Laura Swanson

Chapter 5: Expendable

Every investigation begins with breadcrumbs, not maps. They lead through rain-slicked streets where truth hides in plain sight, waiting for the right eyes to notice.

The rain had not let up. Mercer Street gleamed under the reflection of neon signs, slick with sheets of water that carried the constant pulse of the city. Detective Mark Bell walked beside me, hands buried in a coat that had clearly seen too many winters, his eyes scanning every shadow. The silence between us was deliberate; each of us cataloging what the other might miss—puddles reflecting taillights, a figure lingering too long under an awning, the faint scent of cigarette smoke on the wind.

Our destination was a small, dim café tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered bookstore, its windows fogged like Mercer Street's on that fatal morning. Marcus Reed, Holt's accountant, had agreed to meet us there off-record. The name had surfaced repeatedly in our inquiries—a breadcrumb too deliberate to ignore. Bell called it coincidence; I called it a warning. Patterns like that don't form by accident.

"I don't like this," Bell murmured, voice low beneath the hum of streetlights and distant traffic. "Holt's accountant doesn't need to meet us after hours. Not like this."

"Then he knows something," I replied, eyes on the shifting reflections in the puddles. "And so do we."

Inside, the café smelled of stale coffee, burnt sugar, and the metallic tang of fear made tangible. Reed was already seated at a corner table, fingers laced so tightly his knuckles gleamed white against the scarred wood. His pen lay untouched beside a cooling mug, cap chewed ragged. Every detail screamed nervousness: the way his shoulders hunched protectively, eyes darting to the door every ten seconds, left foot tapping an uneven rhythm. Observation is currency in this city. Spend it wisely.

"Detective Swanson," he said, voice thin as the steam rising from his untouched drink. "Detective Bell. I wasn't expecting—"

"You were expecting someone," I interjected smoothly, sliding into the seat across from him. Bell remained standing, a deliberate wall of authority behind me. "Just not us."

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing like a buoy in choppy water. His gaze flicked to the door again, then the fogged windows, measuring escape routes that didn't exist. "Yes. Precisely."

I let the silence stretch, watching sweat bead at his temple despite the chill. Bell shifted his weight, but I raised a hand subtly—patience first. "Marcus," I said evenly, "Evan Holt's last transactions. Start there. Don't make me ask twice."

He exhaled shakily, fingers unclenching fractionally to grip the mug's handle. "Unusual. Large sums—six figures, sometimes seven. Offshore to domestic shells, then scattered like buckshot. Not illegal on paper, but the velocity... it was laundering. Holt handled the routing, timestamps, obfuscation. He wasn't the source. Just the conduit."

Bell leaned forward, notebook flipping open. "Who was the source?"

Reed's eyes darted away, to the rain-lashed window where neon bled red across the glass. "J. Harlan. Called himself 'the Operator.' Never met face-to-face. Encrypted messages, burner phones, dead drops in public parks. Holt said he ran old family money through new real estate—ghost projects that existed only on ledgers, sold to phantom investors."

The Operator. It clicked instantly with the notebook's cryptic "J," the counterclockwise stirrer's mechanical precision. Patterns nested like Russian dolls, each revelation peeling back another layer.

"And Holt's role?" I pressed, voice calm but unrelenting.

"Intermediary at first. Reliable. Then he skimmed. Small amounts—consulting fees, he called them. Then bolder, rerouting five percent here, ten there. Harlan found out three weeks ago. Last call, two days before the café—Holt pushed back on a double-sized transfer. Harlan's response: 'Loose ends get trimmed.' Holt laughed it off to me, called it a bluff. But he was scared enough to consolidate his insurance."

Bell's pen scratched furiously. "Insurance?"

"Hard copies," Reed whispered, leaning in. "Every transfer, every ledger entry, signed and timestamped. Enough to unravel Harlan's entire network—trace every dollar back to the source accounts, implicate a dozen shell corps, even name-drop a senator on one retainer. Holt stashed them off-site. Riverfront Storage, Unit 314. Called it his 'retirement fund.' Leverage for if Harlan ever came calling personally."

Unit 314. The shadow from the fire escape notebook, the sedan I'd tailed. Harlan's cleaner retrieving what Holt meant to wield as a weapon.

"Why tell us now?" Bell demanded, suspicion sharpening his tone like a blade.

Reed's laugh was dry, fractured like thin ice. "Harlan called me yesterday evening. Voice distorted, but recognizable cadence. Asked if I'd heard from Holt post-mortem. When I stonewalled, he paused—long pause—and said, 'Don't become another loose end, Marcus. I know where you park.' I'm no fighter. You're the ones with badges and backup."

Fear was the great unbinder of tongues. I slid my card across the scarred table. "Stay alive. Stay reachable. Change your parking spot. Harlan cleans methodically—starts with the obvious."

We left Reed nursing his now-cold coffee, the bell above the door jingling like a warning. Rain lashed harder outside, turning Mercer Street into a mirror of fractured neon lights—reds bleeding into blues, reflections dancing like suspects in lineup. Bell lit a cigarette under the awning, offering me one. I declined; bad for the lungs, worse for the focus. "Riverfront Storage," he said, exhaling smoke into the wet darkness. "That's where your fire escape shadow went this afternoon."

"Yes," I confirmed. "Harlan's retrieving his insurance before we do. Those ledgers aren't just evidence—they're a kill list in reverse."

"Warrant?" Bell asked, practical as ever.

"Hours away, minimum. Harlan moves in minutes." I stepped off the curb into the downpour, collar up against the chill. "Meet me there. Bring uniforms, but move fast."

The drive to Riverfront was a blur of smeared headlights and slashing wipers, the city reduced to wet streaks of color. The storage facility squatted like a concrete beast between a discount mattress outlet and a gym promising transformations it never delivered. Chain-link fence rattled in the wind; the dark sedan idled crookedly by Unit 314, door ajar like an uninvited confession. Shadows shifted inside—purposeful, hurried.

I killed the engine two blocks away, slipped the gate's gap with a gloved hand on cold metal. Footsteps echoed down the fluorescent-lit corridor: cardboard ripping, glass vials clinking faintly against each other. The cleaner knelt amid labeled boxes—OFFICE SUPPLIES, 2023 TAX RECORDS, MISC—shoving fat file folders into a battered duffel. Dark coat, uneven hair, left pocket bulging unnaturally.

"Don't turn around," I said softly from the threshold, voice carrying like smoke. "Hands where I can see them. Now."

He froze, then rose slowly, turning with deliberate calm. Mid-forties, face ordinary to the point of strategy, but eyes sharp as broken glass—predator's eyes, not prey's. "The café watcher," he said, voice even, rehearsed. "You're late to the party, Detective."

"Observant," I replied, hand steady near my holster. "Harlan's errand boy, retrieving his insurance?"

"Solution provider." No denial, just semantics. "Holt malfunctioned. Fixed now."

"With cyanogenic glycosides in the coffee. Stress as cover—brilliant misdirection." Sirens wailed distant but closing—Bell, punctual as rain. "The ring tan line on your finger? Recent divorce? Or widowhood fueling the loyalty?"

Composure cracked, just a hairline fracture. "Irrelevant to you."

"Not when it motivates murder." I advanced one step. "Those ledgers in the duffel implicate you too. Harlan burns cleaners who see too much."

He lunged—not for me, for the bag. I sidestepped, hooked his ankle with my boot; he sprawled hard, duffel spilling, empty glass vials scattering across concrete like fallen teeth, residue glinting under fluorescents. Uniforms burst through the door, boots thumping, cuffs clicking home before he could scramble.

"Secure the unit," I ordered. "Bag everything. And him." Harlan's proxy glared up from the floor, venom in his eyes. "Harlan's bigger than this. You've only snipped a thread."

"We unravel webs," I replied coolly. "One filament at a time."

Outside, rain eased to mist, streetlights haloed in clearing air. Bell clapped my shoulder, rain dripping from his hat brim. "Clean work. Harlan next?"

"Patterns lead straight there." One loose end tied off. The Operator still lurked in shadows, but tonight the coffee—metaphorical—tasted like progress. The city exhaled around us, indifferent but no longer entirely opaque.