“I want the person Harrow was protecting. The one Lily died because she saw too much about.” I leaned forward. “Who was it, Marcus? Who was worth killing over?”
“I don't know. That information never went through me. Harrow kept it compartmentalised. Only he knows the full picture.”
Dom's fist slammed into the table. Webb jumped. I didn't.
“Then you're useless,” Dom said.
“I'm not—I gave you the network—I told you how it works?—”
“You gave us mid-level corruption. We need the apex.” Dom looked at me. “He doesn't know anything else useful.”
“Then we keep digging.” I stood. “You stay here with him. Make sure he doesn't try anything creative. I need to make some calls.”
“Cal—”
“Not now.”
I left before Dom could argue, walking out of the basement and up through Ravenswood's corridors, which smelled of old money and older secrets. I found an empty room, locked the door, and pulled out my phone.
Bishop's number went straight to voicemail. That wasn't normal. Bishop always answered—his entire business depended on being available.
I tried again. Same result.
Then a text came through from an unknown number, three words:
Bishop says hello.
My blood went cold.
A second message followed:
He's comfortable. For now. Cooperate and he stays that way.
Harrow had Bishop. Had gotten to him and was using him as leverage.
I stared at the phone, calculating options, running scenarios. Everything came up with the same ugly answer: I'd have to make a trade. Give up something to get Bishop back, something Harrow wanted badly enough that he'd consider it a fair exchange.
The problem was I didn't have anything Harrow wanted except access to this investigation. To Dom. To Ravenswood.
I pulled up my contact list and found the number I'd hoped never to use. A handler from my police days, someone who'd gone private, who brokered deals between people who couldn't be seen negotiating directly.
“This is Mercer,” I said when she answered. “I need to make a trade.”
“What are you offering?”
“Information about a current investigation. Partial disclosure in exchange for the release of a civilian who got caught in the crossfire.”
“Who's holding the civilian?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does if they're someone who'll honour the deal.” A pause. “Is it Harrow?”
“Yes.”
“Then you're fucked, Mercer. Harrow doesn't make fair trades. He takes what he wants and burns anyone stupid enough to trust him.”
“I know. But I have to try.”
