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Bryce kept his office tidy, with minimal clutter. Files were aligned neatly on his desk in two piles. She pulled out her phone and quickly took pictures of each stack from several angles so that she could later enlarge the images to read the codes on the labels. Once she had the codes she could look them up in the system to find out what he was working on.
On his notepad was an impression from the last note he wrote. She remembered him folding a piece of paper and putting it inside his jacket pocket when he left. She tore off the top page and put it in her pocket.
Once back at her desk, Sloane made sure she was alone, then held the note at an angle under the light from her phone. Scrawled in Thornton’s sloppy penmanship was Duncan, noon at his club, followed by a phone number and a notation: Mayor wants recent crime stats, talking points, rotary club.
Theodore Duncan was the mayor’s chief of staff. Prior to his probation, Thornton had been a liaison with the mayor’s office. Why he still acted in that capacity was a question above her pay grade, but she made note of it. Granderson would want to know.
Duncan was a member of the Wilshire Country Club; why would Thornton be meeting with him there? It wasn’t unheard of—FBI agents often met with key people in the community in order to maintain relationships, and these included elected officials, banking officials, local law enforcement, large employers, federal contractors, others. But this was written on his notepad, not in his official calendar.
She zoomed in on the photos she’d taken and studied the files. Each file had a code identifying the originating office, the date opened and the assigned squad. The information was available online, but could be printed in any office. One unfamiliar code stood out. She scanned her roster and identified the NOLA office. Odd that Thornton would have a file from Louisiana, unless it was a multistate investigation—but then she would have heard about it during a staff meeting.
She logged in to her computer and looked up the file online. Immediately, she realized that this was a case Matt Costa had worked on. His mobile response team had traveled to St. Augustine after a local detective filed a complaint of graft and corruption and a suspicious in-custody death of his informant. Matt and the bulk of his team had been there for a week and ended up solving multiple homicides.
Why was Thornton interested in this case? Because Matt had investigated it? Or because Kara Quinn had been involved?
She made a note to tell Matt about Thornton’s review of the file. She didn’t know what, if anything, might be important. She would also show him the photos—maybe he would see something she hadn’t.
Her phone beeped—a message from the FBI emergency notification line.
1215. Shooting. Downtown Los Angeles outside Clara Shortridge Foltz Courthouse. Suspect at large. Two civilians down, status unknown. Briefing in auditorium at 1245.
7
For more than ten years David Chen had run a very profitable business importing Chinese laborers from the Shandong Province into the United States. He ran the operation out of Chinatown in Los Angeles, with business partners in San Francisco and Seattle who ran their respective operations. He didn’t beat, starve or kill his laborers. They had Sundays off, a place to live, food to eat. They knew what they were getting into when they left Shandong: they would work for him, he would provide for them. They agreed to abide by his rules because they had a better life here, under his umbrella, than they had in their home country. A mutually beneficial relationship.
Until that cop.
He’d lost his human resources. He’d lost his property. It would take him years to rebuild, but he would rebuild. The state’s entire case was dependent on one person, and she would not be alive much longer. He detested depending on others to handle these situations—he missed Xavier, who had been a loyal and dependable bodyguard. He’d also been a friend.
Kara Quinn would pay for murdering Xavier.
He wasn’t concerned about the FBI—their case would go nowhere. He already had it on record that they offered him immunity in exchange for his cooperation; just because it hadn’t been made official with the lawyers didn’t mean that David wouldn’t be able to hold them to it, should someone decide to go after him.
He had far too much dirt on certain FBI agents.
All these thoughts were on David Chen’s mind as his driver took him to the courthouse on Monday. His lawyer texted him.
Meet in the lobby at 12:30. We’ll discuss our options.
David frowned. What options? Detective Quinn wouldn’t make it to the hearing and the case would be dismissed. That was the point of filing this motion.
Perhaps it was his lawyer’s way of covering his tracks, the weasel.
I’m on my way, David responded.
David then called his FBI contact. There was no answer, but he didn’t expect one. He left no message; his caller ID would be sufficient.
Five minutes later, his phone rang.
“Status?” David said without waiting for the caller to identify themselves. He knew who it was.
“Your timing needs work,” the voice said dryly. “Everything is on schedule.”
“Why isn’t she dead now?”
“My timing is impeccable. You will not see her at the courthouse.”
David hung up. He really detested not taking care of the detective himself, and he didn’t like the way he had been treated, starting with the fact that there had been an undercover operation for months into his business. Someone should have known. They’d only given him six hours. Surely his contacts in the FBI had known before then! And if not, what use were they?
