The office was dim, blinds drawn against the high summer sun. Slats of golden light cut across Chief Walter's desk like prison bars, illuminating dust motes that hung suspended in the stifling air. The silence pressed against his ears, broken only by the soft, metronomic ticking of the wall clock and the occasional creak of his leather chair as he shifted his weight.
The manila envelope lay open before him, its contents spread across the table like evidence at a crime scene. Inside were photographs of Jayson, each captured at Meadowbrook Port but from various angles, telling a story in fragmented moments.
There was Jayson with Nadia in a car, their profiles illuminated by the port's harsh security lights. Another showed them laughing as they walked along the waterfront, her head tilted back in genuine amusement, his eyes fixed on her face rather than the path ahead. In one particularly revealing shot, Jayson could be seen secretly following Tyrone, keeping a careful distance while ducking behind a shipping container.
The narrative continued: Jayson purchasing flowers from a dockside vendor, the bright petals stark against the industrial backdrop. Then Jayson presenting those same flowers to Nadia, her expression a mixture of surprise and something more complicated. Another captured them dancing, his hands placed gently on her waist as they swayed to music only they could hear, the distant lights of ships glimmering on the water behind them.
The final photograph showed Nadia alone, smiling at something—or someone—just beyond the frame, her face transformed by a warmth that hadn't been present in any of the other images.
He studied each photograph methodically, piecing together the connections, the timeline, the implications. The evidence was undeniable, laid bare across the polished surface of his desk, telling a story he wasn't sure he wanted to understand.
Walter rubbed his temples, feeling the pulsing onset of a migraine that threatened to split his skull. The door to his office opened with a whisper of air conditioning and closed just as quickly as Officer Jensen backed out, having delivered the damning package. The young officer's report still hung in the air like cigar smoke:
"It's Detective Coleman, sir," Jensen had said, standing at rigid attention, eyes fixed on a point just above the chief's head. "He's been involved with the journalist. Multiple encounters over the past one day, all off the books. No mention in any official reports. The surveillance team followed him for twenty-four hours straight, as instructed."
Jensen had shifted his weight uneasily, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his upper lip. He'd avoided the chief's eyes, uncomfortable being the bearer of bad news about a fellow officer, especially one as respected and well-liked as Jayson.
"Any direct evidence of information sharing?" the chief had asked, voice tight.
"Not verbal or digital, sir," Jensen replied. "They're being careful. But the body language suggests... intimacy."
Now alone, the chief's jaw clenched tight enough to make his molars ache. The betrayal tasted like metal in his mouth—sharp and corrosive, like blood from a bitten cheek.
"Damn it, Jayson," Chief Walter muttered, staring at the surveillance photo of his detective. He slammed his fist on the desk, sending several photos fluttering to the floor. "You stupid, righteous, son of a bitch."
He should have seen the warning signs three months ago, when Jayson had burst into his office clutching that document, eyes wild with revelation, insisting on reopening Cedric's case.
And just two days ago, while processing a domestic violence scene, the chief's phone had rung with a call he'd been dreading—the display reading simply: Senator Donovan.
"Excuse me," he'd told the officers, stepping away from the blood-spattered living room into the relative quiet of a kitchen where cheerful yellow curtains mocked the violence that had occurred just feet away.
"Hello, sir," Chief Walter had answered, trying to mask his apprehension with deference.
"I detest loose ends, Chief," Senator Donovan's voice was glacial, precise as a surgeon's scalpel. "You assured me the Cedric's situation was resolved, yet I hear whispers. You should check your kennel—seems you have a dog running off-leash."
The chief's stomach had turned to stone. "I understand, sir. I'll handle it immediately."
"See that you do. Dogs that can't be trusted eventually get put down." The line went dead before Walter could respond.
The moment the call ended, Chief Walter had punched in Jasen's number, his most trusted lieutenant.
"Find Jayson," he ordered, voice taut. "Now. And get me every scrap of information on his movements for the next twenty four hours. Who he's talking to, where he's going, what he's eating for breakfast—everything. And I want it quiet."
"Sir, Detective Coleman is one of our best—" Jasen had begun.
"That's precisely why I need to know what he's doing," the chief snapped. "And Jasen? Not a word to anyone."
Chief Walter never believed Jayson would back down—stubborn integrity was woven into the man's DNA—but now he had no choice. He had called him back impromptu just to find out if he was in city. Previously, he had tried to warn Jayson to stay away from the case during their last confrontation in this very office, the detective's face flushed with righteous indignation.
"I told you what would happen if you continued with this investigation," Chief Walter had said, voice low and dangerous. "Some lines aren't meant to be crossed, Jayson. This isn't about justice anymore."
"If it's not about justice, then what the hell is it about?" Jayson had demanded, the vein in his forehead pulsing. "Money? Power? What did they offer you, Chief? What was your price?"
The accusation had stung worse than Walter expected, perhaps because there was truth in it. He was already assured of becoming the state commissioner of police should Senator Donovan secure his bid for governor—that's what the senator had promised him during a private meeting at the Astor Club three months prior.
"Deliver me this election, Walter," Senator Donovan had told him over glasses of thirty-year-old Macallan, firelight dancing on crystal. "Keep the streets clean, the statistics favorable, and certain... historical matters buried. Do that, and I'll make sure you get that commissioner position you've been eyeing. Your days of taking orders will be over. You'll be giving them."
The memory left a bitter taste, almost as bitter as the betrayal spread across his desk. Senator Donovan represented his red carpet to a better life—a pension that could finally give Marie the security she deserved after thirty years of being a cop's wife. He couldn't risk jeopardizing that opportunity, not when they were so close.
With a deep breath that did nothing to ease the vise around his chest, Chief Walter picked up his phone and scrolled Senator Donovan. His finger hovered over the number for three heartbeats before he pressed 'call,' knowing he was crossing his own line.
After two rings, the senator answered, ambient noise suggesting he was at some social function. "What is it, Walter? I'm in the middle of something."
"Sir, we have a situation," Chief Walter said in a hushed tone, cupping his hand around the receiver though his office was empty. "It's about Jayson. He's still digging, and I've just received information that he might have evidence."
"What kind of evidence?" The senator's voice tightened, the ambient noise disappearing as he presumably moved to somewhere private.
"He's been meeting with that reporter from the Herald—Nadia Brown. The one who wrote that piece on departmental corruption last year. They've been seen together multiple times, and yesterday they were spotted at Meadowbrook Port ."
A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of the senator's measured breathing. When he finally spoke, his voice had the calm precision of a man selecting a coffin.
"I'm disappointed, Walter. I thought we had an understanding about the importance of containment."
"We do, sir," the chief said, sweat beading along his hairline despite the air conditioning. "But Jayson is—was—one of my best detectives. I didn't think he'd go this far."
"That's your problem, isn't it? You didn't think." The senator's voice remained eerily controlled. "The gala is in three days. The announcement of my candidacy can't be overshadowed by some detective's misguided crusade or a journalist's hit piece."
Chief Walter straightened in his chair, decision made. "I'll take care of it personally, Senator. By tomorrow morning, this won't be an issue anymore."
"See that it isn't." Another pause. "Remember, Walter—everyone is replaceable. Even police chiefs with promising futures. Let's meet tonight."
The call disconnected, and Chief Walter was left staring at the phone in his hand, the threat settling into his bones like winter damp. Slowly, he returned to the photos on his desk, gathering them with careful precision and slipping them back into the manila envelope. He'd known this moment might come, had prepared for it in a locked drawer of his conscience.
He opened his desk drawer and removed a small key, then walked to the office safe concealed behind a mediocre landscape painting—a gift from the governor five years ago. Inside the safe was a smaller lockbox containing an unmarked burner phone with only one number programmed into it.
Chief Reginald Walter had spent thirty years upholding the law. Tonight, he would step outside it, for what he told himself was the greater good.
The phone rang only once before it was answered. No greeting, just expectant silence.
"I need a problem to disappear," the chief said, voice hardly recognizing his own voice. "Permanently."
The response was brief, clinical. Just logistics and a price. When the call ended, Chief Walter returned to his desk and poured himself three fingers of bourbon from the bottle he kept for special occasions. He drank it neat, welcoming the burn.
Outside his window, somewhere in the city, Jayson was still pursuing his doomed quest for truth, unaware that his time was running out with each tick of the office clock.
Chief Walter raised his glass in a silent toast to the fading light.
"To justice," he murmured bitterly, "whatever the hell that means anymore."