"I got a call from Detective Diaz." Rodriguez let that land. "FBI made arrests this morning. Multiple city officials, people inside the department, taken into custody. Payoffs from landlords to look the other way on fire safety violations.Buildings that should have been condemned. Inspections signed off without anyone setting foot inside."
The grins faded. The room went still.
"Turns out the push to close this house had nothing to do with budget cuts." Rodriguez was almost smiling. "We were on the chopping block because we kept doing our jobs. Every violation report, every inspection we flagged, we were making problems for people who didn't want problems."
Shane's hand landed on my shoulder. Hard enough to sting.
"Diaz asked me to pass something along." Rodriguez's eyes found mine. "Stone. The documentation, the reports, the photographs. Seven years of it. That's what built the foundation for these arrests."
The crew turned to look at me.
Seven years of filing reports no one read. Seven years of photographing violations that went unfixed. Seven years of watching buildings burn because no one in power cared enough to listen.
Someone finally listened.
"It was a team effort," I managed. "Sloane did the heavy lifting."
"You built the case," Shane said quietly, just for me. "She gave it a platform. That's partnership."
Rodriguez crossed the room. Extended his hand. "Seven years you've been filing those reports, Stone. I signed off on every one. Watched every one disappear into a drawer downtown." His grip was firm. "Not anymore."
Brian didn't bother with handshakes. Just pulled me into the kind of hug that would have gotten us both roasted on any other day. "Proud of you, brother," he said.
The rest of the crew piled in. Gonzalez clapping the back of my head. Ortiz punching my arm hard enough to leave a mark. Someone yelling about buying me a steak.
I stood in the middle of it, letting it wash over me. These men. This house.
Engine 295 was safe.
The next day, I went with Sloane to meet with Detective Diaz.
"You don't have to come." She was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, already dressed, watching me pull a shirt over my head. "I can handle Diaz."
"I'm not coming because I think you can't handle it." I grabbed my jacket. "I'm coming because I'd rather spend the time with you."
"At a police precinct?"
I crossed the room. Slid my hand along her jaw.
"Less than ideal. But it's with you, so I don't care."
She laughed. I kissed her before she could argue.
The precinct smelled like old coffee and copy toner. Diaz looked tired, dark circles, desk buried under files. But something was lighter in her expression. The look of someone whose work was finally paying off.
A man I didn't recognize stood when we entered. Tall, close-cropped hair, navy suit that fit like a uniform. Federal ID clipped to his belt.
"Good thing you came, Lieutenant Stone." Diaz nodded toward him. "Special Agent Keene. FBI. Public corruption unit."
I glanced at Sloane. She was already looking at me with an expression that saidI told you so.
Keene shook our hands. Firm grip, direct eye contact. The efficient assessment of someone used to deciding quickly who was useful and who wasn't.
"Lieutenant Stone. Ms. Harper." He nodded toward the chairs. "Detective Diaz has been keeping me up to speed. Impressive documentation you've put together."
"I want to start by saying thank you. Formally." Diaz looked at me. "What you built over seven years, the documentation, the violation reports, the photographs. My team and Keene's office have been going through it. Meticulous. It gave us the thread that unraveled the whole network."
"Sloane connected the dots," I said. "I just had the raw material."
