She wore plain clothes tonight, dark jeans and a Copper Moon Cup staff T-shirt, her badge clipped to her belt instead of riding her chest. It did nothing to make her look less like she could take down half the tent with a raised eyebrow.
“Relax,” she said, reading his stance. “I’m off duty in about thirty minutes. Right now, I’m just a woman who wants a paper plate of pulled pork before Brian eats it all.”
“He will,” Hank said. “You should probably cut in line.”
She smiled briefly, then nodded toward Bree. “How’s she doing?”
“Better than I expected,” he said honestly. “She told her parents she’s staying. Told the mayor we’re serious about the warehouse. Started a sketch for a new series.”
Diaz’s gaze followed his. “Good,” she said. “We need more people who stick.”
He heard the unspoken because. Because people who stick are more likely to fight for a place.
“You said you’d call if there was more chatter,” he said.
“I did,” she said. “I’m still sorting through what’s useful and what’s background noise. Your plate-check from earlier goes to a rental, paid in cash by a shell company that has one purpose: buying cars and moving them between states. I’ve seen it tied to two other investigations, neither local.”
“So not a tourist,” he said.
“Probably not,” she agreed. “But I can’t prove intent yet. He didn’t loiter long, he didn’t approach you, he didn’t do anything except look too interested, and then drove away. Suspicious, yes; actionable, no.”
“Do we need to be doing anything different tonight?” he asked.
“Tonight you eat, you smile for the cameras, you go back to your room and lock the deadbolt,” Diaz said. “Tomorrow, you keep an eye out. I’ve already asked patrol to do a few extra passes near your hotel and the Bay Street block. We’re putting a marked car in sight as often as we can; deterrence is worth something.”
“Thanks,” he said.
She gave him a long look. “I’m telling you this because I know you get it,” she said quietly. “Not so you can run your own op. You see something off, you call it in. You do not follow anyone into dark corners.”
The words hit memories he didn't dwell on; sand under his boots, radio crackle, a door that opened on something none of them had wanted to see.
“I hear you,” he said. “I won’t go cowboy.”
“Good,” she said. “I don’t feel like writing that report.”
Across the tent, someone called Diaz’s name. She lifted two fingers in acknowledgment.
“Your guy Colby,” she said, nodding toward the cooler. “He asked me earlier if there’s a way he can see any public bulletins about illegal parts circulating. I told him no; then I told him where to look anyway. He’s got a brain for patterns.”
“Yeah,” Hank said. “He does.”
“You keep him pointed at the legitimate side of that line,” Diaz said. “People who can see systems are valuable; they’re also tempting targets for the wrong kind of work.”
“I will,” Hank said.
She clapped his shoulder once, surprisingly warm. “Enjoy your night, James.”
He watched her head for the food line, then took a breath and went to find his own center of gravity.
Bree looked up as he approached. Her face lit; that still felt like a miracle.
“There you are,” she said. “I was telling Carmen about your Marine brain and how you tried to turn the studio into Fort Knox.”
“I did not,” he said. “Jason and I merely suggested that glass that shatters if you breathe on it is not optimal.”
Carmen smiled. “I like him,” she said to Bree. “He sounds like my insurance agent.”
Hank laughed. “Not the look I’m going for, but I’ll take competent over cool.”
