“In town for a weekend. Bought from the cabin twice. Couldn’t tell you anything about the operation beyond where to show up and how much to bring.” He shrugged. “Second raid gave us product and arrests, but zero intel on the supply chain.”
I scrubbed a hand down my face. “So, almost as useless as our first raid that had zero arrests.”
“Pretty much.”
I walked to the wall and stood in front of the high-risk cluster. Vance. Martinez. Reeves. Briggson. Four faces staring back at me under bad lighting, none of them giving anything away.
“Why are we keeping Vance here? We know he’s not dirty, right?”
Donovan shrugged one shoulder. “As much as we can know about anyone. Yeah, I’m moving him to low.”
I moved his picture, still staring at the others.
“Briggson’s tantrum the other night after the arrest,” Donovan said, following my gaze.
“He was definitely fucking pissed.”
“That he was. Maybe because his bad guy buddies could’ve been busted. But, honestly? If I’d been on the team eight years and got left off a live op, I’d have been in Vance’s face too.”
“Same.” I’d landed in the same place days ago. Briggson’s reaction was consistent with a dirty cop who’d lost control—and equally consistent with a territorial cop whose pride took a hit. Neither version proved anything.
My phone buzzed on the counter. Jace.
I picked up and put it on speaker. “What’s going on, Jace?”
“Financial updates.” No preamble. No jokes. Just Jace in work mode, which meant he’d found something worth being serious about. “Starting with Briggson. He’s clean. Lives within his means, no unexplained deposits, no unusual spending. His biggest financial vice is a fishing magazine subscription.” A beat. “He also donates more to charity than anyone else in the department. Has for three years running.”
Donovan raised an eyebrow.
“Doesn’t rule him out,” I said.
“No. But he’s low on my list.” Keys clattered. “Martinez—the one you said is always on his phone. History of online gambling. Got himself in a hole about two years back, racked up debt, appears to have pulled out. The gambling’s stopped, at least online. But there have been deposits the pastfew months that don’t match his pay schedule. Few hundred here and there.”
“Source?”
“Unknown. Could be family loans, side jobs, selling junk online. Could also be a local game. It’s worth watching, but it’s thin.” More typing. “Now. Reeves.”
Donovan leaned forward.
“Similar surface pattern to Martinez—irregular cash deposits, few hundred at a time, no clear source. But Reeves has two phones.”
“Two phones?” I repeated.
“Personal phone registered in his name. Prepaid phone, purchased with cash, three months ago. And over the past month, the personal phone has called the prepaid several times.”
“He’s calling himself.”
“That’s what the data says. There are innocent explanations, but a cop with a burner who calls it from his own line is a pattern worth investigating.” Jace paused. “I’ve been tracking both phones. He goes active most evenings—starts moving around town, hitting different addresses. Doesn’t stay long at any of them. Twenty minutes here, fifteen there.”
“Delivery pattern,” Donovan said.
“That’s how it reads. He hasn’t started tonight. Based on the data, he usually goes active after seven. I’ll ping you the moment he moves.”
“Do that.”
“Copy.”
The line went dead.
