Chapter 3: The Career-Maker
The Vanderfeld case file felt heavier than it should.
Three months cold. Diplomatic nightmare. Career suicide for anyone dumb enough to reopen it. I dropped it on Captain Perez's desk at eight in the morning, and she looked at it like I'd brought her a live grenade.
"Colen." She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled. "You understand this case is closed, right? As in, we tried, we failed, we moved on."
"Administratively closed," I said. "Not solved."
"Because it's unsolvable." Captain Perez was mid-fifties, twenty-five years on the job, and had probably seen a hundred detectives like me crash their careers on impossible cases. The System confirmed it.
[ **ANALYZING: CAPTAIN PEREZ** ]
[ **CONCERN FOR YOUR CAREER: 71%** ]
[ **RESPECT FOR YOUR COMPETENCE: 63%** ]
[ **PROTECTIVE INSTINCT: MODERATE** ]
[ **ENERGY: 85/100** ]
"Let me take a run at it," I said. "Unofficial. My own time. If I find nothing in a week, I drop it."
She studied me for a long moment. Across the bullpen, Morrison pretended not to watch while obviously watching. Hayes typed at his computer, but his posture was too stiff—he was listening.
"One week," Perez finally said. "But the moment this interferes with your actual caseload, we're done. Clear?"
"Crystal."
Morrison caught up with me at the coffee station ten minutes later. His grin was sharp, predatory.
"Embassy case? Really?" He poured coffee, movements too casual. "That's bold. By bold, I mean stupid."
[ **ANALYZING: MORRISON** ]
[ **SCHADENFREUDE: 78%** ]
[ **ANTICIPATION OF YOUR FAILURE: 82%** ]
[ **UNDERLYING JEALOUSY: 69%** ]
"He wants to watch me fail. Noted."
"Someone has to try," I said.
"Someone tried. Five detectives, three months, zero results." He sipped his coffee. "But hey, maybe you're special."
The sarcasm was thick enough to cut. I smiled and walked away. Let him think what he wanted. In a week, we'd see who was special.
The Vanderfeld embassy wasn't technically an embassy—it was a diplomatic residence, maintained by a small European nation for their ambassador during West Coast business. Gated property, three-story mansion, security system that should have been impenetrable.
The theft happened three months ago at 2 AM. Cameras disabled. Alarms bypassed. Two paintings, one sculpture, and a folder of diplomatic documents vanished. No forced entry. No witnesses. The investigation had stalled because every lead evaporated on contact.
I sat in my car outside the gate, laptop open, reviewing security footage for the third time. The System tracked my energy as I worked.
[ **ENERGY: 81/100** ]
The guard rotation logs sat beside the footage files. Four security personnel, rotating shifts. I pulled up each guard's profile from the investigation records and started scanning faces in the footage.
First guard: Thomas Lim, forty-two, fifteen years in private security. The System analyzed his body language during routine patrols.
[ **ANALYZING: THOMAS LIM (FOOTAGE)** ]
[ **CONFIDENCE: 66%** ]
[ **STRESS: NORMAL BASELINE** ]
[ **DECEPTION MARKERS: NONE DETECTED** ]
[ **ENERGY: 79/100** ]
Second guard: Jennifer Walsh, thirty-eight, former military police. Her posture was textbook professional.
[ **ANALYZING: JENNIFER WALSH (FOOTAGE)** ]
[ **CONFIDENCE: 68%** ]
[ **STRESS: NORMAL BASELINE** ]
[ **DECEPTION MARKERS: MINIMAL** ]
[ **ENERGY: 77/100** ]
Third guard: Marcus Stern, twenty-nine, six years security experience. The System flagged something immediately.
[ **ANALYZING: MARCUS STERN (FOOTAGE)** ]
[ **CONFIDENCE: 71%** ]
[ **STRESS: ELEVATED (38% ABOVE BASELINE)** ]
[ **DECEPTION MARKERS: 78% - AVOIDING CAMERA EYE CONTACT, IRREGULAR PATROL PATTERNS** ]
[ **MICROEXPRESSION DETECTED: GUILT/ANXIETY WHEN DISCUSSING NIGHT SHIFT WITH SUPERVISOR** ]
[ **ENERGY: 74/100** ]
There it was. Marcus Stern. On the night of the theft, his patrol patterns had been erratic—spending too long in the east wing, disappearing from camera view for twelve-minute gaps. The previous investigation had noted it but dismissed it as lazy security work.
The System saw different.
I pulled up Stern's background check. Clean record. No priors. But buried in his social media—accessible through some creative LinkedIn searching—were photos from a poker tournament six months ago. Then another. Then a comment thread discussing "bad beats" and "next time."
Gambling. The oldest motive in the book.
I cross-referenced his banking records—legally available due to the original investigation's subpoena. Two large deposits in the weeks before the theft: eight thousand, then twelve thousand. Then, three days after the theft, a withdrawal of thirty-five thousand. All of it gone within a week.
"He paid off a debt. Someone gave him money to facilitate the theft, and he used it to get his bookie off his back."
The System highlighted the pattern.
[ **PROFILE UPDATE: MARCUS STERN** ]
[ **MOTIVE PROBABILITY: 87% - FINANCIAL DESPERATION** ]
[ **RECOMMENDED APPROACH: APPEAL TO FEAR, NOT GUILT** ]
[ **SUBJECT RESPONDS TO EXTERNAL PRESSURE** ]
[ **ENERGY: 72/100** ]
I closed the laptop and started the car. Time to have a conversation with Marcus Stern.
He agreed to meet at a coffee shop downtown, neutral territory. Stern was shorter than I expected, wiry build, fingers that drummed constantly against his coffee cup. The System activated the moment we sat down.
[ **ANALYZING: MARCUS STERN (IN PERSON)** ]
[ **STRESS: 84% - HIGHLY ELEVATED** ]
[ **FEAR RESPONSE: ACTIVE** ]
[ **DECEPTION PREPARATION: DETECTED** ]
[ **ENERGY: 69/100** ]
"Thanks for meeting me," I said, keeping my tone casual. "I know the investigation closed, but I'm doing a final review. Just tying up loose ends."
"Already talked to cops." His fingers kept drumming. "Didn't know anything then, don't know anything now."
[ **LIE PROBABILITY: 89% - DECEPTIVE** ]
[ **MICROEXPRESSION: FEAR SPIKE WHEN MENTIONING INVESTIGATION** ]
I leaned back, sipped my coffee. Let the silence stretch. Stern's drumming got faster.
"Marcus, can I be honest with you?" I set my cup down, met his eyes. "I don't think you stole those paintings. That wasn't you."
His shoulders dropped slightly—relief bleeding through. The System tracked it.
[ **STRESS: 79% - DECREASING** ]
[ **SUBJECT RESPONDING TO SYMPATHY APPROACH** ]
"But I do think someone approached you," I continued. "Someone who knew the property. Who offered you money for a small favor. Maybe turning off a camera. Maybe forgetting to lock a door."
The drumming stopped. Stern's jaw clenched.
[ **STRESS: 91% - SPIKING** ]
[ **FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT RESPONSE: ACTIVATING** ]
Time to pivot. I leaned forward, dropped my voice.
"Here's the thing, Marcus. Your bookie—Viktor, right? Operates out of that bar on J Street?" A guess based on the social media trail, but his eyes widened. "Viktor's not known for patience. And those deposits you made? They bought you maybe three months of breathing room."
[ **STRESS: 94% - CRITICAL** ]
[ **FEAR RESPONSE: OVERWHELMING GUILT SIGNALS** ]
"But now three months are up," I said quietly. "And you're back where you started. Except this time, you have cops sniffing around, and Viktor's going to wonder if you're reliable. If you might talk to save yourself."
Stern's hands shook. Coffee sloshed in his cup.
"I didn't steal anything," he whispered. "I swear to God, I didn't take those paintings."
"I believe you." I kept my voice soft, sympathetic. "So tell me what you did do."
The confession spilled out in fragments. Two men had approached him six weeks before the theft. Cash upfront, more afterward. All he had to do was disable the east wing cameras for thirty minutes and forget to arm the motion sensors on one door. He'd been desperate—owed Viktor forty-three thousand, and the threats were getting serious.
The men had been professionals. Masks, gloves, in and out in twenty-two minutes. Stern never saw their faces, never got names. The second payment came three days later—forty thousand in cash. He'd paid Viktor, tried to forget it happened.
"But you can't forget," I said.
He shook his head, looking ten years older. "Every day I think they're coming back. Or the cops will figure it out. Or Viktor will decide I'm a liability."
[ **ANALYZING: CONFESSION AUTHENTICITY** ]
[ **TRUTH PROBABILITY: 96% - GENUINE** ]
[ **SUBJECT IN EMOTIONAL BREAKDOWN STATE** ]
[ **ENERGY: 63/100** ]
I pulled out my phone, hit record. "Marcus, I need you to repeat everything you just told me. Official statement. And then I need you to describe those men—anything you remember. Height, build, accents."
He did. The recording was clean, detailed, legally admissible. When we finished, Stern looked hollowed out, but the shaking had stopped.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"Now you cooperate fully. Help us find the actual thieves, and the DA might go easy on accessory charges." I stood. "Or you run, and this gets much worse. Your choice."
He nodded slowly. "I'll cooperate."
I believed him. The System confirmed it.
Four days later, the case closed.
Stern's description led to two professional thieves with international warrants. INTERPOL flagged them, and a coordinated raid recovered the stolen diplomatic documents from a storage unit in San Francisco. The paintings and sculpture were gone—probably sold overseas—but the documents were what mattered politically.
Ambassador Vanderfeld personally called Captain Perez to express gratitude. The Governor's office made inquiries. And I sat at my desk, watching Morrison's face cycle through disbelief, resentment, and grudging acceptance.
Perez called me into her office at end of shift.
"Close the door," she said.
I did. The System scanned her automatically.
[ **ANALYZING: CAPTAIN PEREZ** ]
[ **PRIDE: 78%** ]
[ **CONCERN: 64%** ]
[ **PROTECTIVE INSTINCT: HIGH** ]
[ **ENERGY: 58/100** ]
"The Governor's office called today," she said. "Requested your full file. Personnel records, case history, performance reviews."
My heart rate spiked, but I kept my face neutral. "That's... unexpected."
"Unexpected?" Perez laughed, short and sharp. "Tedd, you solved a three-month-cold case with international implications in four days. That's not unexpected—that's career-defining."
She stood, walked to the window overlooking the bullpen.
"I've been doing this job for twenty-five years. Know how many detectives I've seen get noticed by the Governor's office?" She held up one finger. "One. And he's now Deputy Director at CBI."
The implications hit like a freight train. CBI. This was it—the pathway I'd been aiming for, happening even faster than planned.
"What do I do?" I asked.
"You wait." Perez turned back to me. "And you prepare. Because you just made yourself visible in ways most detectives never do. Hope you're ready for what comes next."
[ **ENERGY: 55/100** ]
The migraine was building, but I ignored it. This was too important.
"Thank you, Captain."
"Don't thank me. You did the work." She smiled, small and genuine. "Just... be careful up there. Politics play different than street cases."
I left her office and headed home. My phone buzzed halfway there—bank notification. Another deposit. Twenty thousand from Uncle Marcus this time, with a text: Heard about your big case through the family grapevine. Proud of you, kid.
The family's generosity was becoming a pattern. Seventy thousand in gifts over two weeks. Most cops would kill for that kind of financial cushion.
That evening, the formal invitation arrived via email. Governor's office, two days from now, 10 AM. Professional attire requested.
I sat on my couch, staring at the screen, and let myself feel it. Not triumph—calculation. This was step one. The Governor would offer CBI placement. I'd accept. And then I'd be exactly where I needed to be when Patrick Jane walked through those doors.
The System chimed softly.
[ **QUEST PROGRESS: ESTABLISH CBI POSITIONING** ]
[ **STATUS: 67% COMPLETE** ]
[ **NEXT MILESTONE: GOVERNOR MEETING** ]
[ **ENERGY: 52/100** ]
I closed my eyes and let the migraine wash over me. Tomorrow I'd rest. The day after, I'd meet the Governor.
And in less than a month, Season 1 would begin.
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