“Not like this,” Morgan said. “Expedited approvals. Zoning flexibility. Infrastructure grants pushed through committee.” He slid a document across the desk, tapping the top page. “Senator Burnside sits on that committee. And he invested in a development Wilson Title handled.”
Corruption didn’t surprise him anymore. “You think Burnside is involved?”
“Someone in his office had access,” Morgan said. “Someone who could push things through without raising alarms.”
Reyes scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled, “Jesus.”
“If Kedrov’s money is moving through U.S. developments,” Coop said slowly, “and those developments are getting federal backing…”
“Then he’s not only laundering,” Morgan finished. “He’s embedding himself inside U.S. systems.”
Reyes straightened. “What do you need from us?”
“A foot in the door without raising red flags from here to Washington,” Morgan said. “Local cops asking routine questions about a local murder at a company he does business with, and I’m simply along for the ride.”
Coop understood. “And we’ll see who reacts.”
Morgan didn’t deny it. “If it’s not the senator himself, someone in that office is working with Kedrov.”
***
The senator’s San Antonio offices occupied the entire top floor of a limestone building overlooking the River Walk. Quiet, polished, and a world away from the violence Coop had spent the past week wading through.
Glass doors etched with GEORGE BURNSIDE—UNITED STATES SENATE reflected Coop and Morgan as they entered. The lobby smelled faintly of furniture polish and coffee. Framed photos lined the walls: ribbon cuttings, factory floors, Burnside shaking hands with voters and donors.
He had no patience for politics, but it had a way of bleeding into his job.
The receptionist looked up. “May I help you?”
Morgan produced his credentials. “Special Agent Morgan, FBI. This is Lieutenant Cooper of the Texas Rangers. We’re here to see Senator Burnside.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Coop answered—friendly, local, nonthreatening—before Morgan could. “We’re following up on a local homicide. The senator was a client of the victim. We need a few clarifications.”
She blinked, the color draining from her face. “I’ll check if the senator is available.”
She disappeared down the hall.
Coop scanned the reception area while they waited. Morgan leaned against the counter, unbothered, like this was just another stop in his day.
“Have you ever met him?” he asked.
Morgan shook his head. “We’ve been in the same task-force briefings, but we were never introduced. Surprising, actually. Burnside likes to remind everyone how much funding he’s secured for law enforcement.”
“Lucky us.”
Morgan chuckled, but the sound died when footsteps returned.
“The senator will see you, gentlemen.”
They followed her down a corridor lined with Texas landscapes and campaign posters.
Before entering Burnside’s office, Coop removed his hat and quickly finger-combed his hair. Inside, two things hit him at once. First, the man behind the desk. George Burnside rose with a broad, camera-ready smile. Tall, silver-haired, the kind of politician who looked like he’d been born shaking hands.
Second, the woman beside him. She tensed the instant she saw their badges. A pen slipped from her fingers and clattered across the hardwood.
“Sorry,” she said quickly, bending to retrieve it. Her fingers trembled enough that the pen rolled once before she caught it.
