by Layla Reyne
“What do we know about Thompson?” Chris asked.
“She gave the press conference earlier today,” Helena said.
“Yep, that’s her.” Jax brightened for the first time since they’d started the debrief. “Maya’s awesome.”
“Maya Ann Thompson,” Hawes added. “Promoted to assistant chief earlier this year.”
“She’s a former teacher who went into law enforcement,” Holt continued, rattling off the facts from their most recent review of SFPD’s roster. “Proponent of de-escalation and community policing.”
“Possible she’s the leak?” Chris asked.
“I’d be surprised.” Jax reclaimed their tablet. “Maya worships the ground the chief walks on. They’ve been making a lot of headway in the department together. They actually met with the mayor last week on plans for reallocating police funds to more community efforts.”
“Did she warn Kane?”
“In a way. She forwarded this to me.” They gestured with the tablet. “Knew it would get to the chief.”
“She told Avery too,” Helena said. “Knew it would get to us.”
Their top lieutenant was tight with SFPD brass? “How’s Avery know her?”
“They grew up together. Reconnected recently.”
Holt scratched a mental note to add that to Thompson’s file. Across from him, Hawes appeared to be scratching a similar note. Until Helena shot him an icy glare. The operatives were under her command now, a decision they’d all made together. Hawes grinned and held up his hands.
“They just had an entire conversation, didn’t they?” Jax said.
Chris chuckled. “Freaky, isn’t it?”
Freaky and wonderful. The three of them had always been tight, the bond strengthened more after their parents had passed and made hard as steel last year when it had only been each other they could trust.
Each other and Brax.
Holt drew the wide shot photo closer again, contemplating the stranger once more. “We get an ID yet on the other guy?”
“You didn’t ask Brax?” Helena said.
“Didn’t get a chance to before he was called into another meeting, and the last thing he needed today was me interrogating him.”
“Wasn’t necessary. Mel came through with the ID.” Chris shuffled through his messy stack of papers and produced a DMV printout, a mugshot, and a short rap sheet. “George Swanson. Accountant. Couple of white-collar convictions in connection with the 2008 market crash. Made getting a job hard to come by after.”
“That suit”—Helena tapped the solo picture of Swanson—“is a Brioni.”
“Camino cartel pays well.”
Holt jerked again, hard enough to shake the table. “He’s a cartel banker?” What the—
“What the fuck is Brax doing meeting with a cartel banker?” Hawes said, stealing the words right out of his head.
And on the heels of that question, Holt had another that sent tingles of anxiety racing through him and out toward his fingers. “Do the cops have this ID yet?”
Jax shook their head. “They’ve got a computer running the image cleanup. I might have tapped in and given it a bug. Should slow down recognition a bit.”
“Even when they do get an ID,” Chris said, “they’re not going to want to broadcast this. That buys us some time.”
Precious little to get Brax out of a mess that was getting messier by the second. “Might need a favor,” Holt said to Jax. “Rush setup.”
They cracked their knuckles. “Wouldn’t mind a build.”
And Jax was one of only a handful of people Holt would trust to do it, and of that handful, the only one he’d trust with the location.
“Back to the original question,” Helena said. “Why the fuck was Brax meeting with Swanson?”
Holt shifted in his chair toward her. “That’s what you and Oak need to find out.”
“He gonna let me help him?”
“Don’t give him a fucking choice. Like you said, he’s family.” He jutted his chin at the swear jar. “Now, everyone pay up.”
“You copy?” Helena’s voice rang loud and clear through the speakers of Holt’s digital surveillance wall at MCS headquarters.
He’d come into the office with Chris and Hawes, the former needing access to his detective setup, the latter needing to keep the family’s legitimate enterprise on track. That morning, Hawes was closing on an acquisition that would bring MCS tools to make their operations more environmentally sustainable.
“Copy audio,” Holt returned. “Hold still while I focus the video.”
Video that was streaming in through the bi-pride pin Helena frequently wore on the lapel of her suit coat. Several keystrokes later and the view from Oakland Ashe’s downtown law office began to resolve.
“Nice view.”
“Right?” Helena said. “One of the best in the city. Big H has been holding out on us.”
Holt chuckled as he made adjustments, using Alcatraz as a focal point, the island visible outside Oak’s floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Bay. “Okay, we’re good.”
As she moved away from the window, the camera panned across Oak’s desk. Large, polished, uncluttered. Laptop, desk phone, one of those fancy pen and clock combos, and a single framed picture. From some time ago, judging by Oak’s appearance in it, no gray flecks dotting his dark hair. He was dressed in a tux, as was the younger man in his arms, matching wedding bands on their left hands. Oak’s husband, then. They knew Oak was queer, but the attorney rarely spoke of his own family, even as he continued to be dragged into theirs—from Amelia’s case last year to the drive-by a few months ago.
Speaking of, Oak came into view as Helena approached the round meeting table in the far corner of the room. Dressed in a sharp suit, Oak tapped his silver pen against a file folder atop a legal pad on the table. “You know that”—he pointed right at the pin, wise to their methods by now—“jeopardizes client confidentiality.”
“Don’t worry.” The tips of Helena’s fingers fluttered across the camera’s lens like she was waving Oak off. “He and Brax are practically married. They can just make it official.”
Holt’s fingers froze on the mouse he was using to control the camera. Unbidden, a picture of himself and Brax jumped to mind. Him in a tux, Brax in his uniform, posed like Oak and his husband, matching bands on their fingers. And on the heels of that make-believe picture, a flurry of other mental pictures followed, only these were real, memories of the single night he’d spent wrapped in Brax’s arms.
He strived to keep those memories in check, strived to look on them fondly and not contemplate missed opportunities. Not obsess over whether he should have said or done more that night, on so many levels. He’d had a wonderful first time, had lost his virginity to his best friend, who he loved and shared a mutual attraction with. But their lives had been headed in opposite directions then—Brax back to the desert, Holt to San Francisco.
Had Holt said or done more that night, had he asked Brax if it was more than mere attraction on his end, Holt might have missed learning more about his own sexuality, missed the good years with Amelia, never had their daughter. He didn’t regret those experiences, not in the slightest, but he couldn’t help but wonder about the experiences lost too. He’d had to let Brax go. But had he? Was that why they were in this situation now? Why someone was coming after Brax? Because Holt had never really let go of the other man, same as he’d never completely let go of those memories.
“At which point this becomes a conflict of interest since I represent Holt’s ex-wife,” Oak said as if he could see through the camera too, right into Holt’s rattled brain.
“You okay?” Hawes asked from behind him.
Apparently more than just mentally rattled. Holt gave his head a sharp shake and glanced over his shoulder. “Fine. Deal closed?”
“Done. Checked on Lily in the daycare too.” Another company perk they’d recently instituted—on-site childcare. “She’s good. Still in love with jelly. Di
scovering the joys of combining it with peanut butter. Astronomical dry-cleaning bills, here we come.”
Holt laughed. “Maybe wear less wool and silk.”
Hawes shoved his shoulder as he dropped into the seat next to him. “Fuck your flannel.” The playful banter faded, though, as Hawes’s gaze drifted to the monitors. “If Kane finds out you’re spying on him, he’s gonna be pissed.”
Holt shrugged. “He’s gonna be pissed anyway.”
Confirmed when Brax walked through the door and saw Helena sitting at the table. Holt would recognize the pinched brow, hard jaw, and ramrod straight posture anywhere. Brax was mad. He waited until after the door was shut, until after exchanging pleasantries with Oak, before lighting into Helena. “What are you doing here? I told Holt you needed to stay out of this.”
“We didn’t listen. Family. Also, you look terrible. When’s the last time you slept?”
Brax ran a hand over his head, half turned toward the table, half turned toward the door, the ends of his sports coat flapping with his indecision. “Fuckin’ family.”
“Sorry. You’re stuck with us.”
Holt zoomed in for a closer look at Brax while Oak continued to try to mediate the situation in his office.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Chief,” he said. “And if you want Ms. Madigan to leave, I can make her do so.”
“I’d like to see you try.” Brax moved toward the chair across from Oak, then claimed the one across from Helena that was pushed out toward him. No doubt by her foot, aiming to keep him in clear view of the illicit surveillance.
Brax didn’t argue, and that, along with the dark bags under his eyes, the sunken cheeks, and the duller than usual skin, worried Holt. Yes, Brax had been pissed when he’d first entered, but he had too little energy to keep it going. Not a good sign.
“It’s fine,” Brax said. “Though I don’t know why I’m here. I have a union rep to handle these things.”
“Your union rep is there to protect you as a member of SFPD and the union,” Oak said. “Mediation and damage control. My job is to make sure there’s no damage to you, personally, to mitigate.”
Brax nodded. “Okay, thank you.”
Oak opened the file folder and withdrew the photo that had been all over the news. “I need to know what happened here.”
“I didn’t take his money. There wasn’t even any money offered.”
“We know,” Helena said. From her briefcase, she retrieved a separate folder with the photos Jax had brought them yesterday. “The news photo was doctored. There’s no actual stack of bills being exchanged as you can see from the missing shadow in this cleaned-up version.” She slid the photos in front of Oak. “We’re working that angle.”
Brax braced his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Do not take action.”
“Details.” Helena waved him off too. “We’re just looking for names.”
By the narrowing of Brax’s eyes, he’d heard her unspoken for now.
Oak forged into the staredown. “Tell us about the meeting, then. That’s actually you in the picture, correct?”
“Yes. This was taken in January, last time I met with him.”
“Who ‘him’?” Helena asked.
Brax’s gaze cut her direction, either surprised she didn’t know already or surprised she hadn’t told Oak. When she didn’t reply, he shifted his attention back to the other attorney. “George Swanson. He’s a cartel accountant. He first made contact last fall, after his prior employer—”
He cut himself off, eyes darting back to Helena.
Hawes put it together the rest of the way. “After we dismantled his prior employer’s network. He must have worked for Reno.”
“Fuck,” Holt cursed. “So this is connected to us?”
“Maybe.” Hawes mirrored Brax’s position, leaning forward, forearms on either side of a keyboard next to Holt’s, and watched the monitors intently.
“After some shifts in the organization he used to work for,” Brax diplomatically finished. “Those who were left were recruited by the rival Camino cartel, including Swanson. He was asked to do more, though. More than he was comfortable with.”
“He wanted to turn informant?” Oak asked.
Brax nodded. “With his old employer, he was just moving money around inside the organization. But Camino was making deals with outside parties that, if discovered, would get Swanson pinched for significant jail time.”
“Felonies.”
“Arguably felony murder in at least one instance.”
“Fuck,” Hawes said. “That means they were contracting killers.”
“Not us,” Holt said. There was nothing about the Camino cartel’s objectives that aligned with theirs, and they certainly didn’t operate by the same rules—no indiscriminate killing, no unvetted targets, no collateral damage. Rules Hawes had put in place when he’d taken over, and that they’d fought off an attempted coup by their grandmother to uphold. “But it does give us another road to investigate.”
“I’ll get Chris started on it.”
Holt nodded. While he could find a lot through digital means, Holt couldn’t deny that having an old-fashioned detective on their team, one with a decade plus of law enforcement connections, helped too.
“Why didn’t you go through the usual CI process?” Oak asked.
Brax slumped in his chair, running a hand over his head again.
“Brax…” Helena half coaxed, half chided.
“He wasn’t ready, and I didn’t want to risk his family.”
Typical Brax. Always trying to protect someone.
“Is that why IA is investigating?” Oak asked.
Brax bolted upright in his chair, glaring at Helena. “You told him?”
She shrugged. “Of course I told him. He needs to know that too.”
“They got wind of this?” Oak said, trying to draw Brax back to his question.
One Holt was eager for the answer to as well. He didn’t get it, exactly.
“I’m not having that conversation with Ms. Madigan in the room.”
But it was enough. “They were looking into him earlier,” Holt said to his brother. “So again, this could be about us.”
“Agree,” Hawes said. “On both counts.”
“All right,” Oak said. “We’ll discuss that when she leaves.” Helena started to protest, but Oak cut her off, returning to his earlier line of questioning. “How many times did you meet with Swanson?”
“Three. He reached out the first time on Halloween.”
“Good cover,” Hawes muttered. “Camino throws a big Día de Muertos celebration. They wouldn’t have noticed Swanson missing.”
Halloween, just before Lily’s birthday party at which Brax had barely said two words to him. Because of his meeting with Swanson? Was he trying to protect them from Camino too?
The door swung open behind them, and Chris ducked into the room.
In the room onscreen, Oak asked, “Any useful information?”
“Yes, we made two intercepts on tips he provided.”
“How did you explain those,” Helena said, “if Swanson wasn’t a registered CI?”
“Attributed them to the tip-line.”
“When’s the last time you heard from him?” Oak asked.
Brax pointed at the picture. “That day in late January. I remember because it was unseasonably warm that weekend.”
“That was the weekend we got married,” Chris said.
Holt hung his head as pieces slotted together. That was the same weekend he and Brax had gotten into the one and only fight of their fourteen-year friendship.
“I told him he needed to come in and do the CI paperwork,” Brax said. “Make it official. I had the feds lined up to offer witness protection and everything, but he never showed.”
Holt spun in his chair. “Is that how Mel got the ID?”
“I didn’t ask,” Chris replied. “But likely.”
“Did you follow-up?” Oak asked Brax.
<
br /> “I’ve been trying to make contact,” he replied, “but all roads lead to nowhere. It’s not uncommon for CIs to go dark, but I’m worried.”
“With good reason,” Chris said. He strode forward and shoved his phone under Holt’s nose. Onscreen was an encrypted message from Mel:
George Swanson is dead.
Chapter Eleven
By midafternoon, Holt was back at the house, sitting on the floor of his lair with Lily between his legs, helping her fit textured shape toys into a bin while keeping an eye on the wall of monitors. Internal Affairs was conducting the latest SFPD press conference. No questions. Just an announcement that Chief Kane had been formally suspended, pending further investigation.
No mention of the cartel at least, though reports from Oak and Helena confirmed SFPD had identified Swanson. SFPD didn’t want that news to break while they were still searching for his whereabouts, so they’d kept the details of the investigation quiet. That was the only positive Holt could discern in this whole shitstorm of a day, and it wasn’t enough of a win to quell the nearly overwhelming urge to hurl.
Or to crawl under a fucking bed, an urge he hadn’t felt since before Lily was born. She kept him grounded. Lily and Brax and his hacking, which Brax would tell him to go do. And Holt had been, all last night and today to the point his fingers ached. And his head. And his heart.
Lily managed to push the squishy blue cube through the elastic strings of the bin. “Yes!” she squealed, tiny arms raised in victory.
Holt plastered on a smile and clapped. “Good job!” He picked up the ribbed yellow ball next. “Now, try the sphere.”
The task would also keep her busy for whatever Hawes was coming up the stairs to tell him, his twin’s tread as familiar as his own. But Holt had a question—a quandary—for him first, because nothing they did would matter if they couldn’t answer it with a yes. “Even if we clear him,” Holt said as soon as Hawes cleared the baby gate at the top of the stairs, “will he ever get his good name back?”
“Depends on what happens with IA.”
Holt appreciated the truth, even if it did cause his gut to roil.