Page 36 of Dead Air
"Or tragic hero. Depends on what serves her story better. I think that's why she's baiting you. Waiting to see how you write your own story." Fiona stood. "Either way, objectivity isn't her priority."
"What's yours?"
"Professional curiosity." Fiona adjusted her bag strap. "And maybe personal interest in watching a colleague face what I did last year."
Lawson recalled the Dolores Bates case. Fiona's reporting scrutinized by outside media. Her methods questioned. Her motives analyzed.
"The Chronicle runs my story on this convention tomorrow. Call if you want your perspective included."
The ballroom emptied completely. Lawson remained alone with the empty stage and lingering questions. Blackwell's silent message replayed in her mind.
Episode Four tomorrow.
chapter
fourteen
Lawson's caridled in the parking lot of Savannah Self Storage. Rain drummed against the roof, turning the world outside into watercolor smears. The digital clock on her dashboard read 9:47 PM. Two hours since Blackwell's podcast had ended. Two hours of driving aimlessly through Savannah's streets, processing revelations she couldn't unhear.
Monica had compiled a list of dirty cops. Officers on the Savannah force taking payoffs from local crime families. A parallel investigation she'd conducted alone, trusting no one with her findings.
Not even her partner.
Rachel's key sat heavy in Lawson's palm. Small brass, unremarkable except for what it unlocked.
The rain intensified. Water cascaded down the windshield faster than wipers could clear it. Lawson killed the engine and stepped out into the downpour. Cold water soaked through her shirt within seconds. The sensation matched her internal temperature—chilled from the inside out by Blackwell's methodical dismantling of everything she thought she knew.
The storage facility office stood empty. After-hours access required the gate code on Rachel's keychain. Metal gates rolledopen with a mechanical groan. Security lights cast yellow pools across wet pavement as Lawson navigated the maze of identical metal doors.
Unit 147 occupied the back corner. Away from the main drive. Maximum privacy. The lock clicked open on the first try.
Lawson hesitated, hand on the pull-down door. Monica's possessions lay preserved inside like artifacts in a tomb. Untouched since Rachel packed them away after the funeral. Five years of dust settling over a life interrupted.
The door rolled upward with a metallic screech. Motion-activated lights flickered twice before stabilizing. Furniture was stacked against the back wall. Boxes labeled in Rachel's precise handwriting. KITCHEN. BOOKS. CLOTHES. PHOTOS.
Lawson stepped inside, pulling the door halfway down behind her. Rain pattered against the metal roof. Water dripped from her clothes onto the concrete floor. Where would Monica hide files too dangerous to keep at home or work? Not in obvious storage boxes. Somewhere overlooked. Somewhere disguised as ordinary.
Her gaze settled on a plastic bin labeled HOLIDAY DECORATIONS. Monica had hated seasonal decorating. Called it "commercial obligation disguised as tradition." Rachel wouldn't know that. Would assume the box contained Christmas lights or Halloween pumpkins.
The bin sat beneath two others. Lawson moved them aside, leaving wet handprints on the plastic lids. Holiday Decorations weighed more than tinsel and ornaments would justify. Inside, beneath a layer of tangled Christmas lights, she found a fireproof document box. Matte black metal with a combination lock.
Monica's academy graduation date opened it on the first attempt. The same combination she'd used for her gym locker. The same combination Lawson knew by heart, even five yearslater. The box held a single manila folder. Thick with documents. The tab labeled with a simple letter R.
Rafferty.
Lawson placed the box on a nearby dresser and opened the folder. The first page contained a handwritten list of names. Columns organized by department and suspected activity. Patrol officers facilitating drug shipments through traffic stops. Evidence technicians altering documentation. Detectives burying witness statements. Money amounts noted beside each name. Weekly payments. Monthly totals.
She recognized most names. Officers still working the streets. Detectives still closing cases. Sergeants promoted to lieutenants. The corruption extended beyond individuals into a systematic network.
Hutchinson's name appeared at the bottom, circled twice with a question mark beside it. No dollar amounts listed. No specific accusations. Just the question mark, suggesting Monica's uncertainty about his involvement.
The next set of documents detailed money transfers. Bank statements showing patterns. Cash deposits into accounts under false names. Property purchases through shell companies. Monica had mapped the financial architecture of corruption with meticulous precision.
Beneath the financial records lay photographs. Surveillance shots taken from a distance with a telephoto lens. Officers meeting with known criminals. Cash exchanging hands in parking lots. Conversations in cars with tinted windows.
The final section contained photos that stopped Lawson's breathing. Images of herself. Leaving her apartment. Walking to her car. Ordinary moments from the weeks before Monica died. The angles suggested someone watching from vehicles or adjacent buildings. Professional surveillance targeting both partners.
A handwritten note paper-clipped to the images:They know about us. Not safe. Need leverage before moving forward.
