“Moving in twenty.”
Naomi was dressed in seven minutes.
The storage facility sat beneath an elevated freeway.
Unit 418.
Rented under a shell company tied to a retired detective.
Federal agents opened it at 7:02.
Inside:
Seven evidence boxes.
Three department-issued laptops.
Two sealed narcotics containers.
Cash bundles.
Eleven prepaid phones.
And dozens of copied confidential-informant files.
Naomi stood outside the unit.
Devin looked at her.
“Well.”
She stared at the boxes.
“Keller?”
“Nothing direct yet.”
“There will be.”
“Maybe.”
Naomi looked toward him.
“Don’t give me confidence.”
“I’m giving you caution.”
“Good.”
They catalogued everything.
One laptop contained deleted reports recovered by forensic imaging.
Another had spreadsheets.
Payments.
Dates.
Initials.
One column read R.
Rabbit.
Another read GK.
Could mean Grant Keller.
Could mean something else.
Never assume.
Naomi repeated that constantly.
By afternoon, forensic accounting identified cash withdrawals corresponding with missing evidence entries.
The pattern was emerging.
Not simply corruption.
A system.
Seized narcotics were removed from evidence.
Some reappeared in later raids, creating apparently successful enforcement actions.
Others disappeared.
Informants were paid for intelligence they may not have provided.
Overtime was billed around fabricated surveillance operations.
The unit’s statistics soared.
Seizures.
Arrests.
Federal grants.
Task-force funding.
Awards.
Keller’s career benefited.
So did others.
Success had been manufactured partly from recycled crimes.
Naomi stared at the board in the secure conference room.
Names connected by lines.
Cases.
Payments.
Vehicles.
Storage.
One investigator said:
“This is insane.”
Naomi shook her head.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“It’s organized.”
That was worse.
The shocking thing about corruption was rarely chaos.
It often resembled administration.
Forms existed.
Signatures existed.
Approvals existed.
Everything looked legitimate if nobody compared the right documents.
Keller had understood systems.
Naomi respected that intellectually.
Despised what he had done with it.
Two days later, Detective Pike disappeared from work.
Not missing.
Called sick.
Would not answer federal calls.
Naomi drove to his apartment with another agent.
No response.
They waited.
His attorney eventually called.
Pike wanted immunity.
Naomi said no.
He wanted a deal before speaking.
Prosecutors said cooperation first.
Six hours later, Pike entered the federal building.
He looked twenty years older.
He sat across from Naomi.
“You hate me.”
Naomi replied:
“I don’t know you well enough.”
That surprised him.
He rubbed his hands.
“I saw him shove you.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes.”
“You think I’m a coward.”
Naomi said nothing.
Pike laughed bitterly.
“That means yes.”
“No.”
He looked up.
“It means your opinion of yourself isn't evidence.”
Pike stared.
Naomi leaned forward.