The air in the Suds 'n Bubbles Laundromat was a thick, visible fog, heavy with the cloying scent of cheap floral detergent and the damp, metallic breath of a hundred spinning drums. It was a place where time felt suspended, measured only in cycles and rinse cycles. For Detective Davon Deshaun, the only thing that mattered was the twitchy young man in the plastic chair—Silas.
His eyes were the tell. They weren't just nervous; they were calculating, darting from Claire's cool, unblinking assessment to Davon's own bulk, which strategically blocked the path to the grimy glass door and the freedom of the street beyond. Davon saw the moment the calculation ended and instinct took over. It was a subtle shift in the shoulders, a coiling of the spine. The kid was a spring about to snap.
Silas moved with a feral suddenness that was startling. A guttural, wordless cry ripped from his throat as he drove his feet into the floor, kicking the plastic chair backward with all his strength. It shot into Davon's shins with a sharp, bone-jarring crack. Pain, white-hot and blinding, lanced up Davon's legs, and in that single second of incapacitating shock, Silas was a blur of motion.
But he didn't run for the door. He spun and fled deeper into the heart of the laundromat, into the labyrinth of churning machines.
"Son of a—!" Davon snarled, shoving the chair aside. The chase was on.
"The back! He's heading for a rear exit!" Claire's voice was a sharp, clear blade in the humid chaos, transmitted through the tiny bud in his ear. Her own footsteps, quick and purposeful, echoed as she secured the front, ensuring he couldn't double back. "Backup is two minutes out. Don't let him get to the street!"
"He won't last two minutes," Davon grunted, more to himself than to her, as he pushed past a towering stack of folded towels and into a narrow corridor lined with industrial-sized, brightly colored drums of bleach and soap. The roar of the machines was deafening here, a physical pressure against the eardrums. The air was hotter, steamy, and the chemical smell was so strong it made his eyes water.
Silas, skinny and fueled by pure adrenaline, wove through the chaos with the unnerving familiarity of a rat in its own warren. Davon, bigger and more powerful, was a bull in a china shop. His shoulders knocked against metal shelves, sending boxes of dryer sheets and bright blue detergent pods cascading to the perpetually damp floor. He kept his eyes locked on the flapping tail of Silas's grey hoodie.
Fumbling in his jacket pocket, he yanked out his phone, his thumb finding the speed-dial as he ran. The line connected after one ring.
"Archer." The voice was a calm, weathered anchor in the storm of noise and adrenaline.
"Archie, it's Davon," he barked, his breath already coming in harsh pants, the phone pressed to his ear. "I'm in a foot pursuit. Suspect from the Micheline case, male, late teens/early twenties, grey hoodie, jeans. He just fled the Suds 'n Bubbles on 6th and San Julian. He's in the back alleys now, south of the building. I need eyes. Now. I need a net."
There was no hesitation, just the immediate, comforting sound of action. Davon could hear the muffled sounds of Archie's precinct—a distant phone, the shuffle of paper—being replaced by the crisp efficiency of a man on a mission. A radio was keyed. "On it. Units 7-Baker and 14-Charles, converge on 6th and San Julian, suspect foot pursuit south into the alleyways. All available units, broadcast a description. K-9 if available." The clacking of a keyboard followed. "I'm pulling up the city grid. Don't do anything stupid, D. Just keep him contained."
Davon didn't answer, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He burst out of a heavy service door and into the shocking, crisp air of a narrow, garbage-strewn alley. The transition from the humid, roaring interior to the silent, dry cold of the autumn night was jarring. His breath plumed in great white gusts. Silas was already thirty yards ahead, his sneakers slapping against the pavement littered with dry leaves, his silhouette frantic against the sickly orange glow of the distant city lights.
He was fast, desperation lending him wings. Davon pushed harder, his own boots skidding on a patch of damp, matted leaves, his legs still throbbing from the chair. Silas ducked into a breach between two brick buildings, a passage so tight it was barely more than a gutter for rainwater and fallen debris.
"Subject turning east into the breach between 1844 and 1846 San Julian," Davon reported into his mic, his voice tight with exertion as he squeezed into the passage. The rough, cold brick scraped against his leather jacket on both sides. "It's a tight fit. Claire, can you get a unit on the parallel street?"
"Already directing them," Claire's voice came back, calm but urgent. "They're one minute out. Just keep him in sight."
The passage opened abruptly into a small, enclosed courtyard, a forgotten space that served as a dumping ground for the surrounding businesses. It was dominated by overflowing dumpsters, their lids askew, spilling out reeking black bags. The stench of decay and rotting food was overpowering, mixed with the earthy scent of damp leaves decomposing in the corners. A high, chain-link fence, twelve feet tall and crowned with a sagging, rusted concertina of barbed wire, sealed the only other exit.
Silas was trapped.
He spun around, his back hitting the cold, unforgiving metal of the fence with a dull clang. His chest heaved, sucking in ragged, sobbing breaths that misted in the frigid air. His face was a mess of snot and tears, his eyes wide with a terror that seemed to go far beyond the fear of being arrested. This was the pure, primal fear of a cornered animal.
"Stay back!" he screamed, his voice cracking and shrill. He held up his hands, but they were empty, trembling so violently they looked like they might shake themselves apart. "Don't come near me!"
Davon slowed his approach to a walk, his own breathing heavy, creating great clouds in the air. He held his own hands up, a gesture of false calm, a hunter trying to soothe his prey. "It's over, Silas. There's nowhere to go. Look around. It's just you and me."
"You don't understand!" Silas sobbed, his body sliding down the fence until he was crouched on the filthy, leaf-strewn ground. He wrapped his arms around his knees, making himself small. "You don't know what they'll do to me! They'll… they'll…" He couldn't finish, just shook his head violently, fresh tears cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks.
The wail of sirens grew from a distant echo to a deafening crescendo, their pulsating blue and red lights suddenly painting the brick walls of the courtyard in frantic, strobing strokes. Shadows leaped and danced like demons. Backup was here. The small space was about to be flooded with uniforms, radios, and overwhelming force.
In the chaotic, pulsing light, Davon saw the last shred of fight leave Silas's body. The tension drained from his shoulders, and he seemed to deflate, folding in on himself into a pathetic, broken heap. The animal was gone, leaving only a terrified boy.
Davon moved in quickly, his movements efficient and practiced. He pulled Silas's arms behind his back, the kid offering no resistance, and clicked the cold, steel cuffs into place with a definitive click that was swallowed by the sirens. As he hauled him to his feet, Silas was a dead weight, his head lolling. He looked up at Davon, his eyes hollow, all the fight and fear replaced by a bleak, bottomless despair.
"The Crow," he whispered, the name a dry, rustling sound, barely audible over the sirens. It was a name infused with pure dread. "I work for a man they call The Crow. If he finds out I talked, I'm dead." He met Davon's gaze, and the finality in his eyes was chilling. "I'm already dead."
---
The transition from the cold, crisp, and chaotic alley to the sterile, bright-white, and silent box of Interrogation Room 3 was jarring, like moving between two different dimensions. Here, there was no wind, no smell of decaying leaves, no strobing lights. There was only the hum of the ventilation system and the unforgiving glare of the single fluorescent bar overhead.
Under its harsh light, Silas looked even younger and more pathetic. The bravado and raw terror of the chase had evaporated, leaving behind a shivering, pale shell. The grime from the alley still smudged his cheeks, a stark contrast to the clinical cleanliness of the room. He sat cuffed in the hard, bolted-down chair, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the scarred surface of the metal table as if it held the secrets of the universe. He wouldn't, or couldn't, look at the two-way mirror, behind which Davon knew Claire and Captain Ortiz would be observing.
Claire and Davon let the silence stretch, a psychological tool as effective as any shouted question. They stood on opposite sides of the small room, a pincer movement of pressure and observation. Davon remained by the door, a silent, immovable sentinel, his arms crossed over his chest. Claire stood near the corner of the table, her presence less immediately threatening, but no less formidable.
A full five minutes passed in near-total silence, broken only by the ragged hitch of Silas's breathing. They were letting him stew, letting the isolation and the weight of his situation crush down on him.
Finally, Claire moved. It was a deliberate, calm motion. She pulled out the chair opposite him and sat, her movements smooth and controlled. She didn't speak at first. Instead, she reached for a small paper cup from a stack in the corner, filled it from a pitcher of water, and placed it gently on the table in front of him. The sound of the cheap cup meeting the metal table was surprisingly loud.
"You're safe in here, Silas," she said, her voice low and even, a stark contrast to the sirens and shouts of the alley. It was the voice of a calm harbor after a storm. "The walls in this room are thick. The Crow can't hear you in here. He can't touch you in here."
At the name, he flinched as if she'd brandished a hot poker. His cuffed hands, resting on the table, clenched into white-knuckled fists.
Davon remained standing, a statue of implied consequence. He let Claire build the rapport, spin the lifeline. He was the rock against which Silas would eventually break.
"Cassey Slazar is dead," Claire continued, her tone softening with a practiced empathy that Davon knew was both a genuine part of her and a meticulously honed weapon. "She wasn't just killed, Silas. She was beaten to death. It was brutal. It was personal. The drugs you delivered were a part of that scene. But I don't think you knew that was going to happen. I look at you, and I see a kid who got in over his head. A runner, not a killer."
Silas's shoulders began to shake, silent sobs wracking his thin frame. A single tear dripped from his chin and splashed onto the table.
"She's giving you a way out," Davon's voice cut through the room, flat and hard as concrete. He didn't move from his post by the door, but his voice seemed to take up all the space in the small room. "The fentanyl in her system was a weapon-grade dose. Lab quality. That doesn't make you a delivery boy; that makes you an accessory to murder. You have one path forward. You help us put the real killer in a cage, or you stand in front of a judge and take the fall for him. It's the only choice you're going to get. Make it."
The pressure was immense, a psychological vice with Claire offering salvation on one side and Davon promising ruin on the other. Silas was crumbling between them.
"I didn't know!" The words burst from him, a choked, wet cry. He looked up, his eyes pleading with Claire, desperate for her to believe him. "I swear to God, I didn't know! I just made the drops! I never asked what for! You don't ask!"
"Where?" Claire asked, her voice still gentle, inviting the confession.
"The club. The Micheline." He was talking fast now, the words tumbling out in a desperate, cleansing torrent. "There's a vent. In the men's room. The last stall, near the floor. It's loose. I'd… I'd slide the package in. I never saw who picked it up. I never wanted to know! You see something, you end up like… like her."
"How did you get your orders?" Davon demanded, his voice a low rumble.
"A phone! A cheap, throwaway phone! Texts. That's it! Always from a different number." He recited a string of digits, his voice trembling, and Claire wrote them down on a small notepad without a word, her face impassive.
"And The Crow?" she pressed, leaning forward slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Who is he?"
"I don't know! I've never seen him! It's just a name!" Silas insisted, his voice rising in pitch. "A name that means you disappear if you mess up! A name they whisper to keep guys like me in line!"
He broke down completely then, his head dropping to the table with a soft thud as he wept, his body shuddering. The performance, if it was one, was flawless. He had given them everything he had—a name, a method, a number. He seemed utterly broken, a source drained dry.
As they stepped out of the room, the heavy, soundproofed door clicking shut on the sound of his muffled sobs, a forensic tech was waiting for them in the hallway, a printout in his hand.
"The burner number he gave you is a dead end," the tech said, handing the paper to Claire. "We ran it the second you transmitted it. It was a pre-paid, already disconnected and scrubbed. It's a ghost."
He hesitated, looking from Claire to Davon. "But we did pull one other thing from Cassey's personal phone records you need to see. A repeated, unlisted number. Called her twice a week, like clockwork, for the last three months. It's a ghost, too. No registration, no owner. We can't touch it."
Before they could process this new, chilling piece of the puzzle—a direct, untraceable line into Cassey's life—the door to the observation area opened. A uniformed officer stood there, his face grim, his posture tense.
"Detectives," he said, his voice low and serious. "There's a lawyer here. A real shark from Sterling & Gould." The name of the city's most powerful and notoriously expensive law firm hung in the air like a physical threat. "He's in the lobby, demanding immediate access to his client, Mr. Silas. Says he's here to 'sort this mess out.'"
Claire and Davon exchanged a long, knowing look. The system, it seemed, was not just resistant; it was self-correcting. The cage around Silas, and more importantly, around the truth he might still hold, had just been reinforced with titanium steel. The rabbit had been caught, but the hunt for the real predators had just become infinitely more dangerous.