Chapter 9
“Lena Shaw, you and Mark Doyle faked a line-of-duty death, skimmed the party powder, and used Captain Foster’s guilt to cover your crimes. Did you really think you could fool everyone forever?”
I shot forward. My left hand clamped Mark’s knife hand andmy right elbow drove into his ribs-academy close-quarters: fast, clean, decisive.
He grunted; the knife clanged to the concrete. My team piled on, slammed him down, and the cuffs snapped
shut.
Lena spun to run. Two steps, and I hooked her ankle. She went down hard.
I flowed with it-knee between her shoulder blades, left hand controlling the back of her head, right hand
wrenching her arm. Standard control hold.
She thrashed, hair plastered across her face, pure shock in her eyes. “You… how do you know this stuff? You’re just a housewife!”
I pulled my badge and ID from my pocket, flipped open the black leather badge wallet, and the gold shield
caught the dim light.
“Avery Lane, Detective, City Police Department, Narcotics Division. Lena Shaw, you’re under arrest for harboring a fugitive and participating in the party-powder trade.”
From the door, a voice: “Detective Lane! Mark is secured!”
Lena went slack under me, tears mixing with dust on the floor.
She finally understood: from the first time she leaned on that “widow” status to cling to Captain Foster, she’d been walking into a net I’d been throwing for a long time.
The interrogation lights burned all night. By dawn, both Lena and Mark broke and told everything.
That Mark Doyle wasn’t Mark at all. On the original narcotics op, the real Mark died protecting a teammate. This impostor skimmed three kilos, staged a scene with the bloody badge number and a John Doe, and disappeared to the border, living off the drug trade.
His real name was Caleb King.
Lena had known from the start. For cash-and her so-called love-she covered for him.
Caleb King had been her first love.
And she didn’t just hide him; she stayed close to Captain Foster as a “fallen officer’s widow”-to milk Reid’s guilt, to mask Caleb’s movements, and to pull intel on police activity to feed him.
When I walked into Reid’s room with the interview transcripts, he was propped up against the pillows, color
Chapter 9
90.00%
better than before, bandage stark across his chest.
The second he saw me, the severity in his eyes softened. He patted the spot beside him. “Sit.”
I handed him the file.
He’d suspected for a while that the “death” wasn’t right.
After we married, I’d stumbled on Lena sneaking calls to the border, skittish in a way that didn’t fit a widow.
I took it up the chain and went undercover as a homemaker at her side to build the case.
“So… when you asked for a divorce,” Reid said, lifting his eyes. There was a shadow of hurt there, mostly worry. “That was part of the plan too?”
