Sarah's blood went cold. "That's bullshit. I've followed every protocol"
"I know. But the complaint is official, which means IA has to investigate. You're being placed on administrative leave pending review." Webb held up a hand before she could protest. "This isn't my decision, Morrison. This comes from the commissioner's office directly."
"This is Chen. He's shutting me down."
"Maybe. Probably." Webb glanced down the hallway, checking if anyone was listening, then lowered his voice. "Which is why you're going to go home, turn in your badge and weapon, and officially stop investigating this case."
"Captain"
"Officially," Webb repeated with emphasis. "Unofficially, you're going to keep digging. But you do it carefully, quietly, and without anything that ties back to this department. Because if they catch you operating while on administrative leave, I can't protect you."
Sarah understood. Webb was giving her permission to go off-book, to investigate without the restrictions of official police work. It was dangerous, potentially career-ending, and exactly what she needed.
"How long do I have?"
"IA moves slow, but not that slow. Maybe a week before they schedule your hearing. Two weeks maximum." Webb pulled out his personal phone. "Give me your cell number. Not the department phone your personal one."
Sarah recited it, and Webb saved it under a fake name.
"If you find something real evidence, solid witnesses, anything that can't be explained away you call me immediately. I'll find a way to make it official, bring in the feds, whatever it takes." He met her eyes. "But Morrison? Be smart about this. These people have already shown they're willing to kill. Don't give them an excuse to add you to the body count."
Sarah nodded, turned to leave, then paused. "Captain? That background check on Alex Russo when it comes through, will you send it to me?"
"I'll send you everything." Webb's expression softened slightly. "And Morrison? Watch your back. Trust is a luxury you can't afford right now."
Sarah left his office and walked through the bullpen, feeling eyes on her from every direction. Word had already spread Detective Morrison was being investigated, was on administrative leave, was potentially dirty. Colleagues who'd worked cases with her now looked away. Friends suddenly had urgent business elsewhere.
Only one person approached her: Detective Frank Chen (no relation to Robert Chen, he'd joked when they first met), her sometimes-partner on major cases.
"Sarah," Frank said quietly, falling into step beside her. "Whatever's happening, whatever they're saying I know you're not dirty."
"Thanks, Frank."
"But I also know you're stubborn as hell and you don't let cases go." He glanced around, making sure no one was listening. "So whatever you're about to do, be careful. And if you need backup unofficial backup you call me."
Sarah felt a surge of gratitude for this man she'd worked with for six years. "I will."
She collected her badge and service weapon from the administrative office the final indignity, being disarmed like a civilian and walked out of the station for what might be the last time as an active detective.
Her phone buzzed the moment she reached her car. Text from Alex: We need to meet. I found something about the tattoo. Something bad.
Sarah typed back: Where?
Lincoln Park, south entrance. One hour. And Sarah? Bring everything you have. Because this case just got a lot bigger than either of us thought.
Sarah sat in her car for a moment, processing the morning's events. She'd been officially sidelined, stripped of her badge, isolated from department resources. By every measure, the investigation should be over.
Instead, it was just beginning.
She started her car and pulled out of the parking garage, not noticing the dark sedan that fell into position three cars behind her.
Not noticing the man in the passenger seat, phone pressed to his ear, speaking quietly to someone who wanted regular updates on Detective Sarah Morrison's activities.
Not noticing that the net was closing around her, tighter and more dangerous than she could possibly imagine.
Lincoln Park was nearly empty at 9:30 AM on a Wednesday morning. A few joggers traced the paths around the lake, a handful of mothers pushed strollers near the playground, and one elderly man fed pigeons from a bench near the fountain. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that two blocks away, women were being trafficked through a network so sophisticated it had operated undetected for years.
Sarah arrived first, parking where she could see both entrances. Old habits. She'd changed out of her work clothes into jeans and a dark jacket civilian wear that made her feel exposed without the weight of her badge and weapon on her hip. The absence was physical, like missing a limb. Twelve years of carrying that weight, and now her hip felt wrong, unbalanced.
Her phone showed three missed calls from Rachel and two texts:
Where are you? You didn't come home last night.
I'm getting worried. Call me.
Sarah's thumb hovered over the screen. She should call. Should tell Rachel something, even if it was a lie. But what could she say that wouldn't either terrify her roommate or pull her into danger?
She typed: Work emergency. I'm okay. Might be late tonight too.
The lie felt heavy, inadequate. Rachel deserved better than cryptic messages and evasions. But the truth I'm being investigated by IA, threatened by a trafficking network, and about to meet a PI who might be my only ally that truth would only put Rachel at risk.
Sarah deleted the unsent message and wrote instead: Everything's fine. Promise. Love you.
Rachel's response came within seconds: You're lying. I can always tell when you're lying. Whatever's going on, I'm here. Call me when you can.
Sarah stared at the message, guilt and gratitude warring in her chest. Rachel knew. Of course she knew. They'd been roommates for six years, had seen each other through breakups and promotions and her brother's death and Rachel's mother's cancer scare. You didn't survive that much life together without learning to read the subtext.
Before Sarah could respond, Alex's truck pulled into the lot a beat-up Ford Ranger that looked like it had survived several wars and a flood. He sat for a moment, scanning the park with professional thoroughness, before getting out. He carried a manila folder and a worn backpack, moving with the controlled tension of someone who'd learned to expect trouble.
"You look like hell," he said when he reached her bench.
"Thanks. I got maybe two hours of sleep after securing evidence and preparing for my captain to either support me or bury me." Sarah kept her voice level, professional. "How about you?"
"I don't sleep much anymore. Haven't for five years." Alex sat beside her, setting the folder and backpack between them. His eyes were shadowed, face drawn with exhaustion that went beyond one sleepless night. "Bad things happen when you sleep. You miss patterns. Miss opportunities. Miss the moment when everything goes wrong."