"Just wanted to check on some equipment transfer paperwork from last week. Heard you guys borrowed our thermal camera for that warehouse call."
It was a lie. Equipment transfers went through dispatch and battalion, not individual lieutenants making house calls. But Phillips just nodded along, apparently not catching the inconsistency.
"Yeah, yeah, that's all sorted. Paperwork's in the system."
Santoro's eyes found mine across the room. "Delgado. Didn't expect to see you here on your day off."
"Catching up on paperwork," I said evenly. "You know how it is."
"I do indeed." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Mind if I have a word? Professional matter."
Phillips took the hint, gathering his things with more energy than he'd shown all afternoon. "I'll just go check on the guys. Make sure they're not burning the place down."
When we were alone, Santoro's facade dropped slightly. The political smile remained, but something harder showed in his eyes.
"So," he said, settling into Phillips's abandoned chair. "How's Captain O'Sullivan doing? Heard he's been having some health issues."
The casual way he mentioned Cap's illness made my skin crawl. "He's fighting. Thanks for asking."
"Good, good. Terrible thing, cancer. Makes you think about the future, doesn't it? About who's going to step up when the old guard moves on."
I kept my expression neutral, but every instinct was telling me this conversation was going somewhere I wouldn't like.
"The department needs strong leadership," I said carefully.
"Absolutely. Leadership that understands the big picture. The politics, the relationships, the way things really work." He leaned back in the chair, perfectly relaxed. "Not everyone gets that. Some people think it's all about tactics and training records."
"Those things matter."
"Of course they do. But they're not everything." His smile widened. "Take that mutual aid call last month. Your crew did excellent work. Really excellent. But afterwards, there were some... concerns raised."
My blood pressure spiked. "What kind of concerns?"
"Oh, just some questions about equipment protocols. Thecrosslay connections. How information gets passed between shifts." He examined his fingernails with casual interest. "Nothing major. The kind of thing that gets noted in files, though. The kind of thing that comes up when promotion boards review candidates."
I stared at him, the full scope of what he was saying sinking in. He was talking about the incident where A-shift had used our engine and left our attack line disconnected, nearly costing us crucial time on a structure fire. The incident that had been their fault, their negligence.
"That was A-shift's error. Your crew used our engine on a mutual aid call," I began, my voice low and controlled. I wasn't going to yell. Yelling was a loss of control, and I was in complete command of this situation. "When it came back, our crosslay was disconnected from the discharge. My crew almost paid the price for that on the Elm Street fire."
He had the gall to look surprised, then concerned. It was a masterful performance. "Whoa, Delgado, I had no idea. The guys were probably just exhausted after that warehouse fire. These things happen when you're running on fumes. No harm, no foul, right? You got the job done."
"We got the job donein spiteof your crew's negligence," I corrected him. "Leaving a primary attack line disconnected isn't a mistake. It's a reckless disregard for basic safety that could have gotten a civilian killed. It could have gotten my crew killed."
He dropped the concerned act, his expression hardening. “Look, nobody got hurt. What’s the big deal? You’re making this into something it’s not.”
“The big deal,” I said, stepping closer, “is that you seem to think professionalism is optional. That the rules don’t apply to you. That my crew’s safety is less important than your shift’s convenience.”
His smooth facade finally cracked. A flash of genuineanger lit his eyes. He took a step toward me, his voice dropping to a low, condescending sneer.
"Funny thing about errors," Santoro said, his voice quieter and more dangerous, "They're often a matter of perspective. Who reports them, how they get interpreted, what context they're given." He stood up, straightening his uniform shirt. "The brass tends to trust officers who've demonstrated good judgment. Political judgment."
"Is that a threat?"
"A threat?" He looked genuinely shocked. "Delgado, I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to explain how things work in the real world. You're a good tactical officer — nobody disputes that. But there's more to leadership than running calls."
He moved closer, his voice dropping to a confidential tone. "Look, I like you. I respect your work. But you've got to understand, the promotion process isn't just about test scores and fireground performance. It's about relationships. It's about fitting in with the command structure. It's about understanding that sometimes you need to work within the system instead of against it."
"And what if the system is wrong?"
