I sat. Spread the folder across her desk, the same documents Diaz had shared with me, the same evidence Garrett and I had been piecing together for weeks.
"We have something," I said. "Something big."
Marianne pulled on her reading glasses, the ones she still refused to admit she needed, and started flipping through the pages. Bank statements. Inspection records. The web of shell companies that connected every targeted building.
"Three inspectors," I explained. "All connected to the same network of slumlords. All receiving cash deposits within a week of signing off on failed inspections. Diaz pulled their financials, the money trail is solid."
"Names?"
"Thomas Breck. James Chen. Robert Holloway." I tapped Breck's file. "Breck is the big one. Fire marshal. He's been burying violation reports for years, including reports filed by my source at FDNY."
Marianne's eyes lifted from the page. Sharp. Assessing.
"Your source. Lieutenant Stone."
I kept my face neutral. "He's been documenting this corruption for years. Filing reports through proper channels, allof it dismissed. Meanwhile, the firehouse that keeps flagging violations just landed on the shortlist for closure."
"Convenient."
"Exactly."
She returned to the documents, her pen tapping against the desk in that rhythmic way that meant she was thinking. I'd learned to wait out these silences. Marianne processed information like a chess player, three moves ahead, always calculating.
"The arson angle," she said finally. "Where does that fit?"
"Every building targeted by our arsonist was signed off by these same inspectors. Same shell company network. Same pattern of violations ignored."
I leaned forward. "Someone figured out what Stone figured out. But instead of filing reports, they started lighting matches."
"Vigilante justice."
"That's the theory. Someone who lost something to one of these buildings. Someone who watched the system fail and decided to burn it down—literally."
Marianne removed her glasses. Set them on the desk.
Fixed me with that gaze that had made senators sweat.
"This is explosive, Harper. Corrupt fire officials, city inspectors on the take, a vigilante arsonist targeting the buildings they protected." She tapped the folder. "If we publish this, we're accusing a fire marshal of taking bribes. We're implicating city officials in negligent homicides. We better be right."
"We are."
"You have documentation?"
"Years of it. Stone's files are meticulous. Cross-referenced, timestamped, sourced. And Diaz is building the criminal case on her end — she's bridged the FBI's public corruption unit.They've got the subpoena power, the financial forensics, access to records we'd never get through NYPD alone."
"Detective Diaz running point for the feds." Marianne's mouth twitched. "The one from the Lang case?"
"She's solid. And she wants this as much as we do."
Silence stretched. Marianne stared at the documents, then at me, then back at the documents. I could see her weighing it—the risks, the rewards, the potential for this story to blow up in our faces or blow the lid off something rotten.
"This is good work, Harper." She set the folder down. "Solid sourcing. Clear documentation. The kind of piece that wins awards and makes enemies."
"But?"
"But we sit on it."
I blinked. "Sit on it?"
