I push forward another paper, photos this time. Surveillance stills. They’re grainy and pulled from traffic cams and storefront security. “CI got us these.”
Mason studies them. A warehouse, loading dock, and a plain black SUV. The same vehicle we’ve seen circling three different locations tied to missing persons reports.
“Driver?” he asks.
“Unknown,” I reply. “Face is always obscured and they’ve never gotten a clear read on the plate. But the pattern’s consistent.”
Mason leans back, running a hand over his jaw. “They’re moving people.”
“Yeah.”
“And product.”
“Yeah.” I know he means the Succinylcholine, but to the traffickers, the wordspeopleandproductare the same thing.
“And we still don’t know who’s at the top.”
I don’t respond because that’s the part that’s starting to bother me the most. Not the violence or the system, but the intelligence behind it. This isn’t sloppy; this isn’t impulsive. This is someone who understands how to build something that lasts. It’s someone patient and careful.
“CI say anything else?” Mason asks.
I hesitate but finally admit, “he mentioned that name again: York.”
“Same as the fire survivor.”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
That’s not a coincidence; it’s confirmation.
Mason exhales slowly. “Alright,” he mutters. “So, we’ve got money, movement, and a partial name.”
“And a method,” I add.
His jaw tightens at the thought. “Yeah.”
We both fall quiet for a second.
“What’s the play?” he finally asks.
That’s the question, the one that matters. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk, staring down at the mess of evidence we’ve pieced together. “We push the CI. See how close he can get us to York.”
Mason nods slowly, “and the warehouses?”
“Surveillance,” I reply. “No raids yet, not until we know exactly what we’re walking into.”
“Too risky,” he agrees. It’s too many unknowns, and too many ways it could go sideways.
I sit back again, my gaze drifting across the bullpen at the other detectives and uniforms moving around the room, and the sounds of phones ringing, keyboard typing, and conversations overlapping. Like normal. Except it’s not, not anymore. Because now I know what’s happening just a few miles from here. And we’re still playing catch-up.
“You’re distracted,” Mason says.
I glance back at him. “I’m working.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “But you’re thinking about something else.”
I don’t respond because he isn’t wrong. I’m still thinking about Liv.
“Don’t,” Mason insists.
