The world was too small.
Or maybe the criminal networks were simply interconnected.
Roman continued.
“He posed as a driver. Got close enough to overhear meetings. Delivered packages. Observed their logistics.”
“Did he get anything usable?”
“Some.”
Roman shifted his weight. “Names. Transportation routes. Financial movement patterns. A few offshore accounts tied to shell corporations.”
He exhaled. “But not enough to fully indict the Thompsons or tie them cleanly to the other four families they collaborate with.”
He glanced at me.
“Still — it gave us structure and context.”
He tapped lightly on my desk.
“And context matters when you’re dealing with someone like Baranov.”
I nodded slowly.
If the Thompsons and Ruslan’s network intersected — even partially — then my past and my present investigations might overlap more than I expected.
“Does your brother still have those files?” I asked
Roman’s mouth curved into something that resembled pride. “He keeps everything.”
“Good.”
“He’s got notes too. Observations that never made it into official reports.”
Roman tilted his head. “Got plans tomorrow evening?”
I raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Why?”
“Come by my place around seven.”
His tone remained casual. “I’ll cook,” he added.
The statement surprised me more than the invitation.
“You cook?”
He smirked. “My brother taught me. Said intelligence officers need to survive long stakeouts without relying on takeout.”
He shrugged.
“We can go over what he remembers. Unfiltered version. Sometimes the unofficial details are the most useful.”
I considered it.
Access to insider insight about the Thompson family could reveal patterns.
