Book Two!
Great news, everyone! Book Two in the “Fractured Reality Casefiles” is now with beta readers! Once the feedback is consolidated and the final touch-ups are complete, I will send the book out for ARC readers. I will post those links here when they are ready. I’m planning on releasing book two no later than December 2025. Additionally, I have completed the outline for Book 3. I hope to release it sometime between January and March 2026.
For now, here are the first THREE chapters of book two!
I hope you enjoy it!
Chapter 1
Stanley Tuckman’s coffee had gone cold an hour ago, but his eyes kept darting between it and the mirrored window—looking for salvation in both, finding it in neither. Sweat ran down his pockmarked face. Only two steel chairs and one table sat in the room. Nothing else. The overhead light cast everything in stark relief.
Detective Marla Espinoza studied his reaction to the photos and documents on the table. She offered him a small smile and nodded toward the transaction spreadsheet. It was time to see how hard this catch would fight.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your call,” she said.
Stanley’s eyes narrowed.
She leaned back, pulled out her e-cig, and took a hit. The sweet tartness of the cherry-flavored synthoids filled her mouth. Her pupils contracted as the drug kicked in. The synthoids sharpened her focus, a department-issued edge for interrogations. Every detective had their preferred flavor; cherry helped her read microexpressions.
“I want my lawyer,” he replied.
She slid a document across the desk and tapped a highlighted line.
“§ 14.6 Waiver of Counsel in Internal Criminal Proceedings.”
His eye twitched as he recognized the clause inserted into the contract every employee signed. They never seemed to mind trading their rights for a paycheck until they got caught breaking the law.
She picked up a photo. “This is you, right? I mean, your files don’t show any identical twins. Wait, were you FEDSOC?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“So we agree this is you using a trading terminal that is owned by the firm you work for, which is, uh—”
“Prospero Enterprises,” he said.
“Right, which means you recognize yourself in this picture, illegally using a corporate terminal for personal gain.”
“It wasn’t for personal gain.”
She grinned. Now he was lying to a cop. Perfect.
“Is that so?” she asked as she opened a holo-window. “So you swear, under oath, that you were using this terminal for company business at the direction of your supervisor?”
He started to respond. She held up a finger to silence him.
“Before you answer, can you confirm this is your firing notice from Prospero Enterprises?”
His eyes went wide.
She zoomed in on his name. “Can you confirm this notice’s timestamp was generated exactly one hour before this photo of you at the trading terminal?”
Stanley slumped in his seat.
She took a puff from her e-cig and tapped the holo-window. Miranda rights scrolled across the screen.
“Stanley Tuckman, you are under arrest for embezzlement under Corporate Penal Code Alpha-3.”
She initiated the tribunal software. Three seconds later, a string of words flashed across the screen:
Guilty. Fifteen years of indentured service to Prospero Enterprises.
“Fifteen years?” he yelled. “I stole $100! They hadn’t paid me in months. My credit cards were maxed out, and I couldn’t buy food. What was I supposed to do?”
She steepled her fingers and met his eyes. He sighed, his chest deflating and his head falling into his hands.
“Did you open a case with the Nova Prosper Corporate Mediation Board?”
“No. They don’t take complaints until ninety days without pay.”
She stood up and made a circling motion toward the mirrored window.
“Then I can’t help you. The verdict has been filed, and your service begins immediately. Per your corporate agreement, no appeals are allowed.”
Two armored officers entered the room and dragged Stanley away. A twinge of doubt lingered.
Her finger hesitated over the filing button. The cursor blinked once, twice. She pressed it.
She gathered up the photos and documents and left the room. A message from the chief pinged on her watch. She opened it with her lens implants.
“Swing by my office.”
She sighed—more politics.
As she made her way up from the basement of the Nova Prosper Police Headquarters and through the first-floor waiting area—its walls lined with corporate sponsor plaques from every major firm in the district—she glanced at the arched words of the city’s motto emblazoned above the reception window: “Today’s hard work leads to tomorrow’s prosperity.”
“How’s business, Casey?” she asked as she walked by the desk sergeant.
“Another almost-crime-free day in Nova Prosper, Detective,” the man replied.
“Let’s keep it that way,” she said, flicking a hand salute toward him.
She opened the door into the station’s bullpen and met the usual cacophony of detectives and case officers who filled the cavernous space. She walked past her desk, dropped the photos of Stanley on it, and headed toward the grand stairway at the far end of the room that led to Dominic’s office.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked as she stepped into his office. She sat on his large leather sofa.
He glanced up from his holo-screen and studied her with bloodshot eyes. His short gray-black hair was disheveled.
“Damn fine job on the Prospero case,” he said.
She shrugged. “All in a day’s work, Chief. I appreciate spending time with you and whatnot, but I have cases that need solving.”
“Sometimes I think you work too hard, Marla.”
Dominic’s eyes lagged a beat behind his words, like a holo-feed with a weak Wi-Fi connection.
How strong were those synthoids? she wondered.
“Speaking of working too hard, when was the last time you slept in your bed? You look terrible.”
Dominic waved her comment away. “I’m working on a special project that’s taking up way too much time.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“You already work too much, so no, I am not bringing you on to this.”
It was Marla’s turn to wave away his comment.
He smirked. “I talked with the boss, and he wanted me to pass on his thanks for a job well done.”
“Mayor Lux said that? I’m flattered,” she deadpanned.
“He did. ‘Best of the best.’ He also gave you your quarterly award early.”
“Quarter ends next month.”
“Nothing gets by you, Detective.”
“What are we doing, Dom?” She’d known him long enough to drop the formalities when they were alone—fifteen years of excellent detective work earned that privilege.
The chief tapped a finger against his desk and studied Marla. “When was the last murder in Nova Prosper?”
“Four, maybe five years ago?” Marla guessed.
“Five years, two months, and three days.”
“So what?”
“So you are spending nearly every waking hour chasing down white-collar criminals stealing pocket change from corporations with a billion-dollar market cap,” he said, checking his holo-window.
“Just doing my job. Investigating crimes.”
Dom leaned forward. “Crimes only you notice.”
“Like you said: the best of the best.”
“Take some time off, Marla. That’s an order.”
“I don’t need—”
“Take this VR credit pack. One week minimum.” His tone left no room for argument.
She pocketed it without looking. They both knew she wouldn’t use it.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“No. Vacation. You start after you clock out today. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
Twenty minutes later, she was back at her desk with fresh coffee. Marla pulled up the Prospero interrogation. Most people used AI to analyze their work, but she preferred the old-fashioned way—writing down clues with a pen and paper.
The fluorescent light flickered once—she glanced up at it, which probably needed to be replaced. She sent a quick note to maintenance and then started the playback. Static exploded in her ears.
She jerked back, cursing as she pulled her earbud out. Instead of rat-faced Stanley Tuckman, someone else sat in the chair, staring not at the camera but directly at her. The acrid stench of charred flesh hit her nostrils. Smoke poured from his mouth, and his skin bubbled and blackened in real time. His head snapped back as his body tensed, warped, and collapsed into charred ruin.
Marla swallowed hard. She didn’t recognize him, and he definitely hadn’t been in the interrogation room before. She jammed her earbud back in and dialed emergency dispatch.
“Everything okay, Detective?” a calm voice asked.
“There’s someone in Interrogation Room Six. Burning. Send medical—”
“Interrogation Room Six is vacant, ma’am.”
Marla looked back at the screen, and the man was gone. Instead, the interview with Tuckman played. She slapped the side of the machine and cursed.
“Sorry. I think somebody was playing a joke on me. Must have spliced my video feed with something.”
The voice on the other end paused. “You said you saw a burned body?”
Marla rewound the feed, but the only people in the recording were her and Tuckman.
“No, I didn’t see anything. Sorry for wasting your time.”
“No problem, ma’am. Maybe you need to take a break. We all know how hard you work.”
“Mind your own business.” She slammed the phone down.
She ran an AI diagnostic on the recording.
Video feed: normal.
She asked it to search for any signs of interference.
No anomalies detected.
Marla pulled the file, then stood up, grabbed her coffee, and headed out of the bullpen—time to visit an old friend.
A few minutes later, she stopped at an off-white office door. The attached brass plate read: “Forensic Science Department — Dr. Novem Harlan.” She pushed the door open.
“Well, hello, Detective Espinoza. It is so nice to have unscheduled visitors,” a frail voice said.
“Hey, Doc. I have a puzzle I need help with.”
“I love puzzles!”
“Then you are going to marry this one and have kids.”
She told him what she saw and the results from the diagnostic.
“Let me run a deep scan,” he replied.
Marla sent him the file, and he shuffled to the back of his lab, muttering under his breath. While he analyzed the data, she snooped around his office. Given the level of junk present, it looked like things hadn’t been cleaned since the department was founded. A stack of cast-off electronics toppled, startling her. She pulled her service weapon from her jacket and cautiously approached the source of the sound.
She found the mess of parts near a back corner of the room, half-covered by shadows. Something behind the pile pushed against it, and small items clattered to the ground. Marla bit back a curse and leveled her gun at the edge of the mess, where a black line cut a sharp seam across the floor. She took a step forward, and the pile shook again.
“I’m not in the mood for surprises today, so come out now.”
She took another step forward. Silence filled the space. Suddenly, a crash echoed off the piles as something small and black streaked past her.
“Did my kitty startle you?” Novem asked.
Marla whirled to face him. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a fucking cat? I almost blew its head off.”
Novem chuckled. “Oh dear, your shot wouldn’t have come close. Señor Schrödinger is uncatchable.”
“Isn’t that a bit on the nose for a cat?”
“He exists where he wants to exist,” he said with a laugh.
Marla glared. The old man was crazy or senile. Maybe both.
“That’s the only way I can explain how he’s in more than one place at a time around here,” Novem replied.
Definitely crazy.
“A little warning next time.” She holstered her weapon. “Find anything?”
“Nothing, dear. I ran every test I could think of. The file is clean. No deepfakes, no editing, nothing. The only people who have touched that file are you and me.”
She grunted. “Got it, thanks, Doc.”
“Anytime, Detective.”
She left the Forensic Science Department office and headed back to her desk. Either she was cracking up, or somebody had played an elaborate prank on her. But why?
She owed Dominic the Tuckman report. Once she finished that, she could clock out for the day and head home. She smiled as she typed out the last sentence and hit send. The screen went dark, and in the reflection, the charred man studied her. She jumped back, cursing. She blinked once, and he vanished. She looked around as everyone stared at her.
“New workout,” she said to the crowd.
Silence.
She grabbed her coat and left. The burned man’s eyes were familiar—not his face, but something deeper, like he’d been waiting for her.
There was only one person who could help her figure out who he was, and maybe what he wanted—before whatever was happening to her got worse. The burned man’s eyes had promised that much.
Chapter 2
“Absolutely not,” the voice said. The line went dead.
The interrogation room's fluorescent glare still burned in Marla's eyes as she stood outside Wren's building. Rain dripped from the broken awning as she jabbed the intercom again.
“I will call the police,” the voice said.
“I am the police. You’re going to call the police on the police?”
“I’ll call your boss.”
“You retired because you called him a ‘wannabe political gasbag,’ remember?”
Silence.
“Are you going to let me in?” Marla asked.
“I didn’t call him a gasbag.”
“There are kids out here; I was keeping it PG. Please, I need to talk to you.”
“The last time you came around was because Dominic needed something. I’m guessing he’s too chickenshit to pick up the phone, so he sent you.”
“I’m not here because Dominic needs something,” Marla said.
“Heard that before.”
“Damn it, Wren, I’m not playing. I need your help.”
“So much for that language. The kids leave?”
Marla slammed her palm against the door. “Look, I saw something. I’m not sure if it was real, but it felt like it was. I need you to draw it for me.”
“You sound worried.”
“Maybe.”
Wren buzzed her in. Marla glanced over her shoulder before entering, then headed to the second floor. Wren opened her door on the first knock—silver streaks in black hair she’d never bothered to dye.
“Christ, you look like shit," Wren said, stepping aside. "Come in before the neighbors start gossiping. Tea?”
“Got any coffee?”
“Green tea. Take it or leave it.”
Marla shrugged and made her way to the living room. She moved down the narrow hall; the place smelled of charcoal and sandalwood. The building was old, the apartment older. It was the price of a rent-controlled life.
A framed picture on the wall caught Marla’s attention. A twenty-something Wren clutched her artist’s sketchbook, a personal badge of pride. Like Marla, Wren didn't trust AI. She drew by hand and trusted her memory.
“Was this our graduation?” Marla asked.
“First day on the job,” Wren’s muffled voice replied.
Marla smiled as she remembered the days before politics and gamesmanship made decisions for you. Before Wren retired. Before Dominic gave in. Before a burned man haunted Marla’s shadows.
She sat down in Wren’s living room. Charcoal sketches covered the walls, turning the room monochrome. Wren walked in and set Marla’s tea on the table. Then she retreated to an oversized beige papasan chair across from her.
“This tastes like dirty water,” Marla said, setting the cup down and pushing it away. “You remember that place we used to go in our rookie year, when we had the graveyard shift?”
Wren ran a hand through her short hair. “The Beacon Diner?”
“Was that it?”
“I think so.”
“I forgot all about it until I tasted this. Thanks.”
“Happy to help. Why are you here?”
“Something happened at the station,” Marla said.
“Does it have to do with a case? You know I charge for that, right?”
“Yes and no. Mostly no.”
“Mostly no. Are you sure Dominic didn’t send you? Because that feels like a very political answer.”
Marla shook her head as she looked at the charcoal drawings. Faces adorned the walls: young children, old men, middle-aged women, smiling, frowning, sullen, happy, angry. Every expression frozen in monochrome. It was peaceful, the opposite of what she had experienced.
The man’s burned face flashed in her mind, and she flinched.
“Everything okay?” Wren asked, an eyebrow raised.
“I think somebody is screwing with me,” Marla said. She told Wren about everything that happened at the station.
Wren chewed it over, then took another sip of her tea. “Novem couldn’t find anything?”
“Nothing. Said he ran every test he could think of, too.”
“You want me to sketch this for you?”
Marla nodded. “I’m an analog gal. If somebody is messing with me, the last thing I want to do is let them know I’m investigating it.”
“That’s the only reason?”
Marla paused. “No. I need to make sure I’m not losing my mind. Cops don’t get second chances once the cracks show.”
Wren locked eyes with her. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but this sounds like the perfect lure to hook me into working on something I don’t want to work on. You still have a career. All I’ve got is my pension and my drawings. I’m not about to get burned by one of your obsessions again. ‘Cause, sister, this is the end of the line for me. If Dominic comes for my pension, I’ll be out on the streets.”
Marla grimaced, remembering the mayor's nephew case five years back—her silence had kept her career clean, while Wren's testimony had cost her everything.
“Nobody will ever know you helped me. I promise.”
“So not like last time?”
Marla sighed. “No, not like last time.”
“You going to pay me?”
“With my presence.”
“I’m not sure that currency is accepted anywhere.”
She stood, walked to a corner, and grabbed her sketchbook and charcoal pencils.
“Close your eyes. Go back to the interrogation room—but don’t chase his face yet. Feel the room first. The lighting, the temperature. You’re safe here with me. Just watch, don’t judge.”
Marla leaned back into the soft cushions. She was back in the interrogation room, alone. The space felt small and sterile. Her hands trembled. A sheen of sweat glistened on her brow as her heart rate spiked. She took a deep breath in, held it, then let it out. A calmness settled over her.
“Good. Now, picture him sitting across from you. Start with a general idea, then focus on the details.”
The man sat across from her, visible in the room’s harsh light. “He has an average build, possibly around five feet nine or ten. A hundred seventy or eighty pounds. Brown eyes. No hair—it’s all burned off. There is scarring from the burns, but it looks surgical. Like the burns started in specific spots, not like an accelerant was dumped on him. His jaw looks like melted wax, but his eyes are sharp, like the fire didn’t touch them.”
She realized his eyes didn’t hold any anger or fear, just purpose. He didn’t have any cuts or scrapes—no signs of a struggle. Just burns.
“He looks too peaceful, if that makes sense. I don’t want to say enlightened, but I can tell that he has his mind made up about something.”
“Like a serial killer?” Wren asked.
“Maybe,” Marla replied, but it didn’t feel right. Like when you saw a perfect forgery. It could fool most people, but Marla knew something was off. His eyes weren’t dead; they were full of life. He had resigned himself to a predetermined fate. He was trying to get something.
“I don’t know. He doesn’t feel like a killer. More like...someone trying to say something.”
Wren’s charcoal scratched against the paper faster. “Sometimes the most dangerous ones are the ones trying to tell us something,” Wren said.
Marla sat in silence, her thoughts swirling. This was no figment of her imagination; someone real had accessed the department’s systems. She felt the familiar pull of a new case and started plotting next steps.
Wren set her pencil down; charcoal dust darkened her fingertips. She studied the sketch, her eyes tracing each line before turning it around. Marla's hand moved involuntarily to her holster—a reflexive response to seeing those eyes again, even in charcoal. Her throat tightened. The sketch somehow made him more real than the interrogation room had. The graphite captured not just the man's features, but that unsettling intensity Marla remembered.
“That’s him,” Marla whispered. “That’s exactly him. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Wren said as she placed the sketch on the coffee table. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?”
“What do you mean?"
“This is what I was talking about earlier. I don’t want to get dragged into anything, Marla.”
“You’ve lost me. Speak slowly and use smaller words, please.”
“Remember Miguel Santos? Caught him dealing again last month.” Wren’s voice dropped lower. “But he’s clean now, scared shitless.”
Marla leaned forward. “Scared of what?"
“Says bodies have been appearing in the Trenches—burned ones...”
“The Trenches?” Marla asked.
Wren waved a hand. “We call it the Trenches. Feels like a war zone. Cops only come here in pairs, and rent control's the only thing keeping us longtime residents from being pushed out entirely.”
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“Because I didn’t know if this was a trap, test, or whatever political spiderweb Dominic is building today. I needed to be sure.”
“You didn’t trust me.”
“I trusted you, but I needed to verify it. It’s not personal.” Wren paused, her eyes softening slightly. “Besides, we both know you wouldn't be here if you had anywhere else to turn. That's what old partners are for, right? The impossible shit.”
Marla shrugged. “Fair enough. What are the streets telling you?”
“This is bigger than anybody is admitting to."
Marla’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean?"
“The story always goes that somebody finds a body, an unmarked forensics team shows up with a couple of plainclothes officers, and they disappear with the body. A few hundred credits to the witness, and it’s like the body never existed.”
“Any idea who is doing the cleanup? I didn’t know the force had unmarked forensics vans, and I know all the uniformed detectives in town,” Marla replied.
“I’m just passing along what I’ve heard.”
“Why are people telling you this stuff? Do they know you’re a retired cop?”
Wren smirked. “I keep my former life separate from my current life. If anyone asks, I tell them I’m a starving artist, which is true. As far as why people tell me stuff, well, addicts talk. I’m around when they are.”
“Where should I look next?” Marla asked.
Wren picked up her pencil again, tapping it against the table. “A name keeps coming up when people talk about the bodies.” She hesitated, then wrote something on a piece of paper, her hand pausing before the last letter. She slid it over to Marla like she was passing a live grenade. “Don’t look at it here.”
Marla picked it up and slid it into her pocket. “Thanks.”
“This city is stuffed full of secrets. Make sure you don’t tip over the wrong domino, or everything falls down,” Wren said.
Marla took one last sip of her tea and stood. Wren handed her the sketch, then walked her to the door. They embraced.
“Thank you for this.”
“Remember, you’re on your own out here.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Marla headed down the hallway to the stairs. She opened the paper that Wren had given her.
Khan.
The youngest crime boss in Nova Prosper. What was his connection to these bodies? She studied the sketch one last time, folded it, and slipped it into her pocket.
Chapter 3
Construction noise hammered the block as Marla studied the newly refaced building. The late afternoon sun threw long shadows, and fresh mortar couldn’t mask the old decay in this district. It was a new trend among the city’s old money: finding undesirable places and transforming them.
Khan had bought out a rent-controlled apartment complex, evicted the tenants, and was putting the finishing touches on a new entertainment establishment. At least that’s what the large neon sign indicated.
The Red Lantern.
This wasn’t her first time dealing with Khan: ambitious, innovative, slippery, and well-connected. Not the kind of person who offered information freely. A man in a black tailored suit exited the building and walked toward her. His left hand twitched, a nervous tic at odds with his otherwise perfect composure.
“Good afternoon, Detective Espinoza. Mister Khan will see you now.”
“Who says I want to see him?”
“We aren’t open for business yet, and last I checked, you hadn’t been assigned to the city’s building design and permitting department, which means that you’re here to see Mister Khan,” the suit said.
“Maybe I’m here to arrest your boss. You sure you want to invite me in?”
“All the more reason. It’s considerably more difficult to carry out your duties outside the building than inside.”
“Lead the way.”
The man turned on his heel.
“Welcome to the Red Lantern,” he said, pulling open the large wooden double doors. “Mister Khan intends to make it the premier entertainment venue in Nova Prosper.”
Marla stepped inside and glanced up at the exposed ceiling. Workers were installing distinctive glass chandeliers that looked like they belonged in a museum of modern art, not a nightclub. Through the half-finished walls, she could see the original structure: solid brick, built when things were made to last. Khan wasn’t just renovating a building; he was rewriting its history. She wondered how many families had been forced out at gunpoint so these hardwood floors could be installed—the kind made from real wood, not the printed composite that everyone else made do with.
“Are you giving VIP passes to the people he evicted?”
“Contrary to popular belief the owners were well compensated,” Jimmy said, his mouth still moving a beat after the words. “Our initial estimates show that the tax revenues from the Red Lantern’s operations will help revitalize this part of the city.”
“The famous open-a-bar-for-the-betterment-of-the-community argument. Never heard that one before.”
“From what I understand, there is much you haven’t heard before,” the man replied, stopping at the bottom of a set of industrial metal stairs. He pointed. “Mister Khan is in his private viewing area. Please use caution as you move around the area.”
Before Marla could respond, the man had already pivoted on his heel with mechanical precision and walked away. She stepped onto the expensive floors and felt the solid wood under her boots. She looked down and watched the knots swirl as light hit it. Real and rare.
“Welcome to my humble accommodations, Detective Espinoza. Please join me.”
Marla looked up to see an immaculately dressed man sitting at a large table. Khan’s black hair was slicked back, each strand meticulously put in place. His dark brown skin caught the soft glow from the lights above. He wore a perfectly starched white suit with a button-down black shirt underneath, accented with a royal blue tie. His watery eyes bulged as he stood. Knobby fingers pressed into her flesh as they shook hands. He was the kind of man who’d sell his mother if the profit margins made sense.
“You’re busy. I need answers,” she said.
Khan’s hand curled around a martini glass. He took a long, slow sip of the clear liquid, studying her over its rim before setting it down. He nodded at her to continue.
Marla pulled the sketch of the burned man out of her pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table. For a split second, Khan’s eyes went wide.
“It’s a lovely drawing, Detective. Are you the artist?”
“I don’t have time for small talk. Your pupils dilated and your jaw clenched the second I put it on the table. Who is he?”
Khan pursed his lips. “If I did know, why would I tell you?”
“Maybe I make some calls about your bar?”
“You could,” Khan said. Light fractured through ice as he slowly rotated his glass, “and then I could make some calls to the Mayor. Who do you think would fare better?”
“Probably you,” Marla said as she leaned forward. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But who do you think has more pull with the grunts who’ll be crawling through this place, poking their noses into every last nook and cranny? Your man—"
“Jimmy.”
“He made a good point that I don’t work for permitting. But I know the people who do. And I know them well enough to give you a six-month headache, even if you have an angry mayor in your back pocket.”
“That would be an unfortunate development. It would slow my progress, but it wouldn’t stop me from opening my establishment. That would leave you with no answers and some angry friends who are newly unemployed.”
“Six months is a long time for someone like me to dig up long-buried skeletons.”
“There is no need for mutually assured destruction. However, you haven’t offered me a reason to provide you with the information you want. If you take me down, you lose access to the information you want.”
“So you do know something,” Marla said.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Marla glared at him. Always games with Khan. “Okay, what do you want?”
“You want a man. I do too. Someone who can help me find some lost property.”
“You want a dirty cop.”
“I want somebody who will make a deal.”
Marla leaned back. She had an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Riggs was somebody she butted heads with. Last month, he’d planted evidence on a convenience store owner who’d refused to pay protection money. The city wouldn’t miss him.
Still, ratting out one of yours was frowned upon. How would she be any different from the criminals whom she hunted? But if sacrificing a dirty cop was the going price for the truth, she was willing to pay it.
“If I give you a name,” she said, “that blood is on your hands, not mine.”
Khan didn’t blink.
She exhaled slowly. The only way out was through.
“Denny Riggs, narcotics, as dirty as they come. Your turn.”
Khan motioned to Jimmy, who had come back upstairs. He leaned in and whispered something into the crime boss’s ear. Khan nodded, and Jimmy placed a pen and paper in front of Marla.
“No strings.” Khan tapped the table once.
“No deal.” Marla stood, her chair scraping against the floor.
Khan took a long pull from his martini. “I get him for sixty days; then you can report him to Internal Affairs. Sit, please.”
Marla glared, then sat. He was thinking five steps ahead, and now he had her pinned.
“Forty-five days—final offer.”
“You’re forcing me to accelerate my schedule, and I am already behind. I need something else.”
Marla cocked her head and glared at him. “What could you possibly need from me? I’m sure you’re elbow-deep in the department. Use your sources.”
“You are my source for this transaction. If I use anyone else, they will be burned once IA completes their investigation. That does me no good.”
Marla sighed. “Fine, what do you want to know?”
“I need his patrol rotation. Specifically, when he will be back in the Trenches.”
She knew precisely what Khan wanted Riggs for down there—the same thing every crime boss wanted in that war zone. She’d learned the rules her first week on the force, watching an ambulance drive past a dying homeless man to reach a paying customer three blocks over. No money, no service. The city’s way of saying: the rich come first, everybody ends up like this.
Her eyes glowed an unnatural blue—the telltale sign of department-issued ocular implants firing up—as she pulled up the patrol schedule. She’d always hated how the implants made her look inhuman, but right now, facing Khan, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
Data flooded her vision in neat rows: officer assignments, sector rotations, security clearances—the department’s entire infrastructure, accessible with a thought. The pen felt heavy in her hand as she wrote. Riggs had a daughter, didn’t he? Twelve years old. Would she understand why her father never came home? Marla’s jaw clenched. How many kids never saw their parents again because of Riggs? She pressed harder, the pen digging into the paper. Forty-five days. After that, Internal Affairs could sort out what he deserved.
“This burned man better be real,” she muttered. Riggs’ face flashed in her mind’s eye. He might be dirty, but he had done some good. It didn’t matter.
He’d made his choice. She’d made hers. Now, she had chosen one for both of them. She filed the guilt away with all the other compromises she’d made in this job and focused on Khan. In Nova Prosper, everyone eventually paid the price.
Khan picked up the paper and handed it to Jimmy. He pocketed it and left.
A smile flickered at the corner of Khan’s lips. “You truly do not know anything about this man?”
“No. Clock’s ticking.”
Khan’s mouth tightened. “If you pursue this, Detective, you won’t return the same person.”
“Then I’d better get started.”
A faint vibration ran through the floorboards under her boots—construction, or something else.
Khan shrugged. “Very well. One of my crew found this man’s body in an alley surrounded by abandoned buildings—still smoldering.”
“Where’s the body now?” Marla asked.
“I called whom I usually call when situations like this occur, Detective Allan O’Brien.”
“No detective with that name in the NPPD.”
“I never said he worked for the NPPD.”
Forgotten rumors stirred in the back of her mind. An offhand comment the chief had made. Something about the mayor having a personal security force. She’d thought it was a joke at the time.
“O’Brien and his team showed up in an unmarked van and collected the body, as they always do,” Khan said.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen one of these bodies?” Marla asked.
“My people have found several bodies. Identical. Still smoldering.”
Marla shivered as a cool draft whistled through the incomplete walls, carrying the scent of wet concrete. Light flickered through the plastic sheeting covering the windows, casting a strange, shifting pattern across Khan’s face as he spoke. For a split second, she caught the acrid scent of burning flesh.
“Just a burning body? No accelerant? No witnesses?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s almost as if the bodies are burning from the inside out. My men reported smoke coming from the man’s mouth and nose.”
“Bullshit. That would’ve been flagged as murder. The whole department would be tearing the city apart right now.”
“It is interesting that no official reports have been made, isn’t it?”
“It’s insane,” she said.
“What is reality to you, Detective?” Khan asked.
“I don’t have time for riddles.”
“You want the truth, but can you find it if you can’t even define your problem?”
“Reality is what I can see, touch, and verify," she said. "The rest is noise.”
Khan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And when your eyes lie to you? When your implants show you only what someone else wants you to see? What then, Detective?”
Marla opened her mouth but snapped it shut before any words came out. What if this wasn’t a serial killer? What if the man she kept seeing, the one others couldn’t, was something her rational mind couldn’t categorize? She’d built her career on observable facts and physical evidence. That foundation felt unstable.
The investigator in her took over. People don’t spontaneously combust. There had to be a logical explanation.
“I gave you hard intel, like I promised. You have given me a detective who doesn’t exist and a ghost. Give me the location of the body.”
“Your call. Just don’t pretend this was a fair trade. I have provided you a treasure trove of information, and all I got in return was a rented dirty cop.”
Jimmy returned up the stairs and placed a piece of paper in front of Marla. It had an address and O’Brien’s name written on it. As she stood, their eyes met for a moment—a flash of warning before his professional mask slipped back into place. The thought of what she had just done made her stomach turn.
She buried it. In this job, guilt was just dead weight.
“Best of luck with Riggs,” she said.
“Best of luck with your ghosts,” he replied.
Khan picked up his martini and turned his gaze to the construction below. Marla followed Jimmy down the stairs and out of the Red Lantern. As she opened the door to leave, Jimmy cleared his throat.
“Detective," he said, his voice flat. “I would advise discretion. Mister Khan won’t be the only one watching how you use that information.”
She nodded and stepped onto the street. As daylight faded, the note in her pocket felt heavier than her badge—both pointing her toward something she might not walk away from.
