Page 36 of Pursuit of Her

"Just one thing." Brooks's voice dropped slightly, the professional facade slipping to reveal something colder beneath. "If you're withholding anything relevant to this investigation, Captain Morgan, the consequences will extend far beyond administrative leave. I guarantee it."

The threat hung in the air between them, its meaning clear. Eve met Brooks's gaze without flinching.

"I've dedicated my life to this department, Commissioner. My priority has always been justice."

"See that it remains so." Brooks dismissed her with a curt nod.

Eve exited the conference room, her mind already mapping the narrow window of opportunity Brooks had inadvertently provided. Martinez would be watching her every move from now on, but Eve had years of experience losing tails when necessary.

She had until noon—maybe less—before Brooks realized Eve had been bluffing about the DA. By then, she needed to secure the evidence from the safety deposit box and find Sophia Gresham before Reagan executed Arthur Pembroke.

Eve checked her watch. 9:07 a.m. The bank had just opened its doors.

For the first time in her distinguished career, Captain Eve Morgan was about to break every rule in the book.

Eve left the conference room with measured steps, the weight of Brooks's threat hanging over her. Martinez waited in the bullpen, her tablet ready, eyes tracking Eve's movements with the focus of a predator. The detective's posture made it clear: from this moment forward, Eve would operate under constant surveillance.

"I need to review my files before our briefing," Eve told Martinez, her tone professionally neutral. "Give me an hour to organize everything."

Martinez's skepticism was evident, but she nodded. "One hour, Captain. I'll meet you in your office at 10:30."

Eve moved to her desk, strategically positioned to maintain sight lines across the detective division. As she pretended to organize case files, she sent a text to Detective Foster from her official phone:Coffee at Lavender's in 20. Need input on Davenport financials. Routine follow-up.

Harmless words that would withstand scrutiny if Martinez monitored her communications, which Eve assumed she did.

"I'm heading to Lavender's for decent coffee," Eve announced, loud enough for nearby officers to hear. "Martinez, I'll bring you back one of those vanilla lattes you like."

The casual offer—establishing normal routine, signaling cooperation—had the intended effect. Martinez relaxed slightly. "Thanks, Captain. I'll stay and review the surveillance logs."

Eve gathered her jacket and case notebook, maintaining an unhurried pace as she made her way to the elevator. She felt Martinez's eyes follow her until the doors closed, cutting the invisible tether between them.

Outside, morning light bathed Phoenix Ridge in deceptive tranquility. Eve walked briskly toward the arts district, taking a circuitous route that would reveal any tail—a technique Reagan had taught her years ago. At the third corner, she ducked into a service alley, waited sixty seconds, then emerged onto a parallel street, effectively losing anyone who might be following at Martinez's direction.

Fifteen minutes later, Eve pulled the collar of her jacket higher against the morning chill as she crossed the street toward Lavender's Café. The small establishment sat nestled between an art gallery and a bookstore, its purple awning and hand-painted sign making it a local landmark. She'd chosen this location carefully—close enough to headquarters to justify her absence, yet far enough to avoid casual eavesdropping.

Detective Caroline Foster was already waiting at a corner table, two steaming mugs before her. The detective's short brunette hair framed intelligent eyes that missed nothing, her casual posture belying the sharp mind that had made her one of Eve's most trusted officers.

"Coffee, black, no sugar," Foster said as Eve slid into the seat opposite her. "You look like you need it."

"Thanks." Eve wrapped her hands around the warm mug but didn't drink. "Did anyone follow you?"

Foster shook her head. "I used the route you taught me last year. Doubled back twice, changed jackets, the works. Martinez is monitoring the harbor district on your false lead about a vigilante sighting."

"Good." Eve leaned forward, voice dropping. "What I'm about to share with you doesn't leave this table. Your career, possibly your safety, depends on complete discretion."

"I figured as much when you texted from a burner phone." Foster's eyes narrowed. "This is about the connections between the victims, isn't it? The ones Brooks wanted buried."

Eve studied her subordinate, weighing risks against necessity. Foster had demonstrated both exceptional investigative skills and a moral compass that pointed true. If Eve was going to navigate the dangerous waters ahead, she'd need at least one ally within the department.

"It goes deeper than we imagined," Eve said finally. "The four victims were connected through more than business dealings. They were part of a network that systematically buried evidence, intimidated witnesses, and protected each other from consequences."

Foster didn't look surprised. "I've been tracking financial irregularities between them. Shell companies, property holdings through proxies, donations to the same political campaigns." She pulled a small notebook from her jacket. "All four made substantial contributions to Commissioner Brooks's husband's business ventures."

"Jonathan Brooks," Eve confirmed. "He's the linchpin of what they call the Phoenix Network. He coordinates what they term 'cleanup operations' when allegations surface."

Foster's expression darkened. "How long have you known?"

"I suspected after Davenport's murder. The evidence left at his scene pointed to connections that shouldn't exist." Eve chose her words carefully, avoiding any mention of Reagan. "I've been conducting a parallel investigation since then."

---