Chapter 45: The Watcher
[Griffith Park — June 29, 2019, 6:47 AM]
Sunday morning. Off-duty. The trails were quiet this early, just serious runners and the occasional dog walker. I'd been running for forty minutes, pushing pace, trying to outrun the thoughts that kept circling.
Armstrong. The home invasion case. Tim's growing suspicion. The weight of secrets I couldn't share.
My danger sense had been unusually active lately. Not the sharp spike of immediate threat, but a constant low hum. Background static suggesting something was building.
I crested a ridge overlooking a parking structure near the Greek Theatre when the hum intensified.
Down below. Movement.
I slowed, found a vantage point between the trees. The structure was mostly empty this early—a few cars scattered across multiple levels. But on the second floor, two figures stood near a dark sedan.
My recall identified them before I consciously processed details. The first: Nick Armstrong, detective, Mid-Wilshire Station. I'd been watching him for over a year, documenting small irregularities, building a case nobody knew existed.
The second: Hector Ramirez. My recall pulled the file instantly—suspected distribution coordinator for one of the cartels operating in South LA. Never convicted. Multiple arrests, but charges always dropped. The kind of untouchable that made prosecutors' careers and broke their spirits.
Armstrong and Ramirez. Talking.
I ducked behind a maintenance shed, heart hammering. This wasn't coincidence. Armstrong meeting with known criminal associates wasn't random. This was confirmation.
Ramirez handed Armstrong something. An envelope. Thick enough to suggest cash, thin enough to fit in a jacket pocket without creating bulk.
Armstrong took it without hesitation. No looking around. No nervous gestures. This was routine for him.
I pulled my phone, activated the camera, zoomed as far as the lens allowed. The distance was too great for clear faces, but the silhouettes were distinct. Armstrong's build, his posture, the way he shifted weight when listening—all catalogued in my recall and unmistakable.
Three photos. Four. Five.
Then Ramirez got in his car and drove away. Armstrong watched him go, checked the envelope's contents, and walked to his own vehicle on the level above.
I didn't move until both cars had exited the structure.
Ethan's Mansion — Two Hours Later
The Armstrong file lived in an encrypted folder on an external drive that never touched the internet. Physical backup in my home safe. Cloud backup on an account only Lopez had access to—though she didn't know it held anything yet.
I added the new photos. Timestamped. Location-tagged. Cross-referenced with my existing documentation.
June 29, 2019, 6:52 AM: Armstrong met Hector Ramirez at Griffith Park parking structure. Exchanged envelope (presumed cash). Duration of meeting: approximately 4 minutes. No visible distress or coercion—both parties appeared comfortable, suggesting established relationship.
The file was thick now. Almost two years of observation. Small things that added up: Armstrong's unusual availability during certain drug busts, his tendency to arrive late to scenes where evidence later went missing, the suspects who walked free after he handled their cases.
None of it was admissible. All of it was true.
And I knew—from the show, from my meta-knowledge—that eventually Armstrong would escalate. Would frame Lopez for a crime she didn't commit. Would nearly destroy her career, her marriage, her life.
My danger sense hummed constantly when I thought about it. Threat not to me, but to someone I cared about.
Should I warn her?
I'd considered it a hundred times. Just telling Lopez what I suspected, letting her decide how to handle it. But the scenario always ended the same way in my projections: she'd confront Armstrong directly. He'd deny everything. And without evidence, her accusation would become ammunition against her.
Internal investigations were career killers. Even for the good guys. Especially for the good guys who started them prematurely.
Patience. Build the case. Wait for the opportunity to expose him properly.
But patience was hard when every day Armstrong walked free was another day he could make his move.
I closed the file, leaned back in my chair, and rubbed my temples. A headache had been building since the park, the familiar ache that came from overthinking impossible situations.
My meta-knowledge felt less like a gift lately and more like a curse. Knowing what was coming. Unable to prevent it without revealing how I knew. Watching the timeline creep toward disaster while pretending everything was normal.
The aspirin was in the bathroom cabinet. Two pills. Water. The headache would fade eventually.
My phone rang. Nolan.
"What's up?"
"Breakfast at Sal's? Sarah made too many pancakes and now she's insisting I share them with someone who won't judge her portions."
I almost said no. Almost claimed fatigue or prior plans. But Nolan's voice carried the warmth of genuine friendship, and suddenly spending more time alone with the Armstrong file felt unbearable.
"Give me thirty minutes."
"Perfect. Fair warning: Lucy might be there too. She said something about 'discussing strategy' for the next heist."
"The heist isn't for months."
"Tell that to Lucy. She's already drawing diagrams."
I hung up, looked at the closed laptop where the Armstrong file waited, and chose normalcy over obsession. At least for a few hours.
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