Chapter 5
chapter
five
Lawson killed her headlights as she turned onto Magnolia Way. Richardson's house sat three doors down, with white columns and green shutters. A home where a retired police captain could pretend he'd left the job behind.
The porch light threw shadows across a row of manicured azaleas.
Nine thirty on a Tuesday night, and every window glowed yellow against the darkness.
She parked across the street and watched the house for two full minutes.
A silhouette moved past the front window.
Richardson's wife, Amy, smaller than her husband but just as formidable.
Lawson's knuckles rapped against the door before she could reconsider. The sound echoed across the porch, disturbing a pair of cardinals nesting in the eaves.
The door swung open. Richardson filled the frame. Six foot two of hard angles softened by retirement. The badge was gone, but the posture remained. His eyes narrowed at the sight of her.
"Lawson." He didn't sound surprised. "Figured you'd show up eventually."
"Captain." She couldn't break the habit of using his rank, even three years after his retirement party.
"Just Tom now." He stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come in before the neighbors start talking."
The foyer smelled of lemon polish and old books. Photos lined the walls. Richardson in uniform, Richardson shaking hands with the mayor, Richardson fishing with two grown sons who'd moved away years ago.
Amy appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on a blue dish towel. "Detective Lawson. What a surprise." Her tone made clear it wasn't a pleasant one.
"Honey, would you mind giving us a few minutes?" Richardson's voice carried the gentle authority that had managed three decades of crisis situations.
Amy's mouth tightened at the corners. "I'll be upstairs." She disappeared up the staircase.
Richardson led Lawson to his study. A room that belonged in a different century. Leather-bound books filled oak shelves. A globe stood in one corner, tilted at an angle that put Savannah at its center. The desk dominated everything. Solid mahogany with brass fittings, scarred from years of use.
"Bourbon?" Richardson pulled a crystal decanter from a side cabinet.
"I'm four months sober." The words came out sharper than intended.
"Water, then." He poured himself two fingers of amber liquid without adding ice. "Why are you here, Lawson?"
She remained standing while he settled into the leather chair behind his desk. "You've heard the podcast."
"Everyone's heard it." He took a measured sip. "Judge Byrd called me this afternoon. Said she's filing an injunction."
"The tape shouldn't exist outside the department." Lawson's hands clenched at her sides. "Someone pulled it from archives."
"And you think I know who."
"You were captain when Monica died. You controlled access to evidence."
Richardson set his glass down with careful precision. "Five years since Landry's murder, and this is the first time you've darkened my doorstep. Now a podcast airs your radio call, and suddenly you need answers from me?"
The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. "I need to know how Blackwell got that recording."
"So do I." Richardson leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "I had nothing to do with this, Erin."
Her first name hung between them. A rarity from a man who called everyone by their last name regardless of rank or relationship.
"Then who did?" Lawson moved closer to the desk. "Only senior officers have access to sealed evidence. You, Walsh, Diaz, maybe Freeman."
"And two dozen clerks, IT specialists, and administrators." Richardson's jaw tightened. "Digital archives aren't my specialty. I retired, remember?"
"Convenient timing. Right after the Rafferty case closed due to 'insufficient evidence.'"
He didn't flinch. "My retirement had nothing to do with Rafferty or Landry."
"Monica thought someone inside was protecting Rafferty's operation. She was killed before she could prove it."
"And you've spent five years trying to prove the conspiracy theory of a dead cop." The edge in Richardson's voice could have cut glass. "How's that working out for you?"
Richardson paused, swirling the bourbon in his glass.
"Monica was … complicated in those final weeks.
Started asking questions about overtime pay structures.
Whether officers could legitimately supplement their income through consulting work.
It made me wonder what kind of financial pressure she was under. "
Lawson's nails dug into her palms hard enough to leave marks. "You reassigned the case after she died. Buried it under administrative transfer orders. Why?"
"Because you were too close." Richardson stood, his height advantage forcing Lawson to look up. "Your partner was murdered, and you wanted blood. That's not investigating. That's revenge."
"I wanted justice."
"You wanted someone to pay for your guilt." His voice dropped lower. "I know what happened that night, Lawson. The real story."
Ice formed in her veins. "What are you talking about?"
"You think I didn't know you were drinking before you met Landry at that warehouse?" Richardson's eyes never left hers. "The responding officers smelled it on your breath. Patrol sergeant noted it in his initial report."
The room tilted sideways. Lawson steadied herself against the bookshelf. "That's not in the official file."
"Because I removed it." Richardson circled the desk, closing the distance between them. "I protected you. Kept your career intact when half the force wanted you suspended or worse."
"Why?"
"Because losing your partner was punishment enough." A shadow crossed his features. "And because the department couldn't afford the scandal of a detective showing up drunk to a meet that got her partner killed."
All these years, she'd carried her secret alone, and Richardson had known from the beginning.
"You buried evidence." The accusation scraped her throat raw.
"I made a judgment call." Richardson returned to his desk, picking up his bourbon. "One that saved your badge and probably your life."
Five years of self-destruction flashed through her mind. The drinking, the fights, the recklessness that had become her trademark. Richardson hadn't saved her. He'd only prolonged the inevitable fall.
"Did you know about us?" The question escaped before she could stop it.
His expression shifted, confusion replacing anger. "Know what?"
"Monica and me. That we were …" She couldn't finish the sentence.
Understanding dawned in his eyes. "No. That I didn't know."
Lawson's legs suddenly felt unsteady. She sank into the visitor's chair, the leather cool against her back. "We kept it quiet. Department policy against partners being involved."
Richardson ran a hand across his face. "Jesus, Lawson. That would have changed everything about the investigation."
"I know." Her voice sounded distant, even to her own ears. "That's why I never told anyone."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the ticking of an antique clock on the mantel. Richardson finished his bourbon in one swallow.
"This Blackwell woman," he finally said. "She's dangerous."
"Because she's asking questions or because she might find answers?"
"Both." He set the empty glass down. "She's not just after a story. Someone's feeding her information. Specific information designed to implicate you."
The thought had occurred to Lawson, but hearing Richardson say it made it real. "Who benefits from destroying my reputation now? Monica's been dead five years."
"The Rafferty case touched powerful people. Money laundering operations with political connections. Maybe someone's worried you're still digging."
"I am."
Richardson's expression hardened. "Then maybe this podcast is a warning. Back off or get buried."
"I don't respond well to threats."
"No, you respond with a bottle and self-destruction." The words came out tired rather than accusatory. "You're four months sober, Erin. Don't let this drag you back."
His concern felt genuine, and that somehow made it worse. Lawson stood, needing to escape the suffocating walls of his study. "I need a name. Someone who could access that recording."
"I've been retired three years. The department's changed."
"Your connections haven't." Lawson moved toward the door. "You still play golf with the chief and Judge Byrd. You still have breakfast with Walsh every Wednesday at Martin's Diner."
Richardson's eyebrows rose slightly. "You keeping tabs on me?"
"Old habits." She paused at the threshold. "Find out who leaked that tape. I'll handle Blackwell."
"How exactly will you handle her?"
"By giving her what she wants. An exclusive interview with Monica's partner."
Alarm flashed across Richardson's face. "That's playing with fire."
"Fire's all I've got left." Lawson turned to leave. "Someone's using this podcast to come after me. I'm going to find out who. Even if I have to burn down everything to do it."
Richardson moved with surprising speed for his age, blocking the doorway. "Listen to me. This isn't just about you anymore. If what Landry suspected was true, if someone inside the department was protecting Rafferty, then they're still there. Still powerful enough to silence threats."
"Like Monica."
"Like Monica," he agreed. "And maybe like you, if you push too hard."
"I'm already a target." Lawson stepped around him. "Difference is, now I know it."
Richardson followed her to the front door. "Be careful who you trust, Lawson. Even people who seem like allies might have their own agendas."
She stopped with her hand on the doorknob. "Including you?"
His expression gave nothing away. "I'll make some calls about the leak. But whatever you're planning with Blackwell, think it through. Once you start talking, you can't control where the story goes."