Sarah's safety deposit box at Crosstown Federal Bank contained three things: her grandmother's wedding ring, her brother Marcus's police academy acceptance letter, and a sealed manila envelope labeled "Insurance Open Only If I Disappear."
She added a fourth item: a USB drive containing copies of every file, photograph, and piece of evidence related to the Martinez case, including the threatening photos from this morning.
The bank manager, a nervous man named Feldman who'd worked there for twenty years, watched her with barely concealed curiosity. "Everything alright, Detective Morrison?"
"Just updating some personal documents," Sarah said, signing the access log with a steady hand that belied the anxiety churning in her stomach.
Back in her car, she checked the time: 6:47 AM. Seventy-three minutes until her meeting with Captain Webb. She pulled out her personal laptop not her department-issued one, which could be remotely accessed and began uploading encrypted files to three separate cloud storage accounts she'd created under fake names.
Her phone buzzed. Text from Alex: Talked to three families. All remember a man matching the same description mid-40s, Hispanic, kind smile, professional clothes. He approached their daughters at bus stops or grocery stores, offered them job applications for Sunshine Employment. None of the families got his name.
Sarah typed back: That's good. That's a pattern we can use. Keep pushing.
His response came immediately: One mother said her daughter mentioned the man drove a silver Mercedes. Expensive but not flashy. I'm pulling DMV records now for silver Mercedes registered to any Meridian Holdings employees or subsidiaries.
Sarah felt a spark of hope. A vehicle description, a physical description, a consistent approach method these were real leads. The kind that broke cases open.
Another text from Alex: How are you holding up? After the threats this morning?
She stared at the message, surprised by the concern. They barely knew each other, were barely partners, yet there was something about shared danger that created instant bonds.
I'm okay. Rachel's safe. I'm securing evidence before my meeting with Webb.
Be careful. If Webb is compromised, you're walking into a trap.
I know. But I need to know which side he's on.
And if he's on theirs?
Sarah thought about that, about what she'd do if Webb her mentor, her captain, the man who'd promoted her and backed her through the worst moments of her career turned out to be protecting the people who'd killed Maria Martinez.
Then I go to war, she typed.
No response from Alex, but she hadn't expected one. Some statements didn't need acknowledgment.
Sarah finished uploading her files, then opened a new browser window and searched for Dr. Robert Chen. The results were impressive: philanthropist, medical entrepreneur, board member of fifteen charitable organizations. Photos showed him at galas, ribbon-cuttings, hospital dedications. Always smiling, always surrounded by powerful people who looked at him with respect and gratitude.
She clicked through to a profile in Business Insider from six months ago: "The Humanitarian Capitalist: How Dr. Robert Chen Built an Empire on Compassion."
The article painted Chen as a visionary who'd immigrated from Taiwan at age twelve, worked his way through medical school, and built Meridian Holdings into a healthcare and social services conglomerate worth $3.2 billion. His wellness centers provided free medical care to underserved communities. His employment services helped immigrants find legitimate work. His housing programs gave temporary shelter to women escaping domestic violence.
On paper, Dr. Robert Chen was a saint.
Sarah pulled up the list of Meridian's wellness centers, comparing locations to where the missing women had last been seen. The correlation was undeniable every woman had lived within five miles of a Meridian facility.
She took screenshots, adding them to her evidence folder, then checked the time again: 7:15 AM. Forty-five minutes.
Her phone rang. Unknown number.
Sarah let it go to voicemail, but the caller didn't leave a message. Instead, a text arrived from the same number: You're wasting your time. We own everyone who matters.
She stared at the message, then took a screenshot and forwarded it to Alex's burner phone. His response came within seconds: They're trying to break you. Don't let them.
I'm not broken. I'm pissed off.
Good. Angry people fight harder.
Sarah allowed herself a grim smile, then started her car and headed toward the station. The dark sedan that had been following her was gone or at least, not visible. But she knew they were watching. Knew they were tracking her movements, her communications, her decisions.
Let them watch.
The morning traffic was heavy, giving her time to organize her thoughts. She'd tell Webb about the trafficking pattern, about the missing women, about Meridian Holdings' connection to the employment services. But she'd hold back the evidence about surveillance, about the threats against Rachel, about her partnership with Alex.
Insurance. In case Webb was compromised.
She pulled into the station parking garage at 7:52 AM, eight minutes early. The building looked the same as always gray concrete, institutional architecture, the familiar rhythm of shift changes and patrol cars. But now Sarah saw it differently. Saw potential threats in every shadow, potential informants in every colleague.
She took the stairs to the third floor, nodding to fellow detectives who were starting their shifts. Some nodded back. Others looked away quickly, and Sarah wondered if they'd already heard about the evidence tampering accusation.
Captain Marcus Webb's office door was open. He sat behind his desk, reading something on his computer screen, looking older than his fifty-three years. Gray hair cut military-short, weathered face that spoke of thirty years in law enforcement, eyes that had seen too much violence and compromised too often with bureaucracy.
He looked up when Sarah knocked, and his expression was impossible to read.
"Close the door," Webb said quietly. "And sit down."
Sarah did, setting her laptop bag on the floor beside her, keeping her hands visible and relaxed. Old interrogation trick appear calm even when your heart is trying to punch through your ribcage.
"How much trouble am I in?" she asked.
"That depends on what you tell me in the next thirty minutes." Webb closed his computer, giving her his full attention. "Internal Affairs has opened a preliminary investigation into the evidence tampering. They're reviewing security footage, access logs, interviewing everyone who had reason to enter the evidence room last night."
"And?"
"And the footage shows someone using your credentials at 0437 hours. But the person in the video kept their face hidden hoodie, sunglasses, gloves. Professional enough to avoid identification, but sloppy enough to get caught on camera." Webb leaned back in his chair. "Which tells me this wasn't about stealing evidence. This was about framing you."
Relief flooded through Sarah, quickly followed by suspicion. "You believe me?"
"I've known you for eight years, Morrison. You're a lot of things stubborn, occasionally insubordinate, prone to working cases that should stay closed but you're not stupid. If you wanted to access evidence illegally, you wouldn't do it in a way that leaves an obvious trail." Webb pulled out a file folder. "But someone wanted me to think you would. Which means they either don't know you as well as I do, or they're counting on bureaucracy and policy to remove you from this case regardless of the truth."
Sarah felt the tightness in her chest ease slightly. Webb was on her side. Or at least, he was acting like it.
"I need to know what you've found," Webb continued. "What made you enough of a threat that someone would frame you."
This was it. The moment of truth.