and jogged out into the cool fall air. The sun had set over an hour before, so she followed the well-lit streets, winding her way down to the jogging trail that would take her to the riverfront loop. She kept her phone on and earbuds in, and set the volume low so she could hear if cars or footsteps approached from her blind side. Her workout tracking app reported periodic updates on distance and speed, helping to distract her from horrific imaginings about Gil’s predicament.
After three miles, she turned back, pleased with her pace—a hair under twenty minutes. Not record-setting, yet not bad for an evening jog.
Still no word from Gil.
Val ran harder, sweat pouring down her face, clotting her hair against her head. The temperature dropped into the fifties, but her body heat more than compensated. Her shirt stuck to her chest and stomach, a giant wet spot forming under her breasts down to her waist. Not the most attractive look, and she hoped Gil wouldn’t see her like that.
Then she chided herself. As long as Gil got home safe, she didn’t care how she looked when he got there.
When she arrived back home, the driveway remained empty. She checked her phone again…nothing. So she took the world’s fastest shower and checked one more time. Still nothing. Checked the signal and battery…yup. Lay down on the sofa for a few minutes. Still, no—
The phone rang.
“Gil? Hey, how’d it go?”
“Hey.” He kept his voice at a whisper. “The meeting went well. They seemed interested in the Croatian thing. That was a good choice.”
“So, how soon will I see you?”
“Well…” Gil’s voice took on that I-don’t-want-to-disappoint-you tone, one that often meant he’d forgotten to do something she’d asked of him. Like, pick up some coffee or put the towels into the wash. However, this was no grocery run. “Not tonight, I’m afraid.”
“What? Why?” Val sat up on the sofa.
“I suspect they might make a move tonight. I’m gonna hang out a bit, watch in case he goes anywhere or if anyone comes to him.”
“Who is it?” Val said. “Someone high up, or…?”
“You know I shouldn’t—”
“Come on, Gil, the meeting’s over and it’s my damned case.” She popped up off the sofa and paced the room, phone pressed tight against her ear. “Spill. I promise, I won’t tell Petroni, and she knows better than to ask.”
He sighed. “All I can tell you is, he’s not the guy in charge. He hinted he needed to report to higher-ups. Wait, hold on.” A ruffling sound told Val that Gil had stuffed the phone into his pocket. After a long gap—thirty seconds that seemed like a week—he came back on. “False alarm. I thought he was leaving, but it was someone else.”
“Where are you?”
“We met at a bar, and I followed him to a shabby little apartment building on the outer east side,” Gil said. “Hey, look, my phone is about to die, and I can’t recharge without turning on the car, so I gotta go. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
“Gil, let me join you. At least bring you some dinner or a charger. I want to see you.”
“It’s not safe,” he said. “I grabbed a burrito and coffee earlier. I’ll be fine. Get some sleep—I’ll see you soon.”
Gil broke the connection, and Val’s heart weighed fifty pounds. She didn’t like this situation. Not one tiny bit.