Chapter 17 Daniel
Ryan
I inhaled until my ribs protested. Still healing. Still bitching about that rooftop rescue three weeks back. Worth it, though. Min was safe, tucked away with his mother under proper protection. And Toronto had finally remembered it was supposed to be spring.
The station entrance squeaked open. Same rusty hinge nobody'd bothered to oil in what, a decade? Fluorescent buzz overhead. That sickly institutional glow washing out everyone's skin. But somehow the place didn't feel as oppressive as it had my first day here.
Maybe I was just getting used to purgatory.
"Good morning, Detective Carlson!"
Reid straightened from the reception desk like I'd activated him. Eager puppy energy radiating off him in waves. Kid was sweet, but transparent as glass.
"Morning, Reid." I flashed him the easy grin. The one that cost me nothing. "You're looking chipper."
"You're looking much better today, sir." He shifted his weight. Fingers drumming the desk. "The sunshine really suits you."
Subtle. "Vitamin D works wonders. You should try it sometime instead of living in this fluorescent cave."
He laughed. Too loud. Too enthusiastic. "Actually, I was about to make a convenience store run. I could grab you one of those canned coffees? The vanilla one you liked yesterday?"
There it was. The flush creeping up his neck. The hopeful tilt of his head. I should shut this down. Workplace crushes were messy at best, career-ending at worst. But Reid was one of the few people here who didn't look at me like I was 52's radioactive leftovers.
"That'd be great, actually. Thanks."
His whole face lit up like I'd handed him a medal. "No problem! I'll bring it right over."
He practically bounced toward the exit. I watched him go. Guilt settled in my stomach like bad coffee. I'd need to have the let's keep this professional talk soon. Before he got the wrong idea. Before I became the asshole who led him on.
Later. After I survived whatever fresh hell today had planned.
I headed toward the detective bullpen. Scanning automatically for a particular broad-shouldered silhouette. Almost a month since Inspector Murphy had shackled Hawley and me together. Against all odds, we hadn't killed each other yet.
Progress.
Hawley sat hunched over our shared desk.
A study in concentration and regulation posture.
He didn't look up when I approached. His shoulders shifted slightly.
Recognition without acknowledgment. His half of the workspace was surgical-room pristine.
Files aligned at perfect right angles. Pens color-coded. Notepad parallel to the keyboard.
My side looked like a paper tornado had gotten drunk and passed out there.
And yet, he hadn't touched any of it. Hadn't straightened a single rogue file or relocated a coffee-stained folder. Just... left my chaos exactly how I liked it.
Something about that made my chest feel weird.
"Morning," I said, dropping into my chair.
A grunt. Still laser-focused on whatever report he was dissecting.
I found myself studying his profile. The permanent furrow between his brows.
The way his jaw clenched when he concentrated.
I'd been cataloging his micro-expressions for weeks now.
The slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes when something amused him.
The barely-there upturn of his mouth when I said something particularly stupid.
The way his shoulders loosened when we were alone in the apartment.
Why was I doing that? Why did I notice these things?
"Take a picture," Hawley muttered without looking up. "It'll last longer."
I snorted. "Just making sure you didn't turn into a statue overnight. You've barely moved since I walked in."
His jaw eased a fraction. Not quite a smile. Close enough to count as a win.
Before he could respond, something heavy and deliberate slammed into the back of my chair. Sent me lurching sideways.
"Oops." Sergeant Saunders's voice dripped false apology. "Didn't see you there, Poster Boy. Though with that hair, you'd think you'd be hard to miss."
I bit down on the urge to tell him exactly where he could shove his passive aggression. Saunders had been gunning for me since day one. His hostility had sharpened after the Min case. Like he took it personally that Hawley and I actually functioned as a team.
"No worries, Sergeant." I kept my tone light. Pleasant. "I know depth perception's one of the first things to go with age."
His face went eggplant-purple. "You think you're something special, don't you? Just because you wore a fancy suit at 52 doesn't mean..."
"Is there something you needed, Sergeant?" Hawley interrupted. Voice low and even.
He still hadn't looked up from his paperwork. Hadn't changed his posture at all. But something in his stillness radiated warning. Like a predator so confident in its strength it didn't need to display it.
Saunders's mouth snapped shut. He glared at Hawley, then at me, before muttering something that sounded like "pretty boys" and stomping off.
Good riddance.
"My hero," I said, spinning my chair to face Hawley properly.
He finally looked up. His face flat. "You shouldn't antagonize him."
"He started it."
"What are you, twelve?"
"On a scale of one to ten, maybe."
That earned me another almost-reaction, quickly suppressed. I grinned, savoring the small victory. Making Hawley crack, even microscopically, had become my new favorite hobby.
Dangerous hobby, maybe. But addictive.
"Earth to Carlson." Hawley's voice cut through my thoughts. "You planning to do any work today, or just daydream at your desk?"
"I'm mentally preparing. It's an important part of my process."
"Your process needs work."
"Says the man who alphabetizes his cereal boxes."
"I don't..." His eyes narrowed. "They're organized by nutritional value, not alphabetically."
I laughed. Genuinely delighted. "That's even worse!"
"It's efficient..."
The door to Inspector Murphy's office swung open with enough force to silence the entire bullpen.
The laughter died in my throat.
Murphy stood in the doorway. Face carved from granite. His gaze swept the room like a searchlight before landing on us.
"Carlson. Hawley." Not a request. A summons. "My office. Now."
Every conversation in the bullpen cut off. I felt the weight of two dozen stares tracking us as we stood. Hawley's expression had already gone completely neutral. The cop face he kept ready for moments like this.
"What did you do?" I whispered as we crossed the room.
"Nothing. What did you do?"
"Also nothing. Recently."
Murphy held the door open. His face revealing absolutely zero information. We filed past him into the office. The door clicked shut behind us with the finality of a coffin lid.
He didn't invite us to sit.
Not good.
"St. Michael's called." Murphy's voice was carefully measured. Controlled. "Male assault victim. Severe injuries. Won't speak to anyone but specifically asked for 'Detective Carlson from 52.'"
My brain stuttered. Someone asking for me? Here? By my old posting?
"Name's Daniel Nguyen. Twenty-six. Found beaten in a laneway near the division border last night. Multiple fractures, internal bleeding." The Inspector's gaze locked onto mine. "Refused to give a statement until you arrive."
The name hit me like a physical blow.
Daniel.
The air went thin. My lungs forgot how to work properly. I kept my face neutral through sheer force of will. Years of practice smiling through bad news. But I could feel Hawley watching me. Reading me.
"Who is Daniel Nguyen to you, Detective?" Murphy's tone left no room for deflection.
I hesitated. Glanced briefly at Hawley. His face stayed impassive, but something in his posture shifted. Waiting. Not judging. Just... present.
I'd never had to explain this part of my past to anyone at 51 Division. Hoped I'd never need to.
"He was my confidential informant during the 52 Division drug trafficking investigation." The words came out steady. Professional. "The same case that led to my transfer."
Murphy leaned forward, palms flat on his desk. "I need the full picture, Detective. Now."
The ventilation hummed overhead. I could feel Hawley beside me. Solid and still.
How much to tell? How much did he need to know? How much could I stand to relive?
"It was a year-long operation targeting high-end drug distribution in Yorkville and Bay Street clubs. Designer drugs. MDMA variants. Synthetic opioids. The clientele was wealthy, connected. Politicians' kids. Old-money heirs. Tech-money kids. The occasional celebrity."
I took a breath. Shoved down memories of sleepless nights and constant pressure from above. The thrill of building the case piece by piece. The nausea of watching it collapse.
"Three days before the final raid, multiple CI identities were leaked. The whole network scattered. Evidence disappeared. Witnesses recanted. The case imploded." The words tasted like ash. "Service brass needed someone to blame. I was the lead investigator, so I became the scapegoat."
I didn't mention the Internal Affairs (IA) investigation. The whispers of corruption that followed me through the halls. The colleagues who suddenly couldn't remember my name. How fast I fell from golden boy to pariah.
"Daniel was my primary informant. He infiltrated the distribution network at significant personal risk. When the operation fell apart, I lost contact with him. I assumed he'd gone underground."
Or died. The thought I'd pushed away for months. That Daniel had paid the ultimate price for trusting me.
Finding him alive was a relief.
Finding him beaten to hell meant my fears hadn't been wrong. Just delayed.
Murphy studied me with that sharp, assessing focus that missed nothing. "Whatever connection you have with this victim may have just followed you to my division. I expect full disclosure if it impacts this investigation. Clear?"
Not a question. An order.
"Yes, sir."
"You and Hawley will go to the hospital. Take his statement, find out what happened, and determine if this is connected to your previous case or something new. I want regular updates."
"Understood," Hawley rumbled beside me.
"Dismissed."
We filed out. The bullpen's curious stares pressed against my back like physical weight. My usual swagger had abandoned me. Replaced by something cold and leaden in my gut.
Daniel had been found near the division border. Right on the line between my past and present.
And I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever happened to him, I was responsible.
"Carlson."
I barely registered Hawley as we reached our desks. Daniel's face kept flashing in my head. Not the battered version I was about to see, but the younger one. Nervous kid sitting across from me in that 52 Division interrogation room, deciding whether to trust me.
I'd promised him safety.
Look how that turned out.
"Carlson." Firmer this time.
I blinked. Focused on Hawley. He stood by our desk, palm extended.
"Keys," he said.
I stared at his open hand for a moment before understanding clicked. He was offering to drive. A small gesture acknowledging my state of mind without making a production of it.
I dropped the keys into his palm without argument. "Thanks."
Reid appeared with a canned coffee, bright-eyed and hopeful. "Detective Carlson! I got your..."
"Sorry, Reid." I grabbed my jacket. "Hospital call. We have to go."
His face fell. "Of course. Should I hold this for when you return?"
"You can have it. Might be a while."
Hawley was already moving toward the exit. Efficient and purposeful. I followed, grateful he wasn't the type to ask questions I couldn't answer yet.
Once in the car, I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes. The engine rumbled to life. Hawley pulled into traffic without a word.
The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable. But it felt charged. Heavy with unasked questions.
"You don't have to tell me," Hawley said. Eyes on the road. "But if it affects the case, I need to know."
I opened my eyes. Watched Toronto blur past the window.
"Daniel trusted me." The words came easier than I expected. "He was a small-time dealer when I first met him. Smart kid from a poor background who got caught up with the wrong people. I convinced him to be my CI. Promised I'd protect him."
The unspoken weight of those words hung between us. I failed to keep that promise.
"The leak came from inside the department. Someone with access to the CI files. We never found out who." My throat tightened. "But whoever it was, they burned three informants. Including Daniel."
Hawley's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. The only indication he was listening intently.
"After everything fell apart, Daniel disappeared. I tried to find him, but..." The memory of frantic calls, dead-end leads, growing dread. "Eventually I had to stop searching. The transfer to 51 wasn't exactly optional."
A single nod. "And now he's found you."
"Or someone found him and made sure I'd know about it."
The hospital loomed ahead. St. Michael's, white and sterile against the blue spring sky. As we pulled into the parking lot, I steeled myself for what was coming.
Confronting the consequences of a past I'd tried to leave behind.
And the man who'd paid the price for my failure.