Page 6 of Dead Air
The Rafferty case files. Monica had been certain someone inside the department was protecting the operation. She'd been killed before she could prove it. After her death, key documents had disappeared, including Monica's personal notes.
Lawson had tried to pursue it, convinced Monica's murder was connected, but the case got reassigned. Six months later, the Rafferty investigation was quietly closed due to "insufficient evidence." Whenever Lawson brought it up, she was reminded that she was too close, too emotional. Eventually, she'd been given a choice: drop it or turn in her badge.
She'd chosen to keep her badge, convinced she could do more good inside the system than out. But the guilt had eaten away at her, driving her deeper into the bottle each year.
Now Blackwell was coming to town, ready to expose everything, with no idea of the danger she was putting herself in.
If someone had killed Monica to protect a secret, they wouldn't hesitate to kill again.
Lawson grabbed her gym bag from the closet and stuffed in a change of clothes. She needed to clear her head, and sitting in her apartment staring at the whiskey bottle wouldn't help. The twenty-four-hour gym downtown was usually empty this time of night. She could pound out her frustration on a punching bag, then shower and head straight to the precinct.
She had one week to prepare for Blackwell's arrival. One week to decide whether to help her uncover the truth or warn her away from a grave she was about to dig.
Neither option would bring Monica back. But at least one of them might keep this podcaster from joining her.
chapter
three
Lawson bent over her desk,pressing her fingertips into her temples. Case files spread across the surface in messy stacks. Two hours at the gym hadn't helped. Punching bags and treadmills couldn't silence the voices from that podcast. Monica's blood. The accusations. They clung to her thoughts like smoke.
Her partner's desk sat empty. Four different partners in five years. None stuck around longer than twelve months. The department stopped trying to assign her anyone new. She worked better alone anyway. The precinct moved around her like water around a stone. Officers found reasons to bypass her office. Conversations died when she entered the break room.
The coffee in her mug had turned cold hours ago. Black sludge with a film on top. She drank it anyway, needing the caffeine more than the taste. Her computer screen showed seventeen unread emails. Internal memos about policy changes. Training updates. A reminder about the department picnic next month. All the normal business of police work felt surreal after listening to herself beg for Monica's life on a podcast.
"Detective Lawson?"
A woman filled her doorway. Small frame, sharp haircut that made her face look like it could cut glass. Navy blazer, white shirt, jeans that cost more than Lawson made in a week. Designer boots. But her eyes grabbed Lawson's attention first. They moved constantly, taking in everything, filing it away.
"Leah Blackwell." The woman stepped inside without an invitation. "Dead Air podcast."
Lawson's back teeth ground together. "I know who you are."
"Good. Saves us both time." Blackwell settled into the visitor's chair like she owned it, one leg crossed over the other. "Wasn't sure you followed my work."
"Make yourself at home," Lawson muttered. "Who signed you in?"
Leah's smile never wavered. Either deaf to sarcasm or immune to it. She pulled a small notebook from her bag, flipped through several pages covered in neat handwriting. Phone numbers. Names. Questions written in blue ink.
"You're early," Lawson said. "Thought Savannah wouldn’t see you until next week."
"I scout locations first. Get the lay of the land before I start digging." Blackwell's shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. "Meet the key players."
"I'm a key player?"
"You're the star." A digital recorder appeared from Blackwell's bag. Sleek black plastic that she placed between them like a chess piece. "I want your version of Monica Landry's murder. Your truth."
Lawson leaned back in her chair. The leather creaked under her weight. Five years of sitting in this same spot, working cases, avoiding the one case that mattered most. The Monica Landry file sat in her bottom drawer, an unofficial copy she'd made before the case got reassigned. She'd read it so many times the pages were soft from handling.
"My truth. Right."
"Facts matter to me." Blackwell's voice stayed level despite Lawson's tone. "I investigate. I don't make things up for entertainment."
"By stealing sealed evidence? Broadcasting private radio calls?"
"Nobody stole anything. Someone gave me that recording because they think people deserve to know what really happened."
The radio call. Lawson's voice pleading for Monica's life while blood pooled on concrete. She'd never heard the recording before now. Police radio calls were archived, stored on servers most people forgot existed. Someone with access had pulled that file. Someone who wanted the world to hear Lawson's desperation.
